Duet (France, Germany)
Title: Duet
Warnings: Dark sex
Summary: “I thought,” whispered Germany, anger and heat making his voice hoarse. “that you didn't fuck on the floor.”
Characters: France, Germany, Italy in absentia
Year: 1925
Related fics: Sex Talk (prequel), Duet, Epilogue (sequel)
Germany watched Italy's eyelids flutter closed. In seconds, his breathing was deep and regular, face lax in sleep. He'd seen the other man sleep many-- too many-- times, but never-- he trailed a hand down the stomach, and rested it on the narrow hip. Never like this.
“Well,” said France. “I suppose we can't expect him to stay awake forever.” He slid out from underneath Italy-- the other nation didn't even twitch. Crawling behind Germany, he fitted himself to the taller man's back. “The two of us will simply have to...” he grabbed a handful of Germany's hair, mussed as it was, and pulled his head back. Germany gasped. The noise turned to a growl when France's nails dug stinging trails up his stomach, and down over his throat. “...yes,” came the insidious voice. “Yes, like that, don't you think?” And he grabbed Germany by the front of the throat, and bit, hard.
Germany's gasp this time was choked. “Fuck-- you.”
“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. In the mean time...” he still hadn't let go of Germany's throat, but his grasp was loose enough now that when he found a nipple to pinch, the gasp had sound behind it, “...in the mean time, you will forget about Versailles, and you will moan like a slut, beg for just a little more pain.”
Germany closed his eyes. If he hadn't walked in that day-- a day he was alone with Prussia, a day they hadn't expected company-- France would never have known about this weakness. And he'd been saving the knowledge, for today. For after the war, now that he knew-- and at this thought, Germany sneered-- now that he knew he could get away with it.
Germany could feel France against the back of his legs; he knew which of them was harder. France knew it too. “It will not take long, I think,” he hissed. Germany gritted his teeth. “Now, why don't we go to the sitting room? It would not do to wake up little Italie.”
“I thought,” whispered Germany, anger and heat making his voice hoarse. “that you didn't fuck on the floor.”
“For you, Deutsches Reich,” crooned France, like a lover-- Germany tensed, the venom in France's voice taking him by surprise-- “For you, I will make an exception.”
Silently, Germany followed France-- who was still partially clothed, how had that happened?-- out to the living room where this had started. He wasn't entirely sure why he wasn't fighting, but his neck ached in the way that meant he'd have deep bruises and the scratches on his back and chest stung, and it felt like security, it felt like love.
France stood across from him, arms crossed, looking intimidating in his open pants in the half-light from an oil lamp left burning, in a way that Germany didn't expect from him. “It was lovely, to see your mouth on that boy's cock,” he said, quietly. “I don't think I've ever seen you do that before.” Germany didn't answer. “Now, I think,” said France, hand going to his own, “that I would like to feel it.”
Germany looked uncertainly from him to the couch, and back. France smiled venomously. “Kneel,” he said.
Slowly, slowly, Germany walked to him, and did as he was told. He didn't look up. If he didn't look at the man, he wouldn't remember... “Look at me,” France said. “I want to see your face, while you suck me down.” Germany didn't comment on the language. He looked up, meeting the other man's eyes, watching the satisfaction and lust there grow as he put his mouth down and began the process of relaxing his throat. He thought he had never hated anyone so much in his entire life.
“Too slow,” whispered France, and pushed his head down hard. This time Germany couldn't help but cough, and then he was gagging, but the pressure on the back of his head didn't let up. Then his body quieted, and he entered that place where he went when he was with Prussia. France was talking again, but he could barely hear him, concentrated as he was on the stretching in his throat, on fighting the urge to squirm away, fight. It was better not to fight. He'd done this often enough to know.
Then France was moving, thrusting in him like he would in a woman, and Germany's concentration doubled, keeping his lips over his teeth, keeping his throat from closing. Then the pace was faster, the breathing louder, and Germany found himself hoping it would end there, like this, with France so deep in his throat that he would hardly notice when he came. He wasn't surprised though, when France pulled out at the last minute, working himself hard, the expression on his face as dark as he had ever seen it. “Open your mouth,” he whispered. Germany, vision blurry, complied. And then France was coming, hard and fast.
Germany flinched when some missed his mouth and landed close to his eye, but he didn't move away, and he didn't take his eyes off the other man. At the last moment France closed his eyes, and Germany wondered who he was thinking about. France opened them, and noticed that Germany was still holding his come in his mouth, eyes averted. France laughed, low. “We are well trained, aren't we?” Germany didn't answer. “Swallow,” he directed, and for the second time that night, he did.
