Sex Talk (Italy, France, Germany)
Title: Sex Talk
Warnings: Sex
Summary: "They will go home, and they will start doing that thing, and then they will stay in their bedroom for a very long time, ignoring their friends and making strange sounds...” A tear rolled down Italy's cheek. “And even if their little brothers really, really, really want to play, they will say, No, Feli, I am busy..."
Characters: Italy, Germany, France
Year: 1925
Related fics: Duet, Duet, Epilogue
Ah, yes. A long day-- several important telegrams, two meetings, and a seduction, and now, France was ready for a nice evening out. So when Italy invited him to a quiet bar, he thought sure, why not, and didn't back out even when he learned Germany was going to be there. There was nothing wrong with a little socializing, even if things had been tense recently. It would be nice to chat away from their bosses, right? Right.
So it was that the three nations found themselves sitting in a booth at the back of a little bar in Italy's countryside. Germany was taciturn, and even Italy was a little quiet. He wondered if it wasn't the first time he and Germany-- let alone the three of them-- had sat together outside of a diplomatic event since years before the war. France was running out of ways to keep the conversation running, when Italy startled them all by pointing at a man and a woman who were sitting close to each other, giggling and sharing sips of their drinks. “There it is again! It's everywhere.”
France turned to the other nation, and glanced down at his glass-- still half full, and it was only his second, right? Third? “What is everywhere, my friend?”
“Sex,” said Italy, a look of uncharacteristic gloom on his face.
France glanced up at Germany, who had been silent so far this evening, but there was no help forthcoming from that block of wood. “Italy,” he said gently, “you do know, don't you, that those people are not having sex at this time?”
Italy rolled his eyes. “Of course. I'm not stupid.” Wisely, France did not answer. “But they're going to. They will go home, and they will start doing that thing, and then they will stay in their bedroom for a very long time, ignoring their friends and making strange sounds...” A tear rolled down Italy's cheek. “And even if their little brothers really, really, really want to play, they will say, No, Feli, I am busy, even though they are not busy, they are just doing that thing over and over, and what is so interesting about it anyway? You just take that thing and put it in that place, and then you take it out, and you go to sleep. Why are they ignoring me, just to do that stupid, boring thing?” He ended in a wail, and France looked around nervously, but the only other occupants of the bar were the couple, wrapped up enough in their own world that they didn't even appear to have heard Italy's tirade.
Putting the pieces together in his head, France nodded sagely, and put an arm around little Italy's shoulders. “Your brother has found a special someone, hasn't he?” Italy nodded tearfully. “Yes, little one, yes, I understand. Why, I remember when...” Germany looked at him curiously. France cleared his throat, and moved on. “But Italy, there is something you don't understand. Making love... it is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Your brother has just learned about all the wondrous things that his body can do. It is a very joyful time for him. Tell me, dear one, have you ever participated in this act?”
Italy shook his head, eyes wide. France shot a surprised look at Germany. Germany looked to the side, and took a big swig of his lager. “I know most of my provinces had-- they're all really old, you know-- and I have a few memories, but it's all very fuzzy...
“Ah... Well, yes. This is why, perhaps, you do not understand. The act of love-making... Ah, Italy, there is nothing like it. The ultimate expression of tenderness and passion with another person, or, people--” Germany coughed, but France ignored him, “--it is a beautiful union, a connection, however fleeting, between two-- or more-- people who, for however long, truly love each other.” France truly loved every single woman he had ever slept with, and most of the men. He had a lot of love to share. “There is nothing in this world that compares.”
Germany had been getting redder and redder about the ears as France spoke. Beautiful union, ultimate expression of tenderness. Was that really what France had been thinking when they...? No, he refused to believe it. Sex was just sex, particularly the kind of sex that one has on the table in one's older brother's house while he is away. Germany cleared his throat loudly.
France looked over at him, and smiled, kindly. “Don't you agree, Germany?”
Germany gathered his thoughts. “Yes, well. In, ah, addition to what our friend France has described for us, Italy, it is important that you understand the diversity of the activities involved in fornication.” 'Fornication?' France mouthed, raising an eyebrow. Germany ignored him. “For example, despite your implication that sexual intercourse involves only the insertion of the penis into the vagina, the penis can in fact also be inserted into the mouth or the anus.”
France spluttered, and reached out to cover Italy's ears. Italy ducked out of the way, and turned rapt, somewhat horrified eyes on Germany. Germany, settling comfortably into his role as instructor, continued. “In addition to such penetrative acts, activities such as genital rubbing, kissing, and stroking are both common and stimulating. These comprise the majority of mainstream sexual activity. However, they are by no means the only behaviors in which one can engage.” By this point, France had his head in his hands, and was-- though no one would ever know-- blushing fiercely.
“What other behaviors can people engage in, Germany?” Italy asked, doubtfully.
“Well, among the most common alternative sexual practices are animalistic behaviors such as scratching and biting, restraint of one or both partners, roleplay of situations that one or both partners find titillating, hitting of one partner by the other with whips or crops--”
France had come back to himself. “Germany! That is quite enough. He does not need to be hearing this!”
“But France,” said Italy, “I-- I want to understand.”
Germany, suddenly self-conscious, rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah. Well, Italy, what else would you like to know?”
“I want to know... How do you kiss?”
Germany blinked in surprise. France shook his head. Non, non, Germany would not be the one to explain this to the boy, not in that clinical way-- ugh, he could hardly stand it, the exquisite act of love described in so coarse a manner. “I will show you, little Italy.” The beginnings of a frown showed on Germany's face, an expression that turned to blatant alarm as France cupped the cheek of the third nation, and leaned in for a kiss. France kissed him slowly, sensually, tracing his bottom lip with his tongue, biting it lightly. Slipped his tongue between lax lips, just briefly. Then again, more slowly, feeling the electric shock that ran through the boy when their tongues touched. He drew away slowly, giving Italy his best “I have a secret” smile, and touching his cheek.
Germany shouldered France out of the way, frowning. He looked down at his ally-- they were about the same age, really, but Italy had been living with others for so long... and Italy hadn't grown up with Prussia. He wondered briefly if he really ought to do what he was planning to-- kisses, particularly first ones, should be special, shouldn't they? That was what his children seemed to think-- but who of them, of the nations, did he know who had had that kind of experience? Better in a quiet bar with friends, then bleeding on a battlefield or as a newly conquered arrival in someone else's home. So he took Italy's face in his hands, met his eyes, and kissed him thoroughly. He kissed with all the intensity that he brought to the battlefield, to the world economy, to the advancement of science-- he kissed with precision, and with force. Then he drew away, slightly breathless, and looked nervously back and forth between Italy and France, waiting for judgment to be passed.
Italy frowned, looking back and forth between the two men. “That was not the same at all,” he pronounced, looking a little suspicious.
“Why no, dearest Italy, it is never the same twice, and every man kisses differently, just as every man has a different way of wielding a sword... But, I can assure you,” and here, he looked at Germany, “that some of us have better, ah, technique than others.”
Germany stood up, slamming his fist against the table. “That's it! France, I am sick to death of your constant implications that I am unsatisfactory as a lover. If you are so unhappy with my technique, why do you come back?”
France shrugged, sinuously. “Well, my dear Allemagne, variety is the spice of life. You do no have the finesse of, say, the beautiful Espagne-- a man after my own heart-- but you do have a certain--”
Unnoticed to the other two, Italy's face had been growing darker and darker. At the mention of Spain-- Spain, his friend!-- he slammed his cup down on the table. “Everyone!” he shouted. “Everyone is doing it! Why are they all doing it! Why can't we all just draw together, and eat tasty food, and sing songs, like we used to?”
The two men turned to face him, looking him up and down-- furtively, in Germany's case, and with relish, in France's. “It's true, my friend, we have not answered little Italie's real question. 'What is so good about love-making,' he asks. I think we cannot tell him. I think we must show him.”
Germany looked at France askance. Show him? Kissing was one thing, but this?
But then, he found himself thinking. Why no?. None of them were going to have fairy-tale romances. Sex in their lives was about claiming, taking, manipulating, or-- if one was very lucky-- finding a brief refuge from the loneliness that was at the end the fate of every nation. What were the chances that Italy would find a better chance than this, with his friends, where no one wanted to hurt him or control him. If Italy were willing...
Italy found that both nations were looking at him. “You two, I brought you out here to get away from all the sex, not to start it!”
“But Italie,” France purred. “It is different when you are involved yourself. You will see. And besides,” he said, looking around airily, “we will not do it here. We will go back, I think, to my house, yes? Everyone knows, Paris is the city of love...”
