In this life, there was only idiocy or honesty.
Her boss always chose to be the idiot.
Germany sat in her black uniform in his small office laden with the scent of thick, polished wood. It seeped into every corner of the room, brimming with staid expressions and even more rigid postures.
"Excuse me? You want me to get pregnant with Italy's child?"
Hitler turned around in his leather chair. "It is possible, yes?"
She tightened the hold on her pencil skirt he made her wear when she visited. "Well, hypothetically yes — "
He smiled. "Then it's perfect! Have you never thought about having children before?"
It was said in a way meant to patronize and ostracise. "No, Mein Führer, I have not. It's never been stable enough to think about such things. And, well, no other female nation has ever had a child before. We do not know if it is even possible!"
He rose from his chair, his idea already coming to fruition the moment he thought about it. "You don't need to worry about the safety of your child. When we win this war, the Reich will be the perfect place to raise your son. He will grow up strong, stronger than any human child, and be the perfect example of the Aryan race!"
She frowned. "But what about my men? I cannot battle if I am pregnant. It would only make me vulnerable to the enemy."
Hitler tsked. "You shouldn't have been in the front lines in the first place. That's why there's Austria and Prussia." He stood in front of her. "Do not worry about the military. I will take care of it. You've been doing far too much for far too long. If you don't start learning the feminine arts now, you never will. You are a woman, and that cannot be ignored a moment longer. The military is not a place for a woman like you, a beautiful woman like you."
Her stomach churned, and she heard her high-ranking generals shift in their seats comfortably, not having said a word of protest all meeting. She swallowed, something having been decided far before she came into the room. Her hands tightened, short, uneven nails meeting the warming flesh of her palm.
"Mein Führer, are you decommissioning me?"
"Yes. You are on permanent leave as of today. Your services are better suited elsewhere." He smiled at her.
She would have gaped if she were more callow, but instead, she tightened her jaw to stop the nasty pejoratives she wanted to scream out. She was being watched.
"I am being demoted all together? What if I cannot get pregnant?"
"You will get pregnant!" he suddenly yelled, Germany wincing as she triggered an all too familiar episode of rage. She had been trying to be careful and not make him angry because of how easily he flipped these days, one moment fine, the next seething, and she knew this argument was as good as done. She wasn't going to be able to reason with him now.
"You will get pregnant with a son, and that is an order! I do not care how you do it, but it must be soon! Your duties will be taken over by Prussia — how it should have been. This is no longer the place for you. So do I make myself clear?"
She nodded, the reality of her world crumbling beneath her feet depersonalizing in how easily it could be ripped away from her. "Understood, Mein Führer."
Seeing she wouldn't fight him anymore, he calmed down slightly. He outstretched his hand. "Good. Now give me your insignia."
She numbly reached to her breast and unbreached the insignia that indicated her power. It was with this little golden broach that established her authority below the Führer. It was a unique ranking only to her as she was an anomaly in the military, not a human yet not a god — not a soldier, not yet a woman — and it was the only broach like it that existed. To give it away was to erase who she was. It was humiliating to place it in his gloved hand.
He clasped the insignia pleased. He had eyewitnesses to this demotion, and her entire life was turned upside down in a couple of seconds. She wasn't processing the fact that she had to get pregnant by having sex with Italy and then raise a child because she was more preoccupied with the pressing issue that she no longer had a role in the war whatsoever.
Hitler dropped her insignia in his pocket mindlessly and stepped back to his chair. "Good. I will be in communication with Mussolini very soon. Those lazy Italians are useless, but they sure do know how to breed."
She didn't like the way he talked about Italy's people, the not-so-hidden disgust for the Meditterian people always on his tongue.
He flickered his wrist up to gesture her to stand up. She did so, adjusting her skirt from the uniform he had tailored just for her since it was simply unacceptable to wear men's pants.
He looked her in the eye. "I know you do not like this idea now, but it is for your own good. You will thank me later. You will find joy in motherhood."
She bit the urge to say something foul.
"You were a good commander, Miss Germany. But it is time you do your part. This is something only you can do! There is a true miracle in making life! Do not let anyone tell you otherwise!" He smiled. "I look forward to seeing your results."
"Thank you, Mein Führer. "
That was the correct answer because he nodded pleased. "Escort her out."
She glanced at the general stepping forward. She wanted to scream into the air. They planned this! Those bastards went behind my back! After everything I've done for them, this is how they repay me?!
She was escorted out after saluting and driven to her house in solitude in the leather seats of a heavy Mercedes-Benz 770. In the silence, she stared out in the clouds. Worry, worry, and worry settled and cemented themselves into her skin. And it didn't go away even when the driver opened her door, bid her a safe day to watch her stroll to her front steps, and shut the door.
She stood by the door with her back on the wood. She stood in the silence until Blackie, her young Hovawart, came running to greet her. She crouched down to peer down at him as his fluffy black ears flattened, the reflection of her distorted among his happy amber eyes.
What am I going to do?