France sat down on his couch, pants still carelessly open, hair mussed but not disheveled. Of course.
“You look so good, kneeling.” Germany stayed quiet, harder than ever despite himself, and ready to bear with whatever France had in mind until he had a chance to come. He thought of Italy, quiet and warm in France's bed, and felt a surge of longing. He quelled it.
“Come here,” said France, quietly. Germany looked up quizzically, but complied, coming to stand in front of the other man. All of a sudden, the face wasn't cruel any longer, just tired. “Sit.” He gestured to his lap. Germany, overwhelmed and confused by the night he'd had, obeyed, straddling the other man's lap, face downcast and shoulders tight.
France put his arms around him, and closed his eyes, leaning their foreheads together. “As far as our history goes, Ludwig--” Germany winced at the sound of his given name “--the night ends here.” Then, with a light hand to his cheek, he turned Germany's face to him. He kissed him softly, slowly, closer to how he had kissed Italy back in the bar than how they always had. Germany felt something in him uncoil, and he was mortified to find that he was blinking back tears.
France kissed him more deeply, a soothing hand stroking circles on his hip, the other going gently to his cock. Hard for so long, the sound Germany made was closer to a sob than anything. France shh'ed him quietly, holding him close.
Germany wanted to fight. Or, he wanted to want to fight. But it felt so good, so right, so... He rocked against France hand, and France's mouth left his to kiss his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Germany closed his eyes, the beginnings of panic starting somewhere in his chest, until France-- with his near-supernatural sense for these things-- pulled Germany's head down to rest on his shoulder. Eyes closed against the warm skin, Germany's movements became for rhythmic. It took a long time for him to come, overstimulated as he has, and when he did, it almost hurt. France cleaned them both up, before he met Germany's eyes. “Go,” he said. “Go back to your Italy.”
Germany stood up, straightening his hair and squaring his shoulders, and without another look, he walked away. France watched him go, rubbing his temples against the headache he could feel coming.
He went outside, and smoked until morning. He knew Germany would hate him more for what happened at the end than anything that came before.
Epilogue
Warnings: Dark sex
Summary: “I thought,” whispered Germany, anger and heat making his voice hoarse. “that you didn't fuck on the floor.”
Characters: France, Germany, Italy in absentia
Year: 1925
Related fics: Sex Talk (prequel), Duet, Epilogue (sequel)
Germany watched Italy's eyelids flutter closed. In seconds, his breathing was deep and regular, face lax in sleep. He'd seen the other man sleep many-- too many-- times, but never-- he trailed a hand down the stomach, and rested it on the narrow hip. Never like this.
“Well,” said France. “I suppose we can't expect him to stay awake forever.” He slid out from underneath Italy-- the other nation didn't even twitch. Crawling behind Germany, he fitted himself to the taller man's back. “The two of us will simply have to...” he grabbed a handful of Germany's hair, mussed as it was, and pulled his head back. Germany gasped. The noise turned to a growl when France's nails dug stinging trails up his stomach, and down over his throat. “...yes,” came the insidious voice. “Yes, like that, don't you think?” And he grabbed Germany by the front of the throat, and bit, hard.
Germany's gasp this time was choked. “Fuck-- you.”
“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. In the mean time...” he still hadn't let go of Germany's throat, but his grasp was loose enough now that when he found a nipple to pinch, the gasp had sound behind it, “...in the mean time, you will forget about Versailles, and you will moan like a slut, beg for just a little more pain.”
Germany closed his eyes. If he hadn't walked in that day-- a day he was alone with Prussia, a day they hadn't expected company-- France would never have known about this weakness. And he'd been saving the knowledge, for today. For after the war, now that he knew-- and at this thought, Germany sneered-- now that he knew he could get away with it.
Germany could feel France against the back of his legs; he knew which of them was harder. France knew it too. “It will not take long, I think,” he hissed. Germany gritted his teeth. “Now, why don't we go to the sitting room? It would not do to wake up little Italie.”
“I thought,” whispered Germany, anger and heat making his voice hoarse. “that you didn't fuck on the floor.”
“For you, Deutsches Reich,” crooned France, like a lover-- Germany tensed, the venom in France's voice taking him by surprise-- “For you, I will make an exception.”