Italy shot Germany an uncertain look. Germany took a deep breath, met his eyes, and nodded solemnly. “If you decide to do this with us, Italy, Italien, Italia, we will make it worth your while.”
“It will be the most wonderful you will ever have felt,” promised France, voice husky. But it was Germany who Italy had eyes for.
“Alright,” he said. “I'll try it.”
For the three nations, it wasn't a long trip back to France's house. They walked quietly out of the bar, and a few dozen feet away, slipped out of the world their children lived in and into the less straightforwardly physical world that they inhabited. Leaving the house that represented Italy's homeland, they crossed the street to France's. It was a larger building, spacious, and slightly fancier's than Italy's airy villa. France ushered them in, and called to Guadeloupe and Martinique to bring them some more wine. The islands did as they were told, and silently left the room. Taking a sip, France swished the wine around his mouth, and swallowed with a nearly obscene sigh. “There is nothing like the wine at home.”
Seeing the other two men still sitting at the doorway, he ushered them in, and sat them down, a glass of wine by both of their hands. Germany was sitting stiffly on an elaborate 18th century couch, one of the relics of the Ancien Régime that had survived the revolution. Italy, running his fingers over a very old tapestry.
“Come, now, friends, relax.” Of course, Germany though, bitterly, France wouldn't feel uncomfortable in the slightest in a situation like this. “Let us begin.” And he turned Italy around, and backed him up against the tapestry he had been admiring, running careful fingers down his front, kissing him with more energy then he had back at the bar, but, noted Germany, no less playfulness. The fag.
France guided Italy back to the couch, sat down and pulled him into his lap, running fingers up his sides and down the outsides of his legs, biting, lightly, the place where his neck met his shoulder. Italy, a little breathless, couldn't quite decide whether to moan or laugh-- it was a little ticklish-- and ended up doing a little of both. Germany looked at the two of them, Italy blushing and squirming while France ran kisses from his shoulder to his ear and back, and felt suddenly out of place. What was he doing here with these laughing, happy men? How could he ever reconcile what he knew of sex, the bitter, intense struggle, with this?
France looked up at Germany. “Allemagne, you will miss all the fun. Come and help our little friend.”
Germany's head filled with half-remembered images from hot, torturous nights: Italy, flushed and sweating, head thrown back against a mattress. Italy, smiling a different smile than the expression he usually wore, opening his pants. And then, suddenly, Italy, face open and cheerful, looking to him for approval as he botched another routine surveillance mission, prepared an unnecessarily elaborate meal in the middle of a war zone. He came to kneel in front of the two men, looking up at his long-time friend. Italy slid off France's lap to meet him, more sure of himself now, and kissed him. Enthusiastic, and clumsy, as he'd always been. Germany found himself starting to get hard, realizing for the first time that he'd wanted this. Neither man saw France's soft smile.
“My friends, you are kneeling on the floor,” he interrupted, finally. “Only savages fuck on the floor. Come with me.” And he lead them to the room where he slept.
Italy looked suddenly nervous as he heard the word “fuck.” Yes, he'd known what they were going to do, but they were going to want to put that thing into that-- those places, and-- how did three men have sex, anyway? He realized for the first time that he didn't know. He looked to Germany, but the man's gaze was distant.
On the floor, like savages, Germany thought. If France only knew how many times he had done just that.
If France noticed the change in mood, he gave no indication of it. He simply swept aside the curtain on his elaborate four-poster, and motioned to the men. “After you, my friends.” Italy and Germany looked at each other, both feeling out of place for entirely different reasons, and obeyed.
France slid onto the bed behind the other two, and swept the curtains closed. “And now, friends, we shall begin.” Italy felt his heart skip a beat, and even Germany was a little bit uneasy, as France smiled at the two of them like he wanted to eat them. Crawling towards Italy until the other man had to either lie down or be bowled over, France kissed his lips, his nose, his chin. Italy giggled. Germany had to fight to keep his disgust from showing on his face. But then they were kissing more seriously, and he couldn't help but stare. He had been involved in sex with more than one partner-- he couldn't help thinking of the memories he shared with Prussia, and he suppressed a shudder-- but he didn't think he'd ever been a spectator to such intimacy. He simultaneously felt the strong urge to look away, and like he never wanted to stop watching.
Luckily, France was too much of an expert at handling multiple people in the bedroom to leave Germany to his thoughts for long. Without breaking his kiss, he reached behind himself and took Germany's hand, guiding the other man until they were pressed together, back to front, from the waist down. Then he started to move, and Germany couldn't help but move back. Breathing more quickly now, and biting back the sounds that were trying to form in his throat.
France slid Italy's shirt up nearly to his neck, feigning not to notice the look of uncertainty that had returned to the younger man's face. Then he was kissing down his chest and back up again-- Italy's face changed when France brushed over a nipple, and Germany couldn't stop the sound that left his mouth. Italy looked up, and Germany felt a jolt. There was lust in his eyes now, and not just the shy, curious interest that there had been before. A small part of him felt uncomfortable seeing that look on his friend's face; the rest of him was flooded with images that made him close his eyes briefly.
France moved back up Italy's body, to whisper something in his ear. “But we're not having sex yet,” objected Italy. “Are we?” He looked concerned at this, and looked back and forth between the other two men.
“When we are, having sex--” it looked as if it hurt France's mouth to use a phrase so vulgar (Germany could think of several worse) “--you will know.”
Germany couldn't see the look France was giving Italy, but he could imagine it, and he felt another jolt of heat to his cock. Italy felt the same way, judging by the way his eyes clouded over. “Oh,” he said in a small voice.
“Yes, 'oh,'” said France, with the kind of laugh that you only hear in the bedroom, and he flipped the two of them over, so that all of a sudden it was Italy who was pressed up against Germany. He laughed again at the look on the taller man's face. Yes. Germany had been wanted this for a long time, the poor inhibited bastard. France was delighted to be the, ah, the catalyst, regardless of their recent-- disagreements. And naturally, he suspected the sex would be fabulous. Virgins were usually too much work to be worth it, really, but this was just too delicious to miss. He thrust up against Italy's hips, and loved the way the two men gasped.
He fell into a rhythm, not too fast, and kissed Italy again, open-mouthed and messy. He could tell by the looks on their faces that the other two could come just from this, but he would have none of that. No one would be coming in his bed from grinding like animals. So he pulled away from Italy long enough to strip off both of their shirts, and then he turned the smaller man around, so that he could look up at his long-time ally. “Now,” he said, huskily. “I think that we should watch, while Germany removes his clothes.”
Germany looked down at the two of them. France was eying him in undisguised lust-- the idea of putting on a show for the man left a bitter taste in his mouth. But Italy's face... he looked captivated. Meeting the younger nation's eyes, Germany unbuttoned his jacket, folding it meticulously, and lifted off his shirt.
France smiled lazy, fingers playing over Italy's chest. “Go ahead,” he said, talking to Italy but looking at Germany. “Touch him. He won't mind.”
The days when France was allowed to speak for him-- them-- had passed before he had even existed. But when Italy's tentative fingers brushed his shoulders, he found he didn't mind. He briefly wondered who France was really doing this for, but put the thought out of his head. Divining his one-time brother's motives was difficult at the best of times.
Sitting up to trace muscles that he'd seen again and again but never touched, Italy said, musingly, “Do you think everyone spends this much time playing before they have sex?”
Italy didn't see the look France sent at Germany. “No, love, not everyone, but anyone worth your time. Don't you think, Germany?” The look Germany sent the other man was venomous, but Italy, watching his fingers travel over Germany's paler skin, didn't notice.
“How much should you play first?” he wanted to know.
“The playing is the best part,” said France. “It should last as long as possible.”
Italy looked up at the third man, waiting for confirmation, but Germany stayed quiet. He was feeling more and more like he didn't know anything at all about how this should be done. He didn't really believe all the romantic babble he had heard tonight, but then, would he want Italy to think sex was quick and brutal, like he had? The idea, Italy crying and taken, nearly made his heart break. “It should last until your partner is ready,” he finally said. He didn't look at France.
“How will I know when you're ready?” Italy was starting to look troubled. But France pulled him back down, and kissed him over his shoulder: He knew better than anyone that too much talking in bed was no good (although he had yet to convince England).
“You will know,” he said, quietly, into Italy's ear. Italy cringed and giggled at the strange feeling. “Now. I think that perhaps you ought to keep touching our friend.”
Italy looked up at Germany, where he was still kneeling over the two of them. “Germany, you look so serious.”
“This is a serious business for him,” said France.