Germany moped around the suddenly empty house for a couple of days after being told the news. She didn't know when Austria left, but he was gone now and wouldn't be coming back for a long time in the role he had to take over quickly. Despite being a complete freeloader and an annoying roommate more than an older brother, she still missed his company. They bickered a lot, but he was still her family. If Austria and her didn't get along before, now they were going to less so since her boss decided to so brazenly send him to war when he's been living comfortably in her house for years.
Blackie at least, was more than thrilled to have her around all day. He was the only reason she didn't spiral into a bad depression. Italy was gone due to an internal conflict in Rome that he had to attend to with Romano, and she was glad he wasn't here to see her like this.
Prussia was out of the house for an indefinite amount of time as he was in the Eastern front too, and she wouldn't admit it to anyone, but she was miserable. Not even Japan could accompany her since he was busy in the Pacific. Sadly he had severely underestimated how personally America would take Pearl Harbor, and the last she knew about him was that he was in the Solomon Islands. She wished him the best because Japan was getting thinner and more stubborn these days.
And so now that she was alone, jobless, and directionless, she was getting stir crazy from doing nothing all day. Her excessive time off only made her realize how much of a friendless loser she was...
She had tried to sneak back into the Frankfurt base to at least say a proper goodbye to her men, albeit it a quick one, but she had been almost shot down by her boss's orders to fire at anyone on sight that looked like her. Her men had been warned that she might go against his wishes and try to sneak back into work, and her boss took every precaution to exclude her from everything involving the military. Her generals and soldiers couldn't talk to her anymore, be seen with her, and she was locked out of all government buildings she had once had exclusive access to before. She had the same rights as a citizen now, an average human woman, and it infuriated her.
She had less power than the local butcher down the street.
And she was Germany.
Germany sighed, walking toward her door. She had just gotten done grocery shopping for the second time this week, which had garnered more gossip and attention than she would have liked.
She opened the door to her house with a bit of a struggle. She had bought a lot of food for when Italy would come back. Her boss had sent her a hefty amount of money yesterday for the "second life growing in her." She had almost punched the poor paperboy.
She eventually managed to juggle the large paper brown bags resting in the crux of her forearm while jostling the keys to open the door to her house. She immediately set the groceries bags on the kitchen table and then shut the door. She began taking off her shoes until she heard loud footsteps.
"Germany? Are you home?"
Her stomach dropped hearing his voice.
Italy was like an excitable puppy that didn't have complete control of his legs as he fell down the last set of stairs in a helpless yelp. She heard thuds and sounds of pain, and she rushed over the staircase to see if he was okay.
He was tangled in a heap of limbs on the floor, his face pressed against the wood as if all the weight came crashing on his left side only, and she wouldn't be surprised if he would need to pop his neck later from the position.
She checked to see if he had broken anything, the impact of the fall surely enough to hurt him. "You idiot, what have I told you about running down the stairs! Check that there's a step underneath you!"
He rubbed his head in pain from where he had fallen, and she glanced at his body to make sure there weren't any hidden injuries.
He laughed the pain away. "I got excited! I was getting bored without you!" He recovered in an instant and hugged her.
She wasn't surprised by the hug, but she always blushed when in close contact with him. It was getting harder to ignore how nice he smelled and how different their bodies were when hugging so close.
She patted his back awkwardly, and Italy backed away, glad to see her and get his hug.
"I bought food," she informed jerkily.
Italy perked up. "Did you get the flour for pasta?"
Germany made her way back to the kitchen. "I managed to find a whole bag today at the market, luckily."
Italy was already rummaging through her groceries, trying to see what else she had bought. He did always love it when she went grocery shopping. He pulled out a pastry wrapped in a thin bag and blinked. He took off the covering and was met with a sizeable sugary cookie with a smiley face written in strawberry jam. The cookie was large, almost as large as his face, and heavy. It was a soft sugar cookie and remarkably cute in its innocence. Italy smiled and held up the cookie to his face.
"Hey, Germany, turn around."
She did and was met with the sugar cookie smiley's face instead of Italy's face. He swayed his head around, Germany feeling his grin behind the cookie, and she smiled slightly, not surprised that he found the treat so quickly.
"I got that for you." She coughed slightly into her hand, turning a bit pink. "I thought you might like it."
He took the cookie away and smiled brightly, just as she had suspected. "I do! The only good things about German food are your sweets and bread! Can I eat it right now?" He looked in the bag some more, trying to find something. "You didn't get one for yourself?"
She decided to let go of his comment about her cooking this time. "No, I don't like sugar cookies all that much." Germany pulled out pans and pots from the stove, and she heard him speaking behind her.
"You have a lot more food than usual. This cookie must have been expensive. Did you get a raise? Are you hosting a party? Is Prussia coming back? And why aren't you in your uniform? Are you on a break?"
She returned to the table and pulled out the meat she would begin tenderizing for dinner hours away. She barely glanced at Italy as she inspected the meat once again from the butcher. "I'm not hosting a party, and I'm not sure when Prussia is coming back. He's still in the Eastern front. And, as you know, I won't be working for a while..."
