You could have just told me (Germany, Italy)
Title: You could have just told me
Warnings: Sex, mild pain play
Characters: Italy, Germany
Summary: Germany is confused about his sexuality; Italy simplifies things.
Year: 1970's-present
During the seventies, when the EC's were just starting to get off the ground, Germany found himself in bed with Italy for the first time. He had always told himself he would never do it; there was nothing in his experience of sex that was something that he wanted to share with the man-- his friend. But it was peace time; the big wars of the past were over. Right? And so that night, when-- full of good food and wine-- Italy fell into his lap, he didn't push him away as he always had before. Weakness or bravery? Decades later, he still hadn't made up his mind.
Germany's sexual tastes made him uncomfortable. Not his affinity for pain; that was hardly rare-- although his particular preference, more so. It was not to say that he never indulged in the infliction of pain; he didn't mind, and besides, it was sometimes hard to avoid. However, while he his heart would sometimes thump and his face flush, the bone-deep pounding of his pulse, the exquisite arousal, so intense it itself was almost pain-- this was reserved for the sting of a lash, the feeling of teeth in his skin, and, on a very rare occasion, the cold burn of a blade. As a teenager, lead by the explosive ball of testosterone that was Prussia, it had made him deeply uncomfortable; now, he had made his peace with it.
Anal sex was much more difficult. It had implications that the simple trade of pain did not. It wasn't the sort of thing one just gave away, when one was like them; no matter how enlightened some of his children became, the fact was that penetration was associated with conquest and subordination. He had engaged in it many times; however, as a militarily successful nation, it was many years before he was compelled to receive. The First World War had already ended by the time he had realized that this act, that was supposed to be nothing more than a physical manifestation of his subjugation... he enjoyed it. After the wars-- well. It had been memorable. The shame, the guilt, the anger; embarrassingly, it had been some of the most intense sex of his life. He still woke from dreams occasionally, cold fury on France's face, hot rage on England's. He tried his best to forget them.
Once in a while, in the night, when the dreams wouldn't stop and he needed it like burning, he went to Prussia. He wouldn't speak; he would enter the man's room, lock the door, remove his shirt. Prussia would sigh. “Again, bro?” he always said. Germany would not answer. It was the only recreational anal sex he had ever participated in.
So in bed that night with Italy, he was relieved when the issue wasn't confronted. There was kissing, sweaty hands, hot lips-- and at the end, lying in Italy's huge, comfortable bed (he had always wondered why he needed one so big), their relationship as simple and comfortable as ever. A few years later, the next time he let himself be lured, nothing had changed; warm, uncomplicated-- dreadfully erotic, but ultimately simple.
Sometime during the eighties, Italy pulled Germany's hair harder than he'd meant to. They had been in bed more than a few times; their pattern hadn't changed. A nice meal, light conversation, a bottle of wine. Then Italy would smile, and-- with a look that Germany uncomfortably labeled “suggestive”-- say, “Bed?” Sometimes he would refuse, but only rarely. That night he had followed the smaller man to his bedroom, and let him remove his clothes; naked, close, breaths stirred each others' hair and hearts beating fast, they'd kissed, touched. Italy tentatively wound his fingers into Germany's impeccably slicked hair; at the lack of protest, he added his other hand, fingers tangled in the short hair at the back of Germany's hair. It felt nice-- Germany had never let himself be touched there.
They were kissing, and Germany, braver now than he had been at the beginning, wrapped his hand around Italy's cock. Startled, the man inhaled sharply, making a little noise that Germany filed away in his mind for later review, and tightening his hands involuntarily on Germany's hair. “Sorry! Sorry, sorry,” he said, breathlessly, but Germany's eyes had gone unfocused. God, just-- just a little harder-- the words were stuck in his throat. “Germany?” said Italy, tentatively. Lightly, more deliberately, he tugged at Germany's hair.