Italy nodded, and tried his best to look serious. Touching the other man's chest again, his expression smoothed out. Then he leaned up, and kissed his throat, right above his Adam's apple. “Bite him,” whispered France, insidiously. “He likes that.” Italy bit, gently, and Germany felt his eyes close. He was fairly sure he had gasped. “Harder is better. Here, let me show you.”
France slid out from under Italy, and crawled around until he was at Germany's back. Kneeling behind him, he grabbed his hair and pulled his head to the side, and bit the side of his neck hard enough to leave bright white teethmarks, almost purplish against Germany's skin. Germany let out a startled gasp that quickly turned into a moan, and France laughed, pinching the skin hard. “You see, he is weak for a little pain, our Germany.” Germany couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. France dug his fingernails hard into the other man's hips, and bit him again, lower down. Germany let his head fall back so it was resting on France's shoulder, hands clenching into fists and then opening again.
“I don't understand,” said Italy, but he closed his teeth over Germany's collarbone. Germany was panting now.
“Scratch him,” said France. “Drag your fingernails over his chest.” Biting again, Italy obeyed, drawling bright red lines on the other man's skin. Germany turned his head away, trying to quiet himself, but France pulled his head around by the hair until he was facing Italy again. “You see?” he said. “Weak.”
Germany growled, and twisted out of France's grip. He turned around and pushed the other man back, pinning him by his wrists to the mattress. France just laughed, and rubbed their hips together. “You can beat me on the battlefield, Germany. But in bed? Never.”
Furious, Germany was on the verge of tearing off their clothes and fucking him bloody-- they would see who would beat who in bed-- but Italy's voice stopped him. “France, you shouldn't tease him like that. We're friends, aren't we?”
Slowly, Germany let France up, although he didn't stop glaring. France met his eyes and smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. “Tender union, you said?” said Germany, quietly, in one of their old shared dialects.
“There is an exception to everything, friend,” France breathed.
Italy looked upset, so France let his face slide back into its trademark smile. “Worry not, little Italie. We will soon have him cheered up.” Germany looked murderous, but France feigned not to notice. “Perhaps you could help him to finish undressing.”
Italy crawled in front of Germany, and slipped little fingers behind his belt buckle. “Is that alright?”
Germany looked down at the cautious face, and let his anger slide away. Time enough for fighting when this man wasn't waiting, nervous, in the bed. He let himself nod, and moved up on his knees so that Italy wouldn't have problems with his complicated military belt. The other man knelt down to fiddle with it, face close enough to Germany that he had to fight the simultaneous urges to move away, and to tear off his pants right there and fuck his mouth. But it was Italy, so he did neither.
France watched them, undoing his own pants and reach his hand inside. It was complicated, the relationship he had with these men-- but for now, satisfied that they were all getting what they wanted, he settled back to watch.
Germany felt his belt come off, his buttons come undone. Then nimble fingers were sliding his pants down his legs, undoing the buttons on his shorts, and he was naked. He never fucked naked, unless someone was trying to humiliate him; Prussia had always liked to fuck with their pants around their knees and their boots still on. Even with France, it had always been on his terms-- France was sometimes nude, but he never was. So finding himself here, shirt and jacket long-gone, with two sets of eyes on him-- one awed, one smirking-- he suddenly wanted to hide. He looked away, heat in his face, but hard as ever. On some level... on some level, he liked it.
France took his hand out of his pants and crawled behind Germany-- if Germany had tried to crawl like that, he would have looked like a fool, but France made it look predatory and sexual. Reaching under his shin, he began to undo Germany's bootlaces. “For once, Allemagne, you will not fuck me in your boots.”
Italy wasn't sure how he felt, looking up at his friend. The first thing that struck him was how different they were. His skin was several shades darker, more like Spain's than Germany's, and his shoulders and hips were narrow-- he'd never grown out of that look. Germany was broad through the shoulders and hips, skin paler even than France's, nipples rosy and light. He had little body hair, all of it white, white blond. There--there-- they were about the same size, but it didn't look the same at all. He felt a little lost.
Germany wasn't meeting his eyes, just kneeling there, letting him look. Wanting to make the look on the other man's face go away, Italy reached up, and trailed his fingers down Germany's chest, over his stomach, down to where the hair started. He was concerned, and then interested, when he heard Germany gasp. Different than before. Breathier, less desperate. There was a low, soft laugh from France.
Remembering how France had touched him, Italy let his fingers brush over Germany's nipples. They changed, just like his did when he was cold, and an expression almost like pain crossed Germany's face. France, sitting up now that he'd gotten rid of the boots, saw Italy's troubled expression, and said “Do not worry, little Italie, you are not hurting him. He likes it. He is trying not to moan,” and here, France crawled up behind Germany, kissing his neck, scraping his sides with manicured fingernails, “because he thinks it is undignified. He doesn't know how much we like it,” he leaned in, nearly whispering into Germany's ear, “when he makes these sounds for us.” Italy watched, fascinated, as Germany's breathing started coming faster, as he clamped his eyes shut.
More confident now, he let himself touch Germany's chest, his stomach, his hips. He even reached around between the two older men, to run his fingers up his spine. Germany's closed eyes tightened, but after what he'd France had said, he took it as a good sign. Moving closer, he bit low on Germany's throat, like he had before. Then he kissed his way down his torso, lightly, liking how it made his lips feel. He rubbed his cheek against Germany's chest. Hugging was so nice, so it made sense that this was nice too, now that he thought about it.
On sudden inspiration, he kissed Germany's nipples. This time the other man couldn't keep from making sound, and Italy found that he liked it, like France had said. He did it again, but bit this time. There was a low sound from Germany. “That's right, Italie. You are a natural.” Italy, swelling with pride, licked. Now Germany was breathing soft and fast, like he had when France was saying those things to him. Encouraged, he moved in closer, brushing himself accidentally against Germany.
Germany froze. Experimentally, Italy did it again, this time moving intentionally so that his hip touched Germany's--
“Guys?” Germany opened his eyes, startled at the sound of his voice. France simply looked up from where he had been leaving bright red marks up and down Germany's shoulder (it was rare that Germany was distracted enough that he could get away with it, no matter how much the other man liked it). “Guys? That thing-- this thing,” he said, touching Germany's. Germany gave an involuntary jerk, and France laughed. “How do you say this, you know, in our language?” In Italian, he knew-- he even thought he knew in French. But in the old language-- the language they shared-- he had never heard anyone say it aloud.
“Ah, that, little Italie--”
Irritated with the other man, and desperately not wanting to hear whatever monstrosity France came up with, Germany cut him off. “It's a cock.”
France winced. “Well, there are many other--” Germany sent him a quelling look.
“Cock?” said Italy, curiously. Germany felt a surge of heat to his own, hearing that word come out of Italy's mouth. “Like the bird?”
“Yes,” said Germany. “Like the bird.” France hid his face in his hands.
“And,” said Italy, less sure of himself now. “It feels good when you just, touch it? Not just when you put it in a--”
“Yes,” said Germany, voice starting to sound a little strained. Italy was still touching him.
But France had other concerns. “Little one, have you never pleasured yourself?” It was Germany's turn to look away uncomfortably, mind filled suddenly and irresistibly with images of Italy...
Italy looked at France quizzically. “Pleasured? I do lots of things that give me pleasure--” Germany held his breath “--like making pasta, playing with my brother, eating pasta...”
France shook his head. “Non, non,” he said, slipping back into his native language as he always did when he was amused. “Pleasured yourself physically. Touched yourself here.” He crawled back next to Italy, and rubbed a gentle hand between his legs. Italy's eyes went wide and unfocused, and Germany nearly came right there. “No?” said France. That wasn't quite what Italy was going to say, but... “Well then, you shall learn your technique from the best.” And he reached down farther between the other nation's legs, and stroked his way back up, flat-handed through his pants. Italy squirmed, and made little mewling noises-- Germany was fairly sure he'd never been so hard in his life, and he had to clench hard and breath deep to last.
“This is how you were making Germany feel,” whispered France, in his bedroom voice. Italy's eyes opened wide, and he looked to Germany for confirmation. Germany swallowed hard, and looked away. “You like that, you like to make your friends feel good-- so good-- don't you?” Italy nodded, eyes wide. “Then,” said France, opening Italy's pants and shorts and touching him skin-to-skin for the first time, “touch him like this.” He wrapped his hand gently around that most exquisitely sensitive part of his friend (what aweful, vulgar words Germany uses), and moved back and forth, gently, gently.
Italy was moaning now, quietly, lower in his throat, staying perfectly still. At France's words, he looked up at Germany, and shyly wrapped a hand around him. The sound Germany made was closer to a groan, but his eyes were open now, looking, fascinated, at where Italy was touching him. Watching the two of them, France felt his heart soften again. Maybe he'd even be able to get Germany to make love like a civilized person after this-- although, he admitted, he might miss the struggle, the crazy pounding. Variety was after all, as he had said earlier, the spice of life.