Italy gasped. "Really!? For how long? That means I can do nothing today!"
A vein popped out of her forehead when hearing his jovial tone. "That doesn't mean you have an excuse to slack off!"
He blinked, crumbs of the sugar cookie around his mouth as he pulled the half-eaten treat away. The messiness bothered her, so she grabbed a napkin from the table to wipe it out.
"Don't inhale your food," she reprimanded, cleaning him up and noticing how red his lips were. They were smoother than she expected, and the Cupid's bow of his upper lip captivated her as she saw the subtle, soft curve of his mouth connect to the beginnings of his nose. It was something that she hadn't paid attention to before, but now up close, she could appreciate how well suited his nose was for his face — straight, symmetrical, and not too overpowering. If she were to roam her gaze farther up, she would meet his wide eyes, and she already knew how beautiful his eyes were. His grandfather's Mediterranean genetics was strong in him. Still, her grandfather Germania's were also equally as noticeable by the lighter shades of copper and hints of hazel rimming around his pupil.
If Italy and I were to have sex, then he would have to kiss me, she thought, finding it strange not to have appreciated how attractive his features were before. She blushed, tearing her hand away.
She was done cleaning him up and threw away the napkin.
He smiled, not detecting anything strange about her behavior. "You're always looking out for me. I really like that about you."
She blushed at the compliment, still not used to such positive affirmation. She rapidly tapped his forehead with her finger. "Well, I like it when you do the training, idiot!"
"But what do I need to train for?" he asked, confused since they were four years into the war already. "I thought we went over everything."
Germany's face started to get hot like a thermometer.
No, not everything. There's still bedroom training. He has to know what I like, how to do it right...
She patted both of her flaming cheeks in plight at the sudden flashback of Italy shirtless from when they had visited the hot springs with Japan a year ago. She hated how pink she was becoming at the memory of Italy walking out of the hot springs with their ally, only a white towel on his hips as he made his way to get dressed. He had been relaxed and happy, his skin rejuvenated and clear from the hot water and summer days as he laughed easily at something Japan had said. Damp, tan skin, an easy smile, and a toned, broad back wouldn't be good for anyone, right?
"You know what. The thing they said only you could do." She was unable to look at him without thinking back to that day. "Because apparently you're an expert or something..." she trailed off expectant to see if he would admit he was a virgin like her.
He was quiet for a moment, Germany unsure of his expression until he spoke again.
"Germany, you don't have to act so shy about it," he replied in an understanding, although calmer tone as if very happy. She heard a smile through his voice, and she almost choked. "I'm more than happy to teach you."
Her heart began racing.
He moved toward the bags again, searching through to find something, the crinkling of paper meeting her ears.
What is he looking for through there? she wondered with her face unable to cool down. Is he looking for protection? He's supposed to be the one with that. I wouldn't just buy that off the market!
"I can even show you right now. I wouldn't mind."
"Right now?" she nearly squeaked.
He laughed. "You've been practicing, haven't you?"
Germany could probably pass out.
What the hell does he mean by that?! I'M NOT FRANCE!
He found what he was looking for in the bag, the soft sound fading away to be replaced with the tapping of his shoes. She only dared to glance at him.
He rolled up his sleeves, Germany not so discreetly checking out his forearms and wrists as her heart raced. He had some nice hands...
He glanced back at her with a smile.
"Don't worry, you'll get it this time around. It takes a lot of practice. It took me a while to get the hang of it too, but it's really fun once you're good!"
Her gaze went down to his hands again, and it was only now she noticed he had grabbed the giant bag of flour she had haggled off the market.
"What are you...?"
"It's to make the pizza! You wanted to continue our lesson, didn't you?" He seemed ecstatic, his eyes sweeping at what else she bought. "You even bought the good cheese!"
All her anxiety instantly vanished.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, thank god.
About a month or so ago, Germany had caught Italy making pizza from scratch in her kitchen. She had watched in curiosity how he prepared food from his house that wasn't pasta — it was not to ogle at his arms and hands and back! And when he expertly tossed the dough in the air and spun it to a perfect circle with an easy back and forth — it was not impressive or attractive at all.
Italy hadn't wanted her just to be a bystander, and that was how a Thursday afternoon passed by with them in the kitchen as she tried to learn how to make a pizza. It was pitiful how bad she was; stretching and spinning dough was much harder than Italy made it look. All her pizzas came out crooked and somewhat bumpy. They were never like Italy's example, all perfectly symmetrical and thin. Tossing dough in the air was anxiety-inducing, and it was a wonder how Italy could even roll the pizza dough on his shoulders without looking. Despite how novice and bad she was, it was still fun as Italy didn't get irritated or annoyed easily. He had been patient with her, and, in the end, it had been an excuse to goof around a bit.
But that had been a month ago. She didn't think he still remembered.
