[fic] desire
Title: desire
Author/Artist: chromatic_coma @ animusia
Character(s)/Pairing(s): fem!Spain, fem!Romano, fem!France ;; fem!Spain/fem!Romano, fem!France/fem!Romano
Rating: PG16/T+
Warnings: genderbends, implied sex
Summary: Spain gets drunk, Romano gets horny, and France gets manipulative
Desire
“I wonder about you sometimes.”
Romano is confused because Spain sounds so much like herself, still so casual and light and friendly, but her words carry a weight she never spoke with before that the younger is simply too dumbfounded to answer.
“Especially when you were younger,” she continues, wistful and lost in her thoughts. Romano starts to wonder now if maybe that third glass of red wine was a glass too many. She can’t take it away from her, though, especially not when those hazy, unfocused green eyes suddenly narrow, sharpen, as they catch Romano’s.
“You were always beautiful. I think maybe that had to do with why I worried.”
Romano looked away quickly; her curl bounced visibly in the moonlit sky.
“T-That… that makes no sense.” It wasn’t really a shout, and it wasn’t very convincing. Romano was uncomfortable with the smile that Spain still had on.
“It makes perfect sense. First, I suppose, I convinced myself it was motherly concern. Beautiful girls find husbands, but beautiful girls who are hopeless with housework only attract trouble.”
Spain’s twinkling laugh made it hard for Romano to stay offended. Suddenly she sobered again;
“I didn’t want to think about any boys taking my girl. My little girl... then my girl.”
Romano paused to push all possible implications that little tone lift could have meant away.
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m telling a story, chica!”
“You’re… embellishing it with your drunkenness!”
Spain’s brows furrowed; it would have been more effective if she wasn’t looking past Romano’s shoulder.
“I saw you,” her whisper-tone carried in the midnight wind, “on a night like tonight. You were developing, nearly fully done…
“You never did learn to use a lock.”
Romano could feel the flush running down from her neck to her back, lower.
“It was wrong to think the thoughts I did. It might still be wrong, I don’t really know anymore. How can something that feels so right be so wrong, Lovi?”
“I-I don’t even know what you’re talking about. S-Shut up already, old bitch!”
Spain’s fingers tightened around the thin grip of her wine glass.
“Tell me, Lovi, are you wrong?”
--
Romano was never more relieved than she was when the lock of the door clicked behind her. The morning had been unbearable, not only hazy and thick with heat, but because her worst expectations had proven themselves true.
Spain could not remember a thing. She was bubbly, smiley even as she complained of a headache, while she stood over the counter and “Oh, Lovi, what would you like on your omelet?” as if there was nothing.
As Romano reluctantly took a stool at the wide breakfast bar, she decided there had been nothing, and there never would be.
A sharp eau de perfume, rose scented, and a heavy, spicy voice drew Romano from her reveille;
“Ma chérie,” she cooed, “You seem… disappointed.”
Romano did not like France; she never had, and she never would. But it was undeniable that “Big Sister France” knew her better than any other nation, better even than her younger sister.
“It’s none of your business.” She snapped, shrugging her shoulder out of the succubus’ hold.
France took a step back, studying Romano with wisdom glittering in her crystal eyes.
“You’ve just come from Spain’s house,” she smiled wryly. “Obviously you did not do anything, because she is quite gifted with her hands.”
It took quite a deal of willpower to keep from punching France’s sharp, long nose clear off her face.
The blonde sighed, taking Romano’s cheeks in her baby soft hands and brushing her thumbs soothingly over the tan skin.
“You don’t need to love someone to feel good with them.”
Her hands slid lower; Romano cursed her will, cursed everything.
“Tell me, ma italienne, when was the last time you felt good...?”
--
France could do things with her fingers that made Romano feel like she was the only woman alive; feel like she mattered.
But, in the aftermath of an afternoon of passion, she found that not even three showers were enough to wash away her feeling of shame.
“Guilt is a natural emotion, Romano.”
France had come up behind her, brush in her hand already trekking through the other’s damp curls.
“Sadly,” she added morosely, ignoring Romano’s glare reflected in the mirror, “we are nothing if not freaks of nature.”
Romano slapped her hand away, turning so that there was no mirror between her glare and France’s beautiful face.