Touching Italy touching Germany, France smiled, and bowed his head to take Italy in his mouth. Softly, softly, just the very tip, just a little bit of suction. Italy gasped, eyes widening. He looked up at Germany in shock-- he had said that the cock could be put in the mouth or, or the anus (he cringed a little at that thought)-- and saw a hungry look there, quickly hidden once he met Italy's eyes, that made him shiver. “I think...” he said faintly. “I think we're having sex now.”
France let his lips slide off the end of Italy's lovely manhood (see, Germany? So many other, less coarse options). “Almost, almost,” he whispered against Italy's skin. “When you pleasure Germany with your mouth, as I am to you, then, I think, we will be 'having sex.'”
Italy swallowed, looking at Germany's face-- the flush, the open mouth-- and then down at his cock. He wasn't so sure, but then France's mouth was around him again, and it was so nice, so nice... He rubbed his cheek against Germany's hip, and then, steeling himself, licked.
Just skin. Strange skin, silky and thin, but still just skin. And the expression on Germany's face-- tight now, like it had been when he'd touched his nipples, but more so. He licked again, less experimentally this time. Germany, his jaw was clenched, brows furrowed, eyes tight shut. Italy remembered the way he'd moaned when France bit him, and wanted to hear the sound again. Copying what France had done to him, he opened his mouth, and closed his lips around the thick part at the top of his cock. Germany's hips jerked forward in an aborted thrust, and Italy found himself with two or three inches in his mouth. “Sorry, sorry,” said Germany, eyes still shut and near shaking with the effort of staying still. Italy tried to say “it's alright,” but it came out more like “hurmph hmgh.” Germany winced-- not in pain-- at the vibration, but Italy didn't see, too concentrated on the mouth around his cock and the cock in his mouth to pay much attention. He could have finished by now, it would have been easier. But long nights alone-- he blushed; he never thought about things outside his bed-- had taught him that, well, the longer you wait...
France cupped him, slid more into his mouth. Italy copied. France licked from base to tip, and then down. Italy tried it too. Germany was clenching his fists, taking steadying breaths, the image of Italy going down on him for the first time burned behind his eyelids. Then France, drawing away for a moment, said “This is probably too advanced for you, my dear,” and swallowed him all the way down. Italy gasped around Germany's cock, and the kneeling man groaned, the first noise he'd made since Italy had put his mouth on him the first time.
Italy sucked faster, forgetting the strange taste, forgetting to worry if he was doing it right. Germany's hips made little rocking motions, until he pushed to far, and Italy started to cough. Germany moved back at once. “Italy, I'm sorry, I--”
France smoothed back the little nation's hair. “It's perfectly normal, don't worry.” He kissed Italy then, tongues slick and warm and tasting slightly different. Germany groaned again, watching them. He just knew that France was going to drag this out as long as possible, and he felt like he was ready to explode. Just as he was about to move, a hand snaked out-- France's-- and took a hold of him. Expert, more confident than Italy's, knowing just how much pressure and where. Germany's hands fisted in the sheets again. Then there was a mouth around him, telling him who it belonged to with treacherous flutters of the tongue and just the lightest pressure of teeth. France might be a bumbling fool outside of the bedroom, but this was his domain, it really was. Then he was all the way in, and this time he didn't stop himself from thrusting, fucking the other man's mouth until he felt that telltale constriction in his throat. France was a genius at slow and torturous, but right now Germany wanted fast and hard.
Just as he was about to come-- he'd forgotten why he was supposed to wait, he just wanted more-- France slipped off him. Germany growled and tried to follow, but France stopped him with a hand against his hip. “Italy,” he said quietly, nodding at the last man.
Italy had been biting his lip, watching the other two go at it. He suddenly felt out of place again, like he'd come to a party where he didn't know any of the guests and the food was all wrong. So France crawled behind him, supporting him in a sitting position, and gestured to Germany. “Our friend has perhaps less technique than I, but it is always a treat to watch him take a cock in his mouth, close his eyes and suck like his big brother taught him to.” Germany sent him a hateful glare, but Italy only looked confused. “He will please you,” clarified France. Italy's mouth opened in a soundless “O.”
Germany wanted to beat the man to a bloody pulp. But he also... he also wanted what France was suggesting (instructing). So out of respect for Italy-- and out of wonder, lust-- he set aside his anger once again.
Crawling to him, Germany bowed his head, breathing on the other man's cock. Italy shuddered. When Germany took him into his mouth, Italy closed his eyes and keened, turning his face into France's shoulder, clenching his fists in the sheets. Germany was slower than France, more deliberate, with none of the crushing force that he kissed with. Carefully up and down, up and down, tempo and rhythm never wavering. No complicated licking, no clever hands... but watching the blond head move, Italy almost hurt with all the blood that was rushing to his cock.
“Mm, yes, he looks nice, doesn't he?” Germany, despite himself, felt his cock twitch at the words. He looked up at Italy, and immediately wished he hadn't. The look on the other man's face... there was too much emotion there for Germany to deal with just then, so he looked back down, closing his eyes and concentrating on what he was doing. “Always so focused, like he is setting a bomb, or writing a piece of legislation. Yes, it is all a very serious business.” Then France reached around Italy, and pushed Germany's head all the way down. Germany fought the urge to gag and cough, getting his throat under control as he had learned to do, although his eyes teared up.
“Until you start to make it a little rough. Then he begins to come a little undone, our Germany. He starts to moan, a little, to pant...” France climbed up, and leaned forward to drag fingernails up Germany's pale, pale back. The other man went still in the way that Italy had learned meant that something had felt very good, until France pushed him down again. Then Italy wasn't watching anymore, he was watching what looked like waves marching behind his eyes, his muscles were tightening, he was--
“Stop, now, Allemagne.” France eyed Italy. “Our little one is too close. And the evening is only beginning.” Germany pulled his mouth off of Italy, and looked up at him. The man's eyes were closed, cheeks red-- a telltale flush was spreading across his neck and chest. France was right. He was very close.
“France, what do you intend to do, keep us here all night?”
France smiled, showing teeth. “Exactly.”
“France, I want-- I--”
Germany put a hand on Italy's hip. “You might as well let him finish, France. He won't last through another game.”
France smiled, darkly, at Germany. “I think you just want it, you want him up in the back of your throat, you want his hips twitching and jerking until you choke--”
Choke? Italy-- Italy didn't think he wanted to choke Germany. They were friends. But he saw the expression on the other man's face, somewhere between fury and something else, and he thought he'd better speak up. “I don't really want to choke Germany, because wouldn't that kind of hurt? But if you want to, Germany, then I guess it's probably alright, so--”
France cut him off with an imperial wave of the hand. Germany wanted to bite it off. “Very well,” he said. “Finish it.”
Germany's mouth was around him again, and France was sliding behind him and holding him, tangling both their hands in Germany's slicked-back hair, pushing his head down, pulling it up. In France's lap, he could feel where France's pants were open, where skin rubbed against skin. He thought about what Germany had said (in the mouth, or the-- the--), but France made no move to put anything anywhere. He simply shifted his hips against Italy's, letting go of Germany's hair to run his hands up and down his chest.
Italy whined, breathing faster, the waves coming again against the back of his eyelids. And then Germany was sucking at the end of him, almost like France had done, and he started to shake. He fought to stay still-- France helped, holding him by the hips-- as his legs tried to spasm, his hips thrust, and his toes curled. He was-- yes, that was what had happened. But in Germany's mouth? Suddenly embarrassed, he looked down at the other man. His head was still lowered, but Italy could see his face as he swallowed, slowly. With a last kiss to the inside of his leg, he sat up. Italy opened his mouth in a soundless “Oh.”
“And that, little Italie, is how beautiful love can be.” Italy nodded vaguely as his eyes closed. “Well,” he heard France say. “I suppose we can't expect him to stay awake forever. The two of us will simply have to...” he heard a gasp, and what sounded suspiciously like a growl. “...yes,” said France's voice, quieter. “Yes, like that, don't you think?” Another gasp. A hoarse whisper. Then, “Yes, yes, one day you will get me back, for all of it. Don't think I don't know how furious you are, how shamed.” He breathed the last word. “In the mean time...” now the noise was less like breathing, and more like moaning. “...in the mean time, you will forget about Versailles, and you will moan like a slut, beg for just a little more pain.”
And then Italy was asleep, dreaming of friends and lovers and loving. He wouldn't remember what he'd heard.