Silently, Germany followed France-- who was still partially clothed, how had that happened?-- out to the living room where this had started. He wasn't entirely sure why he wasn't fighting, but his neck ached in the way that meant he'd have deep bruises and the scratches on his back and chest stung, and it felt like security, it felt like love.
France stood across from him, arms crossed, looking intimidating in his open pants in the half-light from an oil lamp left burning, in a way that Germany didn't expect from him. “It was lovely, to see your mouth on that boy's cock,” he said, quietly. “I don't think I've ever seen you do that before.” Germany didn't answer. “Now, I think,” said France, hand going to his own, “that I would like to feel it.”
Germany looked uncertainly from him to the couch, and back. France smiled venomously. “Kneel,” he said.
Slowly, slowly, Germany walked to him, and did as he was told. He didn't look up. If he didn't look at the man, he wouldn't remember... “Look at me,” France said. “I want to see your face, while you suck me down.” Germany didn't comment on the language. He looked up, meeting the other man's eyes, watching the satisfaction and lust there grow as he put his mouth down and began the process of relaxing his throat. He thought he had never hated anyone so much in his entire life.
“Too slow,” whispered France, and pushed his head down hard. This time Germany couldn't help but cough, and then he was gagging, but the pressure on the back of his head didn't let up. Then his body quieted, and he entered that place where he went when he was with Prussia. France was talking again, but he could barely hear him, concentrated as he was on the stretching in his throat, on fighting the urge to squirm away, fight. It was better not to fight. He'd done this often enough to know.
Then France was moving, thrusting in him like he would in a woman, and Germany's concentration doubled, keeping his lips over his teeth, keeping his throat from closing. Then the pace was faster, the breathing louder, and Germany found himself hoping it would end there, like this, with France so deep in his throat that he would hardly notice when he came. He wasn't surprised though, when France pulled out at the last minute, working himself hard, the expression on his face as dark as he had ever seen it. “Open your mouth,” he whispered. Germany, vision blurry, complied. And then France was coming, hard and fast.
Germany flinched when some missed his mouth and landed close to his eye, but he didn't move away, and he didn't take his eyes off the other man. At the last moment France closed his eyes, and Germany wondered who he was thinking about. France opened them, and noticed that Germany was still holding his come in his mouth, eyes averted. France laughed, low. “We are well trained, aren't we?” Germany didn't answer. “Swallow,” he directed, and for the second time that night, he did.
France sat down on his couch, pants still carelessly open, hair mussed but not disheveled. Of course.
“You look so good, kneeling.” Germany stayed quiet, harder than ever despite himself, and ready to bear with whatever France had in mind until he had a chance to come. He thought of Italy, quiet and warm in France's bed, and felt a surge of longing. He quelled it.
“Come here,” said France, quietly. Germany looked up quizzically, but complied, coming to stand in front of the other man. All of a sudden, the face wasn't cruel any longer, just tired. “Sit.” He gestured to his lap. Germany, overwhelmed and confused by the night he'd had, obeyed, straddling the other man's lap, face downcast and shoulders tight.
France put his arms around him, and closed his eyes, leaning their foreheads together. “As far as our history goes, Ludwig--” Germany winced at the sound of his given name “--the night ends here.” Then, with a light hand to his cheek, he turned Germany's face to him. He kissed him softly, slowly, closer to how he had kissed Italy back in the bar than how they always had. Germany felt something in him uncoil, and he was mortified to find that he was blinking back tears.
France kissed him more deeply, a soothing hand stroking circles on his hip, the other going gently to his cock. Hard for so long, the sound Germany made was closer to a sob than anything. France shh'ed him quietly, holding him close.
Germany wanted to fight. Or, he wanted to want to fight. But it felt so good, so right, so... He rocked against France hand, and France's mouth left his to kiss his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Germany closed his eyes, the beginnings of panic starting somewhere in his chest, until France-- with his near-supernatural sense for these things-- pulled Germany's head down to rest on his shoulder. Eyes closed against the warm skin, Germany's movements became for rhythmic. It took a long time for him to come, overstimulated as he has, and when he did, it almost hurt. France cleaned them both up, before he met Germany's eyes. “Go,” he said. “Go back to your Italy.”
Germany stood up, straightening his hair and squaring his shoulders, and without another look, he walked away. France watched him go, rubbing his temples against the headache he could feel coming.
He went outside, and smoked until morning. He knew Germany would hate him more for what happened at the end than anything that came before.
Epilogue