“Don’t you have a blonde to go fuck?”
“I have many blondes, ma chérie,” she chuckled. “Are you interested in joining?”
Romano gaped, and then roared: “Fuck you!”
“You just did. And you were quite talented for someone with no experience.”
The Italian’s fists were clenched so tight, her fingernails were cutting into her palms.
“Do you ever take anything seriously, you… you… you smug little whore!?”
France cannot recall ever sobering so quickly. Romano truly was one of a kind.
Placing the comb down, she turned to her sister nation; her eyebrows were furrowed, and her lips drawn thin.
“I used to, once. And I grew up, realized that whether or not you are serious about everything, bad things are going to happen if they are meant to. Being serious just means that you can’t ever enjoy the moments when things are in your favor.”
She gave Romano a pointed look, and when the brunette huffed, France could not hold in her sigh.
“Spain is rather ditzy, but underneath that she is insecure. Certainly she feels a great deal of guilt from her thoughts about you, especially since she raised you. If you want anything from her, you have to be the proactive one.”
Romano’s scowl melted into a soft, nervous look, and France felt the satisfaction of living up to her title, Nation of L’amour.
“Oh,” she added, and Romano looked up sharply, “call me if things go well. I would love to get better acquainted with you both in bed…”
Romano wordlessly stalked out of France’s home, but not before treating the other woman to the sight of her bright red cheeks.
--
“Spain! Spain, open up!”
“Romano?” The door swung open, and Romano was pulled into a tight embrace. “Oh Roma, I’m sorry! You were so upset this morning and you left so quickly and I was worried I did something wrong. And then I realized I can’t remember last night at all and there are empty wine bottles in my room so I must have done something wrong and whatever it was, I’m sor- mmph”
Romano, who’d not come to hear apologizes, cut Spain off in the best way she could think of, busying the other’s mouth with her own.
And, as their kissing got more heated, Romano consented that perhaps France could be right about some things, sometimes.
Then she started to wonder if maybe France would also be right about Spain’s gifted fingers.
end
--
A/N: I wrote this a few months ago but never really got around to posting it, and almost forgot about it. But then I found it, so here you go ♥
Author/Artist: chromatic_coma @ animusia
Character(s)/Pairing(s): fem!Spain, fem!Romano, fem!France ;; fem!Spain/fem!Romano, fem!France/fem!Romano
Rating: PG16/T+
Warnings: genderbends, implied sex
Summary: Spain gets drunk, Romano gets horny, and France gets manipulative
Desire
“I wonder about you sometimes.”
Romano is confused because Spain sounds so much like herself, still so casual and light and friendly, but her words carry a weight she never spoke with before that the younger is simply too dumbfounded to answer.
“Especially when you were younger,” she continues, wistful and lost in her thoughts. Romano starts to wonder now if maybe that third glass of red wine was a glass too many. She can’t take it away from her, though, especially not when those hazy, unfocused green eyes suddenly narrow, sharpen, as they catch Romano’s.
“You were always beautiful. I think maybe that had to do with why I worried.”
Romano looked away quickly; her curl bounced visibly in the moonlit sky.
“T-That… that makes no sense.” It wasn’t really a shout, and it wasn’t very convincing. Romano was uncomfortable with the smile that Spain still had on.
“It makes perfect sense. First, I suppose, I convinced myself it was motherly concern. Beautiful girls find husbands, but beautiful girls who are hopeless with housework only attract trouble.”
Spain’s twinkling laugh made it hard for Romano to stay offended. Suddenly she sobered again;
“I didn’t want to think about any boys taking my girl. My little girl... then my girl.”
Romano paused to push all possible implications that little tone lift could have meant away.
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m telling a story, chica!”
“You’re… embellishing it with your drunkenness!”
Spain’s brows furrowed; it would have been more effective if she wasn’t looking past Romano’s shoulder.
“I saw you,” her whisper-tone carried in the midnight wind, “on a night like tonight. You were developing, nearly fully done…
“You never did learn to use a lock.”
Romano could feel the flush running down from her neck to her back, lower.
“It was wrong to think the thoughts I did. It might still be wrong, I don’t really know anymore. How can something that feels so right be so wrong, Lovi?”
“I-I don’t even know what you’re talking about. S-Shut up already, old bitch!”