For what all France and Germany get up to after Italy goes to sleep, see Duet. (Warning: Darker than original)
Warnings: Sex
Summary: "They will go home, and they will start doing that thing, and then they will stay in their bedroom for a very long time, ignoring their friends and making strange sounds...” A tear rolled down Italy's cheek. “And even if their little brothers really, really, really want to play, they will say, No, Feli, I am busy..."
Characters: Italy, Germany, France
Year: 1925
Related fics: Duet, Duet, Epilogue
Ah, yes. A long day-- several important telegrams, two meetings, and a seduction, and now, France was ready for a nice evening out. So when Italy invited him to a quiet bar, he thought sure, why not, and didn't back out even when he learned Germany was going to be there. There was nothing wrong with a little socializing, even if things had been tense recently. It would be nice to chat away from their bosses, right? Right.
So it was that the three nations found themselves sitting in a booth at the back of a little bar in Italy's countryside. Germany was taciturn, and even Italy was a little quiet. He wondered if it wasn't the first time he and Germany-- let alone the three of them-- had sat together outside of a diplomatic event since years before the war. France was running out of ways to keep the conversation running, when Italy startled them all by pointing at a man and a woman who were sitting close to each other, giggling and sharing sips of their drinks. “There it is again! It's everywhere.”
France turned to the other nation, and glanced down at his glass-- still half full, and it was only his second, right? Third? “What is everywhere, my friend?”
“Sex,” said Italy, a look of uncharacteristic gloom on his face.
France glanced up at Germany, who had been silent so far this evening, but there was no help forthcoming from that block of wood. “Italy,” he said gently, “you do know, don't you, that those people are not having sex at this time?”
Italy rolled his eyes. “Of course. I'm not stupid.” Wisely, France did not answer. “But they're going to. They will go home, and they will start doing that thing, and then they will stay in their bedroom for a very long time, ignoring their friends and making strange sounds...” A tear rolled down Italy's cheek. “And even if their little brothers really, really, really want to play, they will say, No, Feli, I am busy, even though they are not busy, they are just doing that thing over and over, and what is so interesting about it anyway? You just take that thing and put it in that place, and then you take it out, and you go to sleep. Why are they ignoring me, just to do that stupid, boring thing?” He ended in a wail, and France looked around nervously, but the only other occupants of the bar were the couple, wrapped up enough in their own world that they didn't even appear to have heard Italy's tirade.
Putting the pieces together in his head, France nodded sagely, and put an arm around little Italy's shoulders. “Your brother has found a special someone, hasn't he?” Italy nodded tearfully. “Yes, little one, yes, I understand. Why, I remember when...” Germany looked at him curiously. France cleared his throat, and moved on. “But Italy, there is something you don't understand. Making love... it is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Your brother has just learned about all the wondrous things that his body can do. It is a very joyful time for him. Tell me, dear one, have you ever participated in this act?”
Italy shook his head, eyes wide. France shot a surprised look at Germany. Germany looked to the side, and took a big swig of his lager. “I know most of my provinces had-- they're all really old, you know-- and I have a few memories, but it's all very fuzzy...
“Ah... Well, yes. This is why, perhaps, you do not understand. The act of love-making... Ah, Italy, there is nothing like it. The ultimate expression of tenderness and passion with another person, or, people--” Germany coughed, but France ignored him, “--it is a beautiful union, a connection, however fleeting, between two-- or more-- people who, for however long, truly love each other.” France truly loved every single woman he had ever slept with, and most of the men. He had a lot of love to share. “There is nothing in this world that compares.”
Germany had been getting redder and redder about the ears as France spoke. Beautiful union, ultimate expression of tenderness. Was that really what France had been thinking when they...? No, he refused to believe it. Sex was just sex, particularly the kind of sex that one has on the table in one's older brother's house while he is away. Germany cleared his throat loudly.
France looked over at him, and smiled, kindly. “Don't you agree, Germany?”
Germany gathered his thoughts. “Yes, well. In, ah, addition to what our friend France has described for us, Italy, it is important that you understand the diversity of the activities involved in fornication.” 'Fornication?' France mouthed, raising an eyebrow. Germany ignored him. “For example, despite your implication that sexual intercourse involves only the insertion of the penis into the vagina, the penis can in fact also be inserted into the mouth or the anus.”
France spluttered, and reached out to cover Italy's ears. Italy ducked out of the way, and turned rapt, somewhat horrified eyes on Germany. Germany, settling comfortably into his role as instructor, continued. “In addition to such penetrative acts, activities such as genital rubbing, kissing, and stroking are both common and stimulating. These comprise the majority of mainstream sexual activity. However, they are by no means the only behaviors in which one can engage.” By this point, France had his head in his hands, and was-- though no one would ever know-- blushing fiercely.
“What other behaviors can people engage in, Germany?” Italy asked, doubtfully.
“Well, among the most common alternative sexual practices are animalistic behaviors such as scratching and biting, restraint of one or both partners, roleplay of situations that one or both partners find titillating, hitting of one partner by the other with whips or crops--”
France had come back to himself. “Germany! That is quite enough. He does not need to be hearing this!”
“But France,” said Italy, “I-- I want to understand.”
Germany, suddenly self-conscious, rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah. Well, Italy, what else would you like to know?”
“I want to know... How do you kiss?”
Germany blinked in surprise. France shook his head. Non, non, Germany would not be the one to explain this to the boy, not in that clinical way-- ugh, he could hardly stand it, the exquisite act of love described in so coarse a manner. “I will show you, little Italy.” The beginnings of a frown showed on Germany's face, an expression that turned to blatant alarm as France cupped the cheek of the third nation, and leaned in for a kiss. France kissed him slowly, sensually, tracing his bottom lip with his tongue, biting it lightly. Slipped his tongue between lax lips, just briefly. Then again, more slowly, feeling the electric shock that ran through the boy when their tongues touched. He drew away slowly, giving Italy his best “I have a secret” smile, and touching his cheek.
Germany shouldered France out of the way, frowning. He looked down at his ally-- they were about the same age, really, but Italy had been living with others for so long... and Italy hadn't grown up with Prussia. He wondered briefly if he really ought to do what he was planning to-- kisses, particularly first ones, should be special, shouldn't they? That was what his children seemed to think-- but who of them, of the nations, did he know who had had that kind of experience? Better in a quiet bar with friends, then bleeding on a battlefield or as a newly conquered arrival in someone else's home. So he took Italy's face in his hands, met his eyes, and kissed him thoroughly. He kissed with all the intensity that he brought to the battlefield, to the world economy, to the advancement of science-- he kissed with precision, and with force. Then he drew away, slightly breathless, and looked nervously back and forth between Italy and France, waiting for judgment to be passed.
Italy frowned, looking back and forth between the two men. “That was not the same at all,” he pronounced, looking a little suspicious.
“Why no, dearest Italy, it is never the same twice, and every man kisses differently, just as every man has a different way of wielding a sword... But, I can assure you,” and here, he looked at Germany, “that some of us have better, ah, technique than others.”
Germany stood up, slamming his fist against the table. “That's it! France, I am sick to death of your constant implications that I am unsatisfactory as a lover. If you are so unhappy with my technique, why do you come back?”
France shrugged, sinuously. “Well, my dear Allemagne, variety is the spice of life. You do no have the finesse of, say, the beautiful Espagne-- a man after my own heart-- but you do have a certain--”
Unnoticed to the other two, Italy's face had been growing darker and darker. At the mention of Spain-- Spain, his friend!-- he slammed his cup down on the table. “Everyone!” he shouted. “Everyone is doing it! Why are they all doing it! Why can't we all just draw together, and eat tasty food, and sing songs, like we used to?”
The two men turned to face him, looking him up and down-- furtively, in Germany's case, and with relish, in France's. “It's true, my friend, we have not answered little Italie's real question. 'What is so good about love-making,' he asks. I think we cannot tell him. I think we must show him.”
Germany looked at France askance. Show him? Kissing was one thing, but this?
But then, he found himself thinking. Why no?. None of them were going to have fairy-tale romances. Sex in their lives was about claiming, taking, manipulating, or-- if one was very lucky-- finding a brief refuge from the loneliness that was at the end the fate of every nation. What were the chances that Italy would find a better chance than this, with his friends, where no one wanted to hurt him or control him. If Italy were willing...
Italy found that both nations were looking at him. “You two, I brought you out here to get away from all the sex, not to start it!”
“But Italie,” France purred. “It is different when you are involved yourself. You will see. And besides,” he said, looking around airily, “we will not do it here. We will go back, I think, to my house, yes? Everyone knows, Paris is the city of love...”