"No, Italy, that isn't what I mean," she said as if to sigh out her previous nerves.
His face paled suddenly, his smile dropping. "Please don't make me do weight training again. I'll vomit."
She narrowed her eyes. "Have you not been keeping up with your regime?"
He laughed nervously. "I go...of course, of course! Deadlifts and all that!" He flexed his arms. "Big and strong!"
She squeezed his arm to inspect if he was telling the truth, and, just as she predicted, he wasn't. To say he didn't have muscles was a lie, but his biceps weren't as big as they were when she forced him to lift with her. He only seemed more nervous when she didn't say anything, her facial features sharp as she looked him over.
"Do we need to go through boot camp again?"
"Muscles change with the weather," he said as if it was just the natural explanation of life. "It's the cold season, which is why they look smaller. Bulking is for winter. Leaning is for summer. What you see right now is absolute, raw power. I am not at my final form yet."
"That is the most bro science thing I've ever heard you say."
He tapped his temple, looking at her. "Through thousands of years of evolutionary pressure, I have adapted to only need carbs for muscle growth. You think eating that cookie was just for fun?" He gestured dramatically. "You think this is a game? It is all part of my plan." She only watched him as he moved. "And you are getting fooled right before your eyes. Do not be jealous when I become humungous. It's just how it is."
She wanted to laugh, but she had to make a point right now. She turned her face away to hide her smile behind a fake cough.
"That is not how that works." She couldn't keep the mirth out of her voice when Italy was also smiling at her, her tone not as harsh as before. "Only someone with a room temperature IQ would believe that."
"It's a good thing my house is hot. Your place, however..."
She pinched her nose.
Don't laugh. God damn it, don't laugh.
His delivery was what was getting to her, and she was having a hard time keeping her facade of sternness.
"Stop stalling, okay? You have things to do today."
"But if you're not working out, why do I need to?"
She floundered for an answer. "Because you need it more than I do."
Italy's brows creased in confusion. "If we're going to the gym then, why are you in casual clothes?"
Germany's mind went back to the conversation she had with her boss. "Burn all those whorish clothes you call a uniform."
"I'm on 'vacation' as you know."
He studied her. "But when on vacation, you exercise anyway." His hands went up suddenly as if realizing something. He smiled as if unable to believe he didn't remember.
"Oh, wait, I know why you aren't dressed like that."
Is he going to get on with it now...?
"Today is Sunday!"
She sighed. "Sure. That's why."
I guess there's no use in rushing into it. It's still morning.
"How long are you on vacation? We should go do something really fun today!" he cheered.
"Well, I guess for as long as I need," she replied, getting a little stuffy again. "I don't have to go to work tomorrow."
He tugged at her hand, pulling her toward him as he stepped back excitedly. "Let's play football then! We haven't played in so long!"
Her feet dragged along with his, her gait slow as she followed his tugging.
"Football?" she asked with an undertone of okay, but why?
"You still know how to play, right?"
"As if it's that easy to forget." She stopped following him, and Italy slowly let go of his hold on her wrist once they were in the walkway near the entrance. "Fine. We will play football. I need to change. Find a football to play with while I switch clothing," she conceded.
He perked up, Germany's blue eyes glancing to the left to not face him, and he saluted with the wrong hand as always. "Yes, sir!" And then he ran off to find a ball to play with.
She watched him zip out of the door, and she shook her head. She walked up, her hand grazing the banister as she made it to her room. She locked her bedroom door and opened a drawer to find a more appropriate outfit to wear. Once she got changed and laced her combat shoes, she heard her door slam open again.
"I got a ball!"
She got up from her bed and grabbed her green cap hanging on the hook. She placed it firmly on her head.
Well, at least today will be interesting.
Germany laid on the field of grass, breathing heavily and sweating. The sun beamed down on them, her eyes burned if looking up for too long due to the sensitivity of her blue eyes, and so she squinted up at the sea of equally blue colors. At this point of the day, she would have taken off her shirt to cool off, but she remembered she couldn't anymore because of Hitler's orders to be decent at all times.
The one time a soldier had come by during her and Italy's training session had to be the day she had taken off her shirt from sweat. She had revealed her black sports bra, and thus there had been nothing to stop someone's eyes from wandering over her body, her breasts. It was unfortunate that the young soldier had swung by the rare instance she was topless, but she didn't regret doing what she had done, the female body just a body. She had been overheated, and so she did what anyone else would have done. Male soldiers did it all the time when training in the summer months. And since she was a soldier, a commander, and everything confusingly in between, and perhaps more, she had taken off her top to not dehydrate and pass out.
Italy never commented on it because he was more preoccupied with getting oxygen to not collapse on the paved road. Italy's legs for all the running away he did were bizarrely inadequate when sprinting in times of peace. Fear seemed to be his only motivation for running, and so when pushed to the limit for the sake of it, he became unglued. So he had other things to think about other than the fact that she had a body surprisingly underneath her clothes.