Spain’s fingers tightened around the thin grip of her wine glass.
“Tell me, Lovi, are you wrong?”
--
Romano was never more relieved than she was when the lock of the door clicked behind her. The morning had been unbearable, not only hazy and thick with heat, but because her worst expectations had proven themselves true.
Spain could not remember a thing. She was bubbly, smiley even as she complained of a headache, while she stood over the counter and “Oh, Lovi, what would you like on your omelet?” as if there was nothing.
As Romano reluctantly took a stool at the wide breakfast bar, she decided there had been nothing, and there never would be.
A sharp eau de perfume, rose scented, and a heavy, spicy voice drew Romano from her reveille;
“Ma chérie,” she cooed, “You seem… disappointed.”
Romano did not like France; she never had, and she never would. But it was undeniable that “Big Sister France” knew her better than any other nation, better even than her younger sister.
“It’s none of your business.” She snapped, shrugging her shoulder out of the succubus’ hold.
France took a step back, studying Romano with wisdom glittering in her crystal eyes.
“You’ve just come from Spain’s house,” she smiled wryly. “Obviously you did not do anything, because she is quite gifted with her hands.”
It took quite a deal of willpower to keep from punching France’s sharp, long nose clear off her face.
The blonde sighed, taking Romano’s cheeks in her baby soft hands and brushing her thumbs soothingly over the tan skin.
“You don’t need to love someone to feel good with them.”
Her hands slid lower; Romano cursed her will, cursed everything.
“Tell me, ma italienne, when was the last time you felt good...?”
--
France could do things with her fingers that made Romano feel like she was the only woman alive; feel like she mattered.
But, in the aftermath of an afternoon of passion, she found that not even three showers were enough to wash away her feeling of shame.
“Guilt is a natural emotion, Romano.”
France had come up behind her, brush in her hand already trekking through the other’s damp curls.
“Sadly,” she added morosely, ignoring Romano’s glare reflected in the mirror, “we are nothing if not freaks of nature.”
Romano slapped her hand away, turning so that there was no mirror between her glare and France’s beautiful face.
“Don’t you have a blonde to go fuck?”
“I have many blondes, ma chérie,” she chuckled. “Are you interested in joining?”
Romano gaped, and then roared: “Fuck you!”
“You just did. And you were quite talented for someone with no experience.”
The Italian’s fists were clenched so tight, her fingernails were cutting into her palms.
“Do you ever take anything seriously, you… you… you smug little whore!?”
France cannot recall ever sobering so quickly. Romano truly was one of a kind.
Placing the comb down, she turned to her sister nation; her eyebrows were furrowed, and her lips drawn thin.
“I used to, once. And I grew up, realized that whether or not you are serious about everything, bad things are going to happen if they are meant to. Being serious just means that you can’t ever enjoy the moments when things are in your favor.”
She gave Romano a pointed look, and when the brunette huffed, France could not hold in her sigh.
“Spain is rather ditzy, but underneath that she is insecure. Certainly she feels a great deal of guilt from her thoughts about you, especially since she raised you. If you want anything from her, you have to be the proactive one.”
Romano’s scowl melted into a soft, nervous look, and France felt the satisfaction of living up to her title, Nation of L’amour.
“Oh,” she added, and Romano looked up sharply, “call me if things go well. I would love to get better acquainted with you both in bed…”
Romano wordlessly stalked out of France’s home, but not before treating the other woman to the sight of her bright red cheeks.
--
“Spain! Spain, open up!”
“Romano?” The door swung open, and Romano was pulled into a tight embrace. “Oh Roma, I’m sorry! You were so upset this morning and you left so quickly and I was worried I did something wrong. And then I realized I can’t remember last night at all and there are empty wine bottles in my room so I must have done something wrong and whatever it was, I’m sor- mmph”
Romano, who’d not come to hear apologizes, cut Spain off in the best way she could think of, busying the other’s mouth with her own.
And, as their kissing got more heated, Romano consented that perhaps France could be right about some things, sometimes.
Then she started to wonder if maybe France would also be right about Spain’s gifted fingers.
end
--
A/N: I wrote this a few months ago but never really got around to posting it, and almost forgot about it. But then I found it, so here you go ♥