Italy shot Germany an uncertain look. Germany took a deep breath, met his eyes, and nodded solemnly. “If you decide to do this with us, Italy, Italien, Italia, we will make it worth your while.”
“It will be the most wonderful you will ever have felt,” promised France, voice husky. But it was Germany who Italy had eyes for.
“Alright,” he said. “I'll try it.”
For the three nations, it wasn't a long trip back to France's house. They walked quietly out of the bar, and a few dozen feet away, slipped out of the world their children lived in and into the less straightforwardly physical world that they inhabited. Leaving the house that represented Italy's homeland, they crossed the street to France's. It was a larger building, spacious, and slightly fancier's than Italy's airy villa. France ushered them in, and called to Guadeloupe and Martinique to bring them some more wine. The islands did as they were told, and silently left the room. Taking a sip, France swished the wine around his mouth, and swallowed with a nearly obscene sigh. “There is nothing like the wine at home.”
Seeing the other two men still sitting at the doorway, he ushered them in, and sat them down, a glass of wine by both of their hands. Germany was sitting stiffly on an elaborate 18th century couch, one of the relics of the Ancien Régime that had survived the revolution. Italy, running his fingers over a very old tapestry.
“Come, now, friends, relax.” Of course, Germany though, bitterly, France wouldn't feel uncomfortable in the slightest in a situation like this. “Let us begin.” And he turned Italy around, and backed him up against the tapestry he had been admiring, running careful fingers down his front, kissing him with more energy then he had back at the bar, but, noted Germany, no less playfulness. The fag.
France guided Italy back to the couch, sat down and pulled him into his lap, running fingers up his sides and down the outsides of his legs, biting, lightly, the place where his neck met his shoulder. Italy, a little breathless, couldn't quite decide whether to moan or laugh-- it was a little ticklish-- and ended up doing a little of both. Germany looked at the two of them, Italy blushing and squirming while France ran kisses from his shoulder to his ear and back, and felt suddenly out of place. What was he doing here with these laughing, happy men? How could he ever reconcile what he knew of sex, the bitter, intense struggle, with this?
France looked up at Germany. “Allemagne, you will miss all the fun. Come and help our little friend.”
Germany's head filled with half-remembered images from hot, torturous nights: Italy, flushed and sweating, head thrown back against a mattress. Italy, smiling a different smile than the expression he usually wore, opening his pants. And then, suddenly, Italy, face open and cheerful, looking to him for approval as he botched another routine surveillance mission, prepared an unnecessarily elaborate meal in the middle of a war zone. He came to kneel in front of the two men, looking up at his long-time friend. Italy slid off France's lap to meet him, more sure of himself now, and kissed him. Enthusiastic, and clumsy, as he'd always been. Germany found himself starting to get hard, realizing for the first time that he'd wanted this. Neither man saw France's soft smile.
“My friends, you are kneeling on the floor,” he interrupted, finally. “Only savages fuck on the floor. Come with me.” And he lead them to the room where he slept.
Italy looked suddenly nervous as he heard the word “fuck.” Yes, he'd known what they were going to do, but they were going to want to put that thing into that-- those places, and-- how did three men have sex, anyway? He realized for the first time that he didn't know. He looked to Germany, but the man's gaze was distant.
On the floor, like savages, Germany thought. If France only knew how many times he had done just that.
If France noticed the change in mood, he gave no indication of it. He simply swept aside the curtain on his elaborate four-poster, and motioned to the men. “After you, my friends.” Italy and Germany looked at each other, both feeling out of place for entirely different reasons, and obeyed.
France slid onto the bed behind the other two, and swept the curtains closed. “And now, friends, we shall begin.” Italy felt his heart skip a beat, and even Germany was a little bit uneasy, as France smiled at the two of them like he wanted to eat them. Crawling towards Italy until the other man had to either lie down or be bowled over, France kissed his lips, his nose, his chin. Italy giggled. Germany had to fight to keep his disgust from showing on his face. But then they were kissing more seriously, and he couldn't help but stare. He had been involved in sex with more than one partner-- he couldn't help thinking of the memories he shared with Prussia, and he suppressed a shudder-- but he didn't think he'd ever been a spectator to such intimacy. He simultaneously felt the strong urge to look away, and like he never wanted to stop watching.
Luckily, France was too much of an expert at handling multiple people in the bedroom to leave Germany to his thoughts for long. Without breaking his kiss, he reached behind himself and took Germany's hand, guiding the other man until they were pressed together, back to front, from the waist down. Then he started to move, and Germany couldn't help but move back. Breathing more quickly now, and biting back the sounds that were trying to form in his throat.
France slid Italy's shirt up nearly to his neck, feigning not to notice the look of uncertainty that had returned to the younger man's face. Then he was kissing down his chest and back up again-- Italy's face changed when France brushed over a nipple, and Germany couldn't stop the sound that left his mouth. Italy looked up, and Germany felt a jolt. There was lust in his eyes now, and not just the shy, curious interest that there had been before. A small part of him felt uncomfortable seeing that look on his friend's face; the rest of him was flooded with images that made him close his eyes briefly.
France moved back up Italy's body, to whisper something in his ear. “But we're not having sex yet,” objected Italy. “Are we?” He looked concerned at this, and looked back and forth between the other two men.
“When we are, having sex--” it looked as if it hurt France's mouth to use a phrase so vulgar (Germany could think of several worse) “--you will know.”
Germany couldn't see the look France was giving Italy, but he could imagine it, and he felt another jolt of heat to his cock. Italy felt the same way, judging by the way his eyes clouded over. “Oh,” he said in a small voice.
“Yes, 'oh,'” said France, with the kind of laugh that you only hear in the bedroom, and he flipped the two of them over, so that all of a sudden it was Italy who was pressed up against Germany. He laughed again at the look on the taller man's face. Yes. Germany had been wanted this for a long time, the poor inhibited bastard. France was delighted to be the, ah, the catalyst, regardless of their recent-- disagreements. And naturally, he suspected the sex would be fabulous. Virgins were usually too much work to be worth it, really, but this was just too delicious to miss. He thrust up against Italy's hips, and loved the way the two men gasped.
He fell into a rhythm, not too fast, and kissed Italy again, open-mouthed and messy. He could tell by the looks on their faces that the other two could come just from this, but he would have none of that. No one would be coming in his bed from grinding like animals. So he pulled away from Italy long enough to strip off both of their shirts, and then he turned the smaller man around, so that he could look up at his long-time ally. “Now,” he said, huskily. “I think that we should watch, while Germany removes his clothes.”
Germany looked down at the two of them. France was eying him in undisguised lust-- the idea of putting on a show for the man left a bitter taste in his mouth. But Italy's face... he looked captivated. Meeting the younger nation's eyes, Germany unbuttoned his jacket, folding it meticulously, and lifted off his shirt.
France smiled lazy, fingers playing over Italy's chest. “Go ahead,” he said, talking to Italy but looking at Germany. “Touch him. He won't mind.”
The days when France was allowed to speak for him-- them-- had passed before he had even existed. But when Italy's tentative fingers brushed his shoulders, he found he didn't mind. He briefly wondered who France was really doing this for, but put the thought out of his head. Divining his one-time brother's motives was difficult at the best of times.
Sitting up to trace muscles that he'd seen again and again but never touched, Italy said, musingly, “Do you think everyone spends this much time playing before they have sex?”
Italy didn't see the look France sent at Germany. “No, love, not everyone, but anyone worth your time. Don't you think, Germany?” The look Germany sent the other man was venomous, but Italy, watching his fingers travel over Germany's paler skin, didn't notice.
“How much should you play first?” he wanted to know.
“The playing is the best part,” said France. “It should last as long as possible.”
Italy looked up at the third man, waiting for confirmation, but Germany stayed quiet. He was feeling more and more like he didn't know anything at all about how this should be done. He didn't really believe all the romantic babble he had heard tonight, but then, would he want Italy to think sex was quick and brutal, like he had? The idea, Italy crying and taken, nearly made his heart break. “It should last until your partner is ready,” he finally said. He didn't look at France.
“How will I know when you're ready?” Italy was starting to look troubled. But France pulled him back down, and kissed him over his shoulder: He knew better than anyone that too much talking in bed was no good (although he had yet to convince England).
“You will know,” he said, quietly, into Italy's ear. Italy cringed and giggled at the strange feeling. “Now. I think that perhaps you ought to keep touching our friend.”
Italy looked up at Germany, where he was still kneeling over the two of them. “Germany, you look so serious.”
“This is a serious business for him,” said France.
Italy nodded, and tried his best to look serious. Touching the other man's chest again, his expression smoothed out. Then he leaned up, and kissed his throat, right above his Adam's apple. “Bite him,” whispered France, insidiously. “He likes that.” Italy bit, gently, and Germany felt his eyes close. He was fairly sure he had gasped. “Harder is better. Here, let me show you.”