This reminds me of when I had a heat stroke in Africa when I saved Italy. He had stripped me down to my tank top to help me cool down. He didn't impulsively ravage me because there was suddenly skin. Perhaps it's not the body that's the problem but more so urges of whoever looks at it, she thought while taking in the sounds of the park.
She pushed herself up to see how Italy was fairing with an easy push on the thighs to stand tall over him. He was also recovering from the game by lying down on the grass, breathing heavily, but he was happy. He had beaten her as always, Germany only a goal away from making it a tie, and she would admit that he had skill. It was as if all the dexterity was hidden away in his legs — his ability to run, kick, aim, and not trip telling of his talent. Despite Italy's claims of being good at fencing as well, she doubted he could hold a sword when he could barely throw a grenade properly. He was good at the things he was passionate about, she supposed, and she couldn't help but be disappointed that war wasn't a greater interest of his.
She walked over to him and offered her hand down to him to pull him up. He took it, and she effortlessly lifted his entire body with one swing. Italy almost toppled over from the unexpected strength, but he quickly found footing.
"Good game. You beat me," she congratulated.
Italy smiled brightly while looking into her eyes, his face shining with true joy. Germany's heart stuttered.
"You were good as always — we need to play more! That was so fun!"
Italy's stomach rumbled loudly, and it was only now that she realized they hadn't had anything to eat for hours. They skipped breakfast to play before the midday sun came out, and now well into the evening, Italy's stomach was sure to growl.
"Hey, hey Germany, since you're not working today, do you want to make a pizza?"
"Didn't you say you wanted pasta?"
"Yeah, but making a pizza with you sounds more fun!"
Her chest got warm. No one really called her fun to be around. After today's match, though, she didn't want to make more of a fool of herself.
"No, it's okay. Maybe some other time. I already brought out the meat."
"Oh, okay..."
"But we can bloat up on pasta," she relented, not seeing any reason to deny his wish from earlier. She tugged at his curl in warning, Italy stilling from her rapid motions. His thin curl bounced in between her fingers, and his face morphed to one of slight pain, his lip bitten as he shuffled his legs closer quickly.
"But you are not going to make a mess, you hear me! If you're going to make dinner, you have to be clean!"
He bobbed his head up and down, rapidly appearing in discomfort. Knowing that whatever it was that this curl did to him, it always made him listen. She stopped tugging when she got a strong, "Y-Yes, sir! I'll be very clean!"
She crossed her arms, satisfied.
This is going perfectly. If things go according to plan, I might be able to execute the order tonight.
"We both reek. First a shower, then food," she decided, bending over to pick up the old ball. Italy was excited about the prospect of food and couldn't make it to the house fast enough. They walked back chatting, Italy easily distracted by beautiful flowers, the scent of food from restaurants, and dogs walking on the sidewalk. It was nice to discuss more mundane topics with him because now that she was on her hypothetical vacation, her need to have only work-related conversations with him dwindled. Not that Italy ever retained anything she said, business talk going in one ear and out the other with him, but she deluded herself that he would one day listen and implement her lessons.
A group of girls passed. They were all blonde like Germany, their hair perfectly curled and fluffy and pretty to the fashion underneath their little hats. They were beautiful girls, and, of course, being the flirt that Italy was, he just had to say hello. Like a dog drawn to a squirrel, he couldn't resist making an impression when a group of lively, pretty girls was in the market area.
He quickly made his way to the group of girls talking with bags in their hands.
"Ciao Bellas," he said flirtatiously with a wink. "You're all looking marvelous today! My name is —?"
Germany marched to the idiot who had traveled across the sidewalk at lightning speed. With every stomp, she became more pissed off at him. She yanked by the crook of his arm and dragged him away forcefully with radiating purple waves that were reminiscent of Russia. Italy stumbled back and was taken away by an upset German woman whom the group of girls cowered away from as well.
"GET BACK HERE!" she screamed, scaring the pedestrians around her. Italy blinked when dragged away, but he still smiled and waved at the girls. They looked back with a blush and a giggle, and this made Italy's face light up.
"Hey, why did you do that?" he asked innocently.
"They're fifteen," she hissed. "What are you, a cradle robber?"
Italy jolted, and he instantly almost started crying. "Oh no! I looked like a pedobear! Like a creepy, fat uncle at the Christmas party, no one likes! Noooo!"
She let go of his arm, not wanting to bruise him. She didn't know why she was getting so upset. Italy flirted all the time. She shouldn't care. But seeing him smile at those girls didn't feel right. It was because she was protecting her young citizens, she rationalized. She felt some need to look over her people, especially her country's more impressionable population.
"I know those girls. They're daughters of well-respected generals. They're too young for you," she clarified.
"German girls look a lot older than they are," Italy thought out loud.
"Besides, why did you think trying to score a date while having grass stains and B.O. was a good idea?"
"Oh my god! You're right! You really saved me there!" He smiled at Germany. "You're the best."
She coughed into her hand with her ears reddening. "Well, you're welcome."