It was so close, but not nearly enough, and Germany closed his eyes, clenching his teeth, and breathing through his nose. “It feels good, right?” After an eternity, Germany nodded. Italy's tone turned reproachful. “Why didn't you tell me you like that stuff?” While Germany was searching for an answer, Italy pulled his hair hard enough to tilt his head back, climbed into his lap, and kissed him hard. Germany breathed fast, shallow, with the uncomfortable feeling that he could have come right there. Then Italy asked, voice entirely free of embarrassment, “Do you like to be hit, too?”
Germany coughed, and tried to look away, but the hands in his hair kept his head still. Finally running out of other places to stare, he met Italy's eyes. The expression on the man's face was affectionate, curious, a little exasperated; he recognized it. He wore the same one when he watched Italy run laps. Looking away again, he answered, voice a little choked. “Yes.”
Did Italy just roll his eyes? “You could have just told me,” he informed him. As Germany was opening his mouth to answer, Italy's hand, open and palm first, hit him solidly across the face.
Immediately, he was falling, gasping, eyes half-closed, head tilted back. “Please, please,” he realized he was mouthing. Italy smiled-- indulgently?-- and hit him, again. He didn't even flinch at the impact; he had to close his eyes, it felt so good. God.
When Italy tugged his head back sharply to bare his neck, and sank little teeth in-- hard, but not nearly, nearly hard enough-- he cried out. “That was really hot, Germany,” he was told, matter-of-factly. He couldn't quite figure out how to respond. “Tell me if you don't like it anymore, ok? Say 'Rabbit' in Italian. Do you know how to say 'Rabbit' in Italian?” Mystified, Germany nodded. “If you forget, you can say it in German. Ok?” Germany-- not quite sure what was happening-- simply nodded again.
Then Italy's teeth were in his neck again, and his back was arching, his hands were fisting in the sheets... “Harder, harder,” he whispered, eyes closed. It still wasn't enough. “Harder,” he hissed, desperation making him abrupt. And finally, finally-- he wasn't even trying to stop the noises coming out of his mouth anymore, hips grinding up in a way that would make Prussia sigh, and rub the bridge of his nose. His body stopped trying to fight the pain, and he felt himself go perfectly limp, eyes half closed, mind disconnected from his body like the time he'd tried mushrooms with America. There were hands, gentle, in his hair, and teeth, hard and cruel, in his neck, and he couldn't-- he was tightening, tightening, and he was going to--
Italy released him. “That was good, right?”
Wordlessly, Germany nodded.
Then the man's eyes dropped to his neck. “You're bleeding a little,” he informed him. Germany's eyes closed of their own accord, and he shuddered. “Does it turn you on, or off?”
Neck stinging still, cock hard as a rock, Germany could only close his eyes, and whisper “On.”
Italy traced light fingers over his neck. “Here,” he said, quietly, “and here...” And then he was leaning in, tongue tracing the painful places, fingers following it; nails dug into one of those places, hard, and Germany nearly sobbed. He opened his eyes, and looked up at Italy. The man was holding out his fingers-- Germany whimpered. The tips of the first two were smeared, just a little bit, with red. “Do you want to lick?” asked Italy, voice kind, the smile on his face as open and uncomplicated as when he offered another serving of pasta.
Germany scrunched his eyes shut. “Yes,” he said.
Italy held out the fingers, and Germany licked, hard as he'd been in years. He took the fingers in his mouth, sucking gently. Then there were fingers in his hair, gentle now, soothing. Italy kissed the corner of his mouth, next to his own fingers. “I'm glad I know now,” he remarked. “So I can help you! That's what friends are for, isn't it?” Germany was not sure that was what friends were for, but what did he know? He lay his head against Italy's chest, nerves still singing with tension and arousal, nearly trembling with the adrenaline. “Do you want to come now?”
Eyes still closed, Germany nodded against Italy's chest. He didn't think he could take much more. Then Italy's hand was around him, gentle, firm, bringing him slowly to the edge, and over, over. He came with a quiet sigh.
He fell asleep soon after, head cradled against Italy's shoulder, forgetting for a while about obligations-- reciprocity-- and shame.