France slid out from under Italy, and crawled around until he was at Germany's back. Kneeling behind him, he grabbed his hair and pulled his head to the side, and bit the side of his neck hard enough to leave bright white teethmarks, almost purplish against Germany's skin. Germany let out a startled gasp that quickly turned into a moan, and France laughed, pinching the skin hard. “You see, he is weak for a little pain, our Germany.” Germany couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. France dug his fingernails hard into the other man's hips, and bit him again, lower down. Germany let his head fall back so it was resting on France's shoulder, hands clenching into fists and then opening again.
“I don't understand,” said Italy, but he closed his teeth over Germany's collarbone. Germany was panting now.
“Scratch him,” said France. “Drag your fingernails over his chest.” Biting again, Italy obeyed, drawling bright red lines on the other man's skin. Germany turned his head away, trying to quiet himself, but France pulled his head around by the hair until he was facing Italy again. “You see?” he said. “Weak.”
Germany growled, and twisted out of France's grip. He turned around and pushed the other man back, pinning him by his wrists to the mattress. France just laughed, and rubbed their hips together. “You can beat me on the battlefield, Germany. But in bed? Never.”
Furious, Germany was on the verge of tearing off their clothes and fucking him bloody-- they would see who would beat who in bed-- but Italy's voice stopped him. “France, you shouldn't tease him like that. We're friends, aren't we?”
Slowly, Germany let France up, although he didn't stop glaring. France met his eyes and smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. “Tender union, you said?” said Germany, quietly, in one of their old shared dialects.
“There is an exception to everything, friend,” France breathed.
Italy looked upset, so France let his face slide back into its trademark smile. “Worry not, little Italie. We will soon have him cheered up.” Germany looked murderous, but France feigned not to notice. “Perhaps you could help him to finish undressing.”
Italy crawled in front of Germany, and slipped little fingers behind his belt buckle. “Is that alright?”
Germany looked down at the cautious face, and let his anger slide away. Time enough for fighting when this man wasn't waiting, nervous, in the bed. He let himself nod, and moved up on his knees so that Italy wouldn't have problems with his complicated military belt. The other man knelt down to fiddle with it, face close enough to Germany that he had to fight the simultaneous urges to move away, and to tear off his pants right there and fuck his mouth. But it was Italy, so he did neither.
France watched them, undoing his own pants and reach his hand inside. It was complicated, the relationship he had with these men-- but for now, satisfied that they were all getting what they wanted, he settled back to watch.
Germany felt his belt come off, his buttons come undone. Then nimble fingers were sliding his pants down his legs, undoing the buttons on his shorts, and he was naked. He never fucked naked, unless someone was trying to humiliate him; Prussia had always liked to fuck with their pants around their knees and their boots still on. Even with France, it had always been on his terms-- France was sometimes nude, but he never was. So finding himself here, shirt and jacket long-gone, with two sets of eyes on him-- one awed, one smirking-- he suddenly wanted to hide. He looked away, heat in his face, but hard as ever. On some level... on some level, he liked it.
France took his hand out of his pants and crawled behind Germany-- if Germany had tried to crawl like that, he would have looked like a fool, but France made it look predatory and sexual. Reaching under his shin, he began to undo Germany's bootlaces. “For once, Allemagne, you will not fuck me in your boots.”
Italy wasn't sure how he felt, looking up at his friend. The first thing that struck him was how different they were. His skin was several shades darker, more like Spain's than Germany's, and his shoulders and hips were narrow-- he'd never grown out of that look. Germany was broad through the shoulders and hips, skin paler even than France's, nipples rosy and light. He had little body hair, all of it white, white blond. There--there-- they were about the same size, but it didn't look the same at all. He felt a little lost.
Germany wasn't meeting his eyes, just kneeling there, letting him look. Wanting to make the look on the other man's face go away, Italy reached up, and trailed his fingers down Germany's chest, over his stomach, down to where the hair started. He was concerned, and then interested, when he heard Germany gasp. Different than before. Breathier, less desperate. There was a low, soft laugh from France.
Remembering how France had touched him, Italy let his fingers brush over Germany's nipples. They changed, just like his did when he was cold, and an expression almost like pain crossed Germany's face. France, sitting up now that he'd gotten rid of the boots, saw Italy's troubled expression, and said “Do not worry, little Italie, you are not hurting him. He likes it. He is trying not to moan,” and here, France crawled up behind Germany, kissing his neck, scraping his sides with manicured fingernails, “because he thinks it is undignified. He doesn't know how much we like it,” he leaned in, nearly whispering into Germany's ear, “when he makes these sounds for us.” Italy watched, fascinated, as Germany's breathing started coming faster, as he clamped his eyes shut.
More confident now, he let himself touch Germany's chest, his stomach, his hips. He even reached around between the two older men, to run his fingers up his spine. Germany's closed eyes tightened, but after what he'd France had said, he took it as a good sign. Moving closer, he bit low on Germany's throat, like he had before. Then he kissed his way down his torso, lightly, liking how it made his lips feel. He rubbed his cheek against Germany's chest. Hugging was so nice, so it made sense that this was nice too, now that he thought about it.
On sudden inspiration, he kissed Germany's nipples. This time the other man couldn't keep from making sound, and Italy found that he liked it, like France had said. He did it again, but bit this time. There was a low sound from Germany. “That's right, Italie. You are a natural.” Italy, swelling with pride, licked. Now Germany was breathing soft and fast, like he had when France was saying those things to him. Encouraged, he moved in closer, brushing himself accidentally against Germany.
Germany froze. Experimentally, Italy did it again, this time moving intentionally so that his hip touched Germany's--
“Guys?” Germany opened his eyes, startled at the sound of his voice. France simply looked up from where he had been leaving bright red marks up and down Germany's shoulder (it was rare that Germany was distracted enough that he could get away with it, no matter how much the other man liked it). “Guys? That thing-- this thing,” he said, touching Germany's. Germany gave an involuntary jerk, and France laughed. “How do you say this, you know, in our language?” In Italian, he knew-- he even thought he knew in French. But in the old language-- the language they shared-- he had never heard anyone say it aloud.
“Ah, that, little Italie--”
Irritated with the other man, and desperately not wanting to hear whatever monstrosity France came up with, Germany cut him off. “It's a cock.”
France winced. “Well, there are many other--” Germany sent him a quelling look.
“Cock?” said Italy, curiously. Germany felt a surge of heat to his own, hearing that word come out of Italy's mouth. “Like the bird?”
“Yes,” said Germany. “Like the bird.” France hid his face in his hands.
“And,” said Italy, less sure of himself now. “It feels good when you just, touch it? Not just when you put it in a--”
“Yes,” said Germany, voice starting to sound a little strained. Italy was still touching him.
But France had other concerns. “Little one, have you never pleasured yourself?” It was Germany's turn to look away uncomfortably, mind filled suddenly and irresistibly with images of Italy...
Italy looked at France quizzically. “Pleasured? I do lots of things that give me pleasure--” Germany held his breath “--like making pasta, playing with my brother, eating pasta...”
France shook his head. “Non, non,” he said, slipping back into his native language as he always did when he was amused. “Pleasured yourself physically. Touched yourself here.” He crawled back next to Italy, and rubbed a gentle hand between his legs. Italy's eyes went wide and unfocused, and Germany nearly came right there. “No?” said France. That wasn't quite what Italy was going to say, but... “Well then, you shall learn your technique from the best.” And he reached down farther between the other nation's legs, and stroked his way back up, flat-handed through his pants. Italy squirmed, and made little mewling noises-- Germany was fairly sure he'd never been so hard in his life, and he had to clench hard and breath deep to last.
“This is how you were making Germany feel,” whispered France, in his bedroom voice. Italy's eyes opened wide, and he looked to Germany for confirmation. Germany swallowed hard, and looked away. “You like that, you like to make your friends feel good-- so good-- don't you?” Italy nodded, eyes wide. “Then,” said France, opening Italy's pants and shorts and touching him skin-to-skin for the first time, “touch him like this.” He wrapped his hand gently around that most exquisitely sensitive part of his friend (what aweful, vulgar words Germany uses), and moved back and forth, gently, gently.
Italy was moaning now, quietly, lower in his throat, staying perfectly still. At France's words, he looked up at Germany, and shyly wrapped a hand around him. The sound Germany made was closer to a groan, but his eyes were open now, looking, fascinated, at where Italy was touching him. Watching the two of them, France felt his heart soften again. Maybe he'd even be able to get Germany to make love like a civilized person after this-- although, he admitted, he might miss the struggle, the crazy pounding. Variety was after all, as he had said earlier, the spice of life.