They both saw the house approaching into view, and she became relieved. They made it to the front door, where they stepped in quickly to take off their shoes and place them on the small, mahogany rug.
"I'm going to take a shower," she declared. "You can take a shower or bath in the guest bedroom if you wish."
"Hmm, okay!" He made his merry way to the guest bedroom.
She headed toward the stairs to her room, once putting away the football in the storage room. Once on the second floor, she closed her door slowly and pondered over her next step. She walked toward her closet and yanked the doors open. She stared.
She had ten white shirts. She had ten black shirts. Two green jackets. One black coat. Seven military pants. And one pair of boots.
Her closet was pitiful.
Her shoulders sagged. She didn't own dresses, skirts, cute tops, or anything remotely girly. She could wear the one pencil skirt Hitler made her wear when meeting with him, but that didn't have any sex appeal whatsoever. She needed something enticing, something seen in those black and white films, to excite a man's blood. But what could that be? What was the line between a whore and a vixen?
She crossed her arms and pondered. What does Prussia like in those porn magazines of his? He likes women with big breasts. She looked down at her chest. Thanks to her genetics, she had a large cup size, so she supposed she had one thing down. And he likes them posing with their legs open. Is that the secret to the male libido?
She didn't think that was entirely right. It almost sounded too simple.
The girls in those magazines aren't wearing much. They wear little bras and underwear. Germany placed a finger over her lips in thought. I need to talk to a sex worker. They usually hang around military bases to attract lonely soldiers. They need to dress decently for the public eye but be risque enough to indicate their profession.
She cursed, frustrated with herself. Dammit! I should have been paying more attention to their attire! I need to replicate it.
She sat herself down on the edge of her bed like a rock, her arms still crossed.
I might need to consult France about this. She immediately refuted that. He can't even stand to be in the same room as me. He's gotten so dramatic this century.
She crossed France off her list of people that could assist her. France was her ideal candidate to help her out, his country of sex and love, and everything carnal precisely what she needed, but France wasn't viewing the German siblings too favorably right now due to what they did to Paris. Why their boss was fascinated with art, she did not know, but she could understand why he was so upset. But, in Germany's defense, if he were stronger, this wouldn't have happened.
She was digressing by thinking about how weak France was. She needed an outfit!
She got back up and looked at her minimalist closet once more. Nothing struck her as dangerous or provocative, and she groaned. She shut the wooden doors and stripped off her clothes.
I'll figure this out once I'm out of the shower. I need to get this grime off. She made her way to her bathroom and turned on the water. She needed to find a solution fast.
Once in the shower, she spent an embarrassingly long time trying to figure out how to shave everything...It wasn't like she had anyone ever to teach her how to do this, and even she wasn't freaky enough to enjoy a blade to her vulva. But, just as with everything, she persisted through the fear for the end objective. She just hoped Italy appreciated the absolute pain in the ass it was to look good and was doing his part too!
Germany stepped out of the bathroom dehydrated, red, slightly light-headed, and with wrinkled fingers. Her mirrors were fogged up in a coat of light gray, her reflection completely hidden as her fan hummed loudly above her. She didn't know how long she had been in the shower, but she was as smooth as a baby, and that was all that mattered.
Germany slipped on her bathrobe towel to dry off, wanting to get out of the small bathroom already.
She made her way to her vanity to pull out the vanilla body cream she had bought earlier in the week.
The salesman had laid it on thick about how long it lasted, how natural it was, and how it was proven to arouse and enhance female pheromones. It sounded like a bunch of garbage to her, but...what if...it did? She wouldn't know unless she tried. And right now, she was struggling to put lotion on her back, her arms trying to reach that one spot in the middle of her shoulder blades that seemed impossible. She was getting frustrated by how inflexible she suddenly was, and the thought came to her faster than it should have.
This wouldn't be an issue if Italy put the cream on me instead.
She blushed at the insinuation of such a thing, Germany already imagining how warm and gentle his hands would be...
I could walk down there and ask for his help, she didn't completely reject. That would set the mood, wouldn't it? I could ask him to rub this on my back as a "favor" and then "accidentally" drop my towel.
A sudden noise startled her out of her thoughts.
"Germany, dinner's ready!" Italy called from downstairs.
Her eyes widened.
Already?! How long have I been up here?
"I'm coming!" she yelled, panicking at what to wear. Anything sexy she wanted to adorn was at a store and not in her closet. Every solution ended up with her having to buy something, and no immediate remedy was available to her other than nudity.
Germany's brain became scrambled as she attempted to put something together from her wardrobe. Everything led back to casual clothing or a military uniform, and she was almost desperate enough to cut her clothes up at this point.
Just when she was fretting, she heard screams downstairs.
"AHH! GERMANY! HELP! YOUR STOVE IS ACTING WEIRD!"
Hearing Italy in danger left her no time to think as she ripped the door open and flew down the stairs to see what was wrong. Blackie began barking, and her senses became hyperaware of the distress, her eyes quickly scanning what was wrong.