Warnings: Sex, mild pain play
Characters: Italy, Germany
Summary: Germany is confused about his sexuality; Italy simplifies things.
Year: 1970's-present
During the seventies, when the EC's were just starting to get off the ground, Germany found himself in bed with Italy for the first time. He had always told himself he would never do it; there was nothing in his experience of sex that was something that he wanted to share with the man-- his friend. But it was peace time; the big wars of the past were over. Right? And so that night, when-- full of good food and wine-- Italy fell into his lap, he didn't push him away as he always had before. Weakness or bravery? Decades later, he still hadn't made up his mind.
Germany's sexual tastes made him uncomfortable. Not his affinity for pain; that was hardly rare-- although his particular preference, more so. It was not to say that he never indulged in the infliction of pain; he didn't mind, and besides, it was sometimes hard to avoid. However, while he his heart would sometimes thump and his face flush, the bone-deep pounding of his pulse, the exquisite arousal, so intense it itself was almost pain-- this was reserved for the sting of a lash, the feeling of teeth in his skin, and, on a very rare occasion, the cold burn of a blade. As a teenager, lead by the explosive ball of testosterone that was Prussia, it had made him deeply uncomfortable; now, he had made his peace with it.
Anal sex was much more difficult. It had implications that the simple trade of pain did not. It wasn't the sort of thing one just gave away, when one was like them; no matter how enlightened some of his children became, the fact was that penetration was associated with conquest and subordination. He had engaged in it many times; however, as a militarily successful nation, it was many years before he was compelled to receive. The First World War had already ended by the time he had realized that this act, that was supposed to be nothing more than a physical manifestation of his subjugation... he enjoyed it. After the wars-- well. It had been memorable. The shame, the guilt, the anger; embarrassingly, it had been some of the most intense sex of his life. He still woke from dreams occasionally, cold fury on France's face, hot rage on England's. He tried his best to forget them.
Once in a while, in the night, when the dreams wouldn't stop and he needed it like burning, he went to Prussia. He wouldn't speak; he would enter the man's room, lock the door, remove his shirt. Prussia would sigh. “Again, bro?” he always said. Germany would not answer. It was the only recreational anal sex he had ever participated in.
So in bed that night with Italy, he was relieved when the issue wasn't confronted. There was kissing, sweaty hands, hot lips-- and at the end, lying in Italy's huge, comfortable bed (he had always wondered why he needed one so big), their relationship as simple and comfortable as ever. A few years later, the next time he let himself be lured, nothing had changed; warm, uncomplicated-- dreadfully erotic, but ultimately simple.
Sometime during the eighties, Italy pulled Germany's hair harder than he'd meant to. They had been in bed more than a few times; their pattern hadn't changed. A nice meal, light conversation, a bottle of wine. Then Italy would smile, and-- with a look that Germany uncomfortably labeled “suggestive”-- say, “Bed?” Sometimes he would refuse, but only rarely. That night he had followed the smaller man to his bedroom, and let him remove his clothes; naked, close, breaths stirred each others' hair and hearts beating fast, they'd kissed, touched. Italy tentatively wound his fingers into Germany's impeccably slicked hair; at the lack of protest, he added his other hand, fingers tangled in the short hair at the back of Germany's hair. It felt nice-- Germany had never let himself be touched there.
They were kissing, and Germany, braver now than he had been at the beginning, wrapped his hand around Italy's cock. Startled, the man inhaled sharply, making a little noise that Germany filed away in his mind for later review, and tightening his hands involuntarily on Germany's hair. “Sorry! Sorry, sorry,” he said, breathlessly, but Germany's eyes had gone unfocused. God, just-- just a little harder-- the words were stuck in his throat. “Germany?” said Italy, tentatively. Lightly, more deliberately, he tugged at Germany's hair.