Touching Italy touching Germany, France smiled, and bowed his head to take Italy in his mouth. Softly, softly, just the very tip, just a little bit of suction. Italy gasped, eyes widening. He looked up at Germany in shock-- he had said that the cock could be put in the mouth or, or the anus (he cringed a little at that thought)-- and saw a hungry look there, quickly hidden once he met Italy's eyes, that made him shiver. “I think...” he said faintly. “I think we're having sex now.”
France let his lips slide off the end of Italy's lovely manhood (see, Germany? So many other, less coarse options). “Almost, almost,” he whispered against Italy's skin. “When you pleasure Germany with your mouth, as I am to you, then, I think, we will be 'having sex.'”
Italy swallowed, looking at Germany's face-- the flush, the open mouth-- and then down at his cock. He wasn't so sure, but then France's mouth was around him again, and it was so nice, so nice... He rubbed his cheek against Germany's hip, and then, steeling himself, licked.
Just skin. Strange skin, silky and thin, but still just skin. And the expression on Germany's face-- tight now, like it had been when he'd touched his nipples, but more so. He licked again, less experimentally this time. Germany, his jaw was clenched, brows furrowed, eyes tight shut. Italy remembered the way he'd moaned when France bit him, and wanted to hear the sound again. Copying what France had done to him, he opened his mouth, and closed his lips around the thick part at the top of his cock. Germany's hips jerked forward in an aborted thrust, and Italy found himself with two or three inches in his mouth. “Sorry, sorry,” said Germany, eyes still shut and near shaking with the effort of staying still. Italy tried to say “it's alright,” but it came out more like “hurmph hmgh.” Germany winced-- not in pain-- at the vibration, but Italy didn't see, too concentrated on the mouth around his cock and the cock in his mouth to pay much attention. He could have finished by now, it would have been easier. But long nights alone-- he blushed; he never thought about things outside his bed-- had taught him that, well, the longer you wait...
France cupped him, slid more into his mouth. Italy copied. France licked from base to tip, and then down. Italy tried it too. Germany was clenching his fists, taking steadying breaths, the image of Italy going down on him for the first time burned behind his eyelids. Then France, drawing away for a moment, said “This is probably too advanced for you, my dear,” and swallowed him all the way down. Italy gasped around Germany's cock, and the kneeling man groaned, the first noise he'd made since Italy had put his mouth on him the first time.
Italy sucked faster, forgetting the strange taste, forgetting to worry if he was doing it right. Germany's hips made little rocking motions, until he pushed to far, and Italy started to cough. Germany moved back at once. “Italy, I'm sorry, I--”
France smoothed back the little nation's hair. “It's perfectly normal, don't worry.” He kissed Italy then, tongues slick and warm and tasting slightly different. Germany groaned again, watching them. He just knew that France was going to drag this out as long as possible, and he felt like he was ready to explode. Just as he was about to move, a hand snaked out-- France's-- and took a hold of him. Expert, more confident than Italy's, knowing just how much pressure and where. Germany's hands fisted in the sheets again. Then there was a mouth around him, telling him who it belonged to with treacherous flutters of the tongue and just the lightest pressure of teeth. France might be a bumbling fool outside of the bedroom, but this was his domain, it really was. Then he was all the way in, and this time he didn't stop himself from thrusting, fucking the other man's mouth until he felt that telltale constriction in his throat. France was a genius at slow and torturous, but right now Germany wanted fast and hard.
Just as he was about to come-- he'd forgotten why he was supposed to wait, he just wanted more-- France slipped off him. Germany growled and tried to follow, but France stopped him with a hand against his hip. “Italy,” he said quietly, nodding at the last man.
Italy had been biting his lip, watching the other two go at it. He suddenly felt out of place again, like he'd come to a party where he didn't know any of the guests and the food was all wrong. So France crawled behind him, supporting him in a sitting position, and gestured to Germany. “Our friend has perhaps less technique than I, but it is always a treat to watch him take a cock in his mouth, close his eyes and suck like his big brother taught him to.” Germany sent him a hateful glare, but Italy only looked confused. “He will please you,” clarified France. Italy's mouth opened in a soundless “O.”
Germany wanted to beat the man to a bloody pulp. But he also... he also wanted what France was suggesting (instructing). So out of respect for Italy-- and out of wonder, lust-- he set aside his anger once again.
Crawling to him, Germany bowed his head, breathing on the other man's cock. Italy shuddered. When Germany took him into his mouth, Italy closed his eyes and keened, turning his face into France's shoulder, clenching his fists in the sheets. Germany was slower than France, more deliberate, with none of the crushing force that he kissed with. Carefully up and down, up and down, tempo and rhythm never wavering. No complicated licking, no clever hands... but watching the blond head move, Italy almost hurt with all the blood that was rushing to his cock.
“Mm, yes, he looks nice, doesn't he?” Germany, despite himself, felt his cock twitch at the words. He looked up at Italy, and immediately wished he hadn't. The look on the other man's face... there was too much emotion there for Germany to deal with just then, so he looked back down, closing his eyes and concentrating on what he was doing. “Always so focused, like he is setting a bomb, or writing a piece of legislation. Yes, it is all a very serious business.” Then France reached around Italy, and pushed Germany's head all the way down. Germany fought the urge to gag and cough, getting his throat under control as he had learned to do, although his eyes teared up.
“Until you start to make it a little rough. Then he begins to come a little undone, our Germany. He starts to moan, a little, to pant...” France climbed up, and leaned forward to drag fingernails up Germany's pale, pale back. The other man went still in the way that Italy had learned meant that something had felt very good, until France pushed him down again. Then Italy wasn't watching anymore, he was watching what looked like waves marching behind his eyes, his muscles were tightening, he was--
“Stop, now, Allemagne.” France eyed Italy. “Our little one is too close. And the evening is only beginning.” Germany pulled his mouth off of Italy, and looked up at him. The man's eyes were closed, cheeks red-- a telltale flush was spreading across his neck and chest. France was right. He was very close.
“France, what do you intend to do, keep us here all night?”
France smiled, showing teeth. “Exactly.”
“France, I want-- I--”
Germany put a hand on Italy's hip. “You might as well let him finish, France. He won't last through another game.”
France smiled, darkly, at Germany. “I think you just want it, you want him up in the back of your throat, you want his hips twitching and jerking until you choke--”
Choke? Italy-- Italy didn't think he wanted to choke Germany. They were friends. But he saw the expression on the other man's face, somewhere between fury and something else, and he thought he'd better speak up. “I don't really want to choke Germany, because wouldn't that kind of hurt? But if you want to, Germany, then I guess it's probably alright, so--”
France cut him off with an imperial wave of the hand. Germany wanted to bite it off. “Very well,” he said. “Finish it.”
Germany's mouth was around him again, and France was sliding behind him and holding him, tangling both their hands in Germany's slicked-back hair, pushing his head down, pulling it up. In France's lap, he could feel where France's pants were open, where skin rubbed against skin. He thought about what Germany had said (in the mouth, or the-- the--), but France made no move to put anything anywhere. He simply shifted his hips against Italy's, letting go of Germany's hair to run his hands up and down his chest.
Italy whined, breathing faster, the waves coming again against the back of his eyelids. And then Germany was sucking at the end of him, almost like France had done, and he started to shake. He fought to stay still-- France helped, holding him by the hips-- as his legs tried to spasm, his hips thrust, and his toes curled. He was-- yes, that was what had happened. But in Germany's mouth? Suddenly embarrassed, he looked down at the other man. His head was still lowered, but Italy could see his face as he swallowed, slowly. With a last kiss to the inside of his leg, he sat up. Italy opened his mouth in a soundless “Oh.”
“And that, little Italie, is how beautiful love can be.” Italy nodded vaguely as his eyes closed. “Well,” he heard France say. “I suppose we can't expect him to stay awake forever. The two of us will simply have to...” he heard a gasp, and what sounded suspiciously like a growl. “...yes,” said France's voice, quieter. “Yes, like that, don't you think?” Another gasp. A hoarse whisper. Then, “Yes, yes, one day you will get me back, for all of it. Don't think I don't know how furious you are, how shamed.” He breathed the last word. “In the mean time...” now the noise was less like breathing, and more like moaning. “...in the mean time, you will forget about Versailles, and you will moan like a slut, beg for just a little more pain.”
And then Italy was asleep, dreaming of friends and lovers and loving. He wouldn't remember what he'd heard.
For what all France and Germany get up to after Italy goes to sleep, see Duet. (Warning: Darker than original)