Italy was cowering away from her stove, and once her dog saw her, he calmed down. She didn't see anything wrong. The kitchen looked like a hurricane had just flown by, but it was nothing out of the normal when Italy cooked.
"What's wrong?" she asked, frantically wondering if Italy was seeing something she wasn't.
"Your stove. It's making those weird clicking noises," he said, afraid to go near the stovetop. She frowned and walked forward, hearing the rapid clicking he talked about. She turned off all the burners, and the noise stopped.
Italy sprung up, relieved. "You fixed it and didn't die! You're so brave! Thank you, Germany; you saved my life!"
She sighed, not believing that he had fretted over something so small. "Have you never worked a stove or something? It's just the burner trying to get the igniter to function properly. I thought there was a gas leak!" A vein popped out. "I thought there was something dangerous!"
She turned around to scold him on his false alarm. "You had me worked up over nothing. I thought you were in deep trouble!"
"When my stove exploded, it sounded like that," he admitted a little sadly from before in the memories it was bringing back to him. "I was scared to blow up your kitchen. Mine had to be completely redone."
Germany couldn't imagine how terrifying it would be to live through a kitchen fire, and for some reason, the thought of Italy's house burning down was a sad thing to imagine.
She placed both her hands on her hips. "When we're done with dinner, I'm going to teach you the parts of the stove, so you're not scared of it. Working with gas is nothing to be played with."
It seemed as though this was the first time Italy finally noticed she was wearing nothing but a short bathrobe. In her haste, she hadn't adequately tightened the sash to keep the robe from slipping off, and so now it slightly opened from when she placed her hands on her hips. The motion was asking to look at her frontally, nothing to cover up her body, and his eyes followed down to the widening v shape of the bathrobe on her chest, the hood loose on her glimmering shoulders. Her body glistened with water, beads of water creating a sheen around her pale, smooth shoulders and clavicle. It took everything in his power not to stare at the sudden reveal of cleavage, where her large breasts touched each other and met. It was difficult when a bead of water traveled down her collarbone and into her ample chest. It disappeared in between her breasts, and he looked flustered. Although she wasn't entirely exposed, there wasn't much left to the imagination, her legs long and much more supple than he once thought. And with her hands placed where they were, he could tell around how wide her hips were, how small her waist actually was. It was enough to make him blush slightly and look away.
"Um...aren't you going to get...dressed?"
She was confused for a moment until she realized she had been so focused on Italy's screaming she had never put clothes on. It didn't matter what outfit she wore now because she just came down with the most obvious thing possible! If she moved too much, she would flash him everything!
She immediately placed her hands away from her hips and closed the bathrobe to have nothing showing. With a fright, she saw how much of her body had been available to his eyes.
Why is this thing so short?! Germany thought, turning red.
She coughed and straightened herself out. "No. I'm. I-I am quite comfortable like this." She glanced at the plates served. "I'm hungry. Let's eat."
She sat down in her chair and tried to calm down her heart. She had to be confident. She had to seduce him.
When she looked down at her plate, she noticed something peculiar. Did he add wurst to my plate? She glanced at his portion. He didn't have any meat.
He's always been thoughtful, hasn't he? She thought warmly. But then her mind went back to the task at hand.
I have done part one of the operation: dress. Now it is time to commence part two: conversation. Seduction must be treated as a prisoner negotiation.
She stabbed her fork into the meal. "Tell me about your week."
"..."
She didn't hear his usual babbling, and she looked up to see what could have been preoccupying his thoughts. But when she saw what he was doing, her temper rose, her face turning red from something other than embarrassment.
"ITALY!" she shouted to get him to pay attention to her again and not the window behind her.
He let out a frightened noise when he snapped out of the trance that made him zone out.
"I asked you how your week was," she said tightly.
On edge from her tone, he described how his past couple of weeks had been. And as she listened, he loosened up and then talked as he usually did, aimless and inane and seemingly unimportant in the grander scheme of things.
"Romano's been so grouchy lately. He keeps blaming me that I'm the one that made him sick. I'm not the one who made his economy go down, but I really think it was probably those weird tomatoes Spain gave him that made him feel bad. I sent him some of your potatoes, but then that made him feel worse, apparently! He'd been furious at me since then, and..."
Germany listened, trying to be polite and not interrupt. She commented here and there to show she was listening because her mind was still swirling with slight anxiety. The mission was always in the back of her mind, and as a woman of action, she didn't like anticipation. She would rather just get this over with than keep skirting around the issue.
Perhaps this is a new kind of mission, she thought as she listened to Italy describe how he wanted to paint something soon, one that requires cunningness and patience. Anyone can kill. But not everyone can allure. She tapped her fingers against the table as she thought about it. Yes! Although in the house, this is still an essential military mission! Maybe my boss is on to something!
She heard the conversation lull, and she realized he had asked her a question.
"Don't you think so?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. Of course," she answered, not knowing what she had said yes to. He brightened up.
"Really? You'll do it?!" he leaned forward, not expecting her to be so nonchalant about his request.