It was so close, but not nearly enough, and Germany closed his eyes, clenching his teeth, and breathing through his nose. “It feels good, right?” After an eternity, Germany nodded. Italy's tone turned reproachful. “Why didn't you tell me you like that stuff?” While Germany was searching for an answer, Italy pulled his hair hard enough to tilt his head back, climbed into his lap, and kissed him hard. Germany breathed fast, shallow, with the uncomfortable feeling that he could have come right there. Then Italy asked, voice entirely free of embarrassment, “Do you like to be hit, too?”
Germany coughed, and tried to look away, but the hands in his hair kept his head still. Finally running out of other places to stare, he met Italy's eyes. The expression on the man's face was affectionate, curious, a little exasperated; he recognized it. He wore the same one when he watched Italy run laps. Looking away again, he answered, voice a little choked. “Yes.”
Did Italy just roll his eyes? “You could have just told me,” he informed him. As Germany was opening his mouth to answer, Italy's hand, open and palm first, hit him solidly across the face.
Immediately, he was falling, gasping, eyes half-closed, head tilted back. “Please, please,” he realized he was mouthing. Italy smiled-- indulgently?-- and hit him, again. He didn't even flinch at the impact; he had to close his eyes, it felt so good. God.
When Italy tugged his head back sharply to bare his neck, and sank little teeth in-- hard, but not nearly, nearly hard enough-- he cried out. “That was really hot, Germany,” he was told, matter-of-factly. He couldn't quite figure out how to respond. “Tell me if you don't like it anymore, ok? Say 'Rabbit' in Italian. Do you know how to say 'Rabbit' in Italian?” Mystified, Germany nodded. “If you forget, you can say it in German. Ok?” Germany-- not quite sure what was happening-- simply nodded again.
Then Italy's teeth were in his neck again, and his back was arching, his hands were fisting in the sheets... “Harder, harder,” he whispered, eyes closed. It still wasn't enough. “Harder,” he hissed, desperation making him abrupt. And finally, finally-- he wasn't even trying to stop the noises coming out of his mouth anymore, hips grinding up in a way that would make Prussia sigh, and rub the bridge of his nose. His body stopped trying to fight the pain, and he felt himself go perfectly limp, eyes half closed, mind disconnected from his body like the time he'd tried mushrooms with America. There were hands, gentle, in his hair, and teeth, hard and cruel, in his neck, and he couldn't-- he was tightening, tightening, and he was going to--
Italy released him. “That was good, right?”
Wordlessly, Germany nodded.
Then the man's eyes dropped to his neck. “You're bleeding a little,” he informed him. Germany's eyes closed of their own accord, and he shuddered. “Does it turn you on, or off?”
Neck stinging still, cock hard as a rock, Germany could only close his eyes, and whisper “On.”
Italy traced light fingers over his neck. “Here,” he said, quietly, “and here...” And then he was leaning in, tongue tracing the painful places, fingers following it; nails dug into one of those places, hard, and Germany nearly sobbed. He opened his eyes, and looked up at Italy. The man was holding out his fingers-- Germany whimpered. The tips of the first two were smeared, just a little bit, with red. “Do you want to lick?” asked Italy, voice kind, the smile on his face as open and uncomplicated as when he offered another serving of pasta.
Germany scrunched his eyes shut. “Yes,” he said.
Italy held out the fingers, and Germany licked, hard as he'd been in years. He took the fingers in his mouth, sucking gently. Then there were fingers in his hair, gentle now, soothing. Italy kissed the corner of his mouth, next to his own fingers. “I'm glad I know now,” he remarked. “So I can help you! That's what friends are for, isn't it?” Germany was not sure that was what friends were for, but what did he know? He lay his head against Italy's chest, nerves still singing with tension and arousal, nearly trembling with the adrenaline. “Do you want to come now?”
Eyes still closed, Germany nodded against Italy's chest. He didn't think he could take much more. Then Italy's hand was around him, gentle, firm, bringing him slowly to the edge, and over, over. He came with a quiet sigh.
He fell asleep soon after, head cradled against Italy's shoulder, forgetting for a while about obligations-- reciprocity-- and shame.