Caught, she backtracked. "Wait, what are you getting so worked up about?"
"I didn't think you would say yes to modeling for me," he laughed. "I've wanted to paint you for months now! And that way, we can paint together like we played football today." He was thrilled. "That sounds so fun. Now, all we have to do is get Japan to come with us. He's a really good artist too!"
Not wanting to seem like she was equally ditsy as Italy, she went along with this since she had yelled at him not to zone out half an hour ago. "Well, it will serve as good practice. I'm getting prepared," she said factually.
Italy was just confused. "Getting prepared for what?"
She blushed, finding it improper for him to make her say it out loud. "For tonight!"
Italy stopped chewing and became quiet. He looked at her as if processing something, his eyes going down to her chest. She became self-conscious at his lingering gaze, Germany wishing she had at least put a bra on.
Suddenly, his face became horrified.
"Germany, you don't have to be a prostitute!" he wailed with his heart overflowing with sadness. "You can make money some other way!" He clasped his hands together, already praying for her soul in Italian.
Her eyebrow twitched, infuriated by the assumption.
"I'M NOT A PROSTITUTE!" she bellowed so that he cowered away. "Why would you say that?!"
He wasn't looking at her anymore, his eyes strictly above the neck now. "I'm sorry! It's really late, and you're wearing a tiny bathrobe, and you smell really nice, and you're suddenly very rich with a long vacation I don't remember you ever having. I don't know if you got promoted or not, but the economy's been bad for all of us, but I didn't think it was that bad. I'm not here to judge because Jesus was nice to prostitutes and the blind, and we all could be a little bit more like Jesus, and so I won't tell anyone — not even your brother, but I swear! I'll keep it a secret! Please don't kill me!"
"I'm going to wring your neck out if you keep saying that!" she threatened, incredibly tempted to chokehold him.
He nodded, shaking. "Okay! I'll stop saying it!"
He stopped talking, but she knew he still thought she was a sex worker. And she couldn't let him keep thinking that.
She calmed herself down through a forced, deep breath. She loosened her hold on the fork. "I'm not a prostitute. I promise you that. I'm not going anywhere tonight. I am not using my body in that way."
He still seemed nervous to look at her, but he calmed down slightly, too, now that she wasn't yelling. "If you say so...but you know that if you were to be one, I would keep your secret!"
She lowered her eyes. "How much would you pay for a night?"
"Huh?"
The question made him short circuit. It was amusing to see him suddenly still, his hand holding on the fork of food loosely as he stared at her with shocked, wide eyes. He tried to glance away from her and avoid the topic, but she didn't relent in her gaze.
"If I were actually offering those kinds of services, how much would you pay?" she repeated.
He shifted uncomfortably, his face getting red too. "Um...I don't know...however much you are charging?"
She drank her water. "Interesting. I was curious."
The conversation veered away from that as Italy didn't want to keep talking about it, and soon enough, they were done with dinner on a much lighter note. True to his Italian nature, Italy wanted to stay at the table and talk until midnight. Germany always found it strange that he was perfectly okay with being still in one place for hours just to talk. Even when there were lulls in conversation, and she was sure there was nothing else to share, he sprung up something else to get her opinion on. It was admirable in a way, but she knew she couldn't get trapped in spending another two hours here.
She got up from her chair. "Dinner was delicious as always." Her eyes were displeased with the mess all around the countertops. "But you trashed the kitchen."
He laughed nervously. "It's not so bad! Just a little flour...everywhere..."
She gathered the plates and placed them in the sink full of dirty pots and pans. She felt her blood pressure rise, and she muttered.
For the mission, for the mission, for the mission —
"You're cleaning this up tomorrow morning," she said sharply. "But in the meantime," she walked away from the countertop and away from the sink. Her heart rose in nervousness. The night was winding down, the moon entirely out to leave nothing but darkness outside. They were alone, not a soul to disturb them. It was just what she needed.
She made it to the kitchen entrance and turned her head around. "Follow me."
"I don't have to do it right now?" he asked hopefully.
"No. There's something more important," she replied stiffly, authoritatively, moving forward and silently commanding him to follow. He did so, trailing after her, and her shoulder blades tensed with every step. She was about to combust of nerves.
Tonight is the night. He'll know what's going to happen as soon as we make it to my room.
Italy followed quietly, not too close to her, which heightened her anxiety.
What is he thinking about? Why is he a couple of steps back? I think I might be scaring him more than alluring him, she thought, knowing this was a bizarre situation for the both of them.
Italy's lack of chatter furthered Germany's doubt, and they fed off of each other's energy in the worst way.
Once upstairs, Germany made an immediate left to her room. They walked down the hall to finally stand in front of her tall, wooden door, the room Italy was forbidden to go into.
She took a deep breath. She opened the door and let them both inside. Italy walked in after her. She shut the door and held onto the metal handle, the silver becoming hot from her clammy hold.
She eventually let go and locked the door.
It was time.