Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was unusual for him to doze off while working, but for the life of him, Germany couldn’t remember entering his office at all. His body felt slow and clumsy. Heavy. Why was his head so heavy? Papers, papers on his desk but he couldn’t make out the words. There was nothing out of the ordinary about his office, yet it didn’t seem quite right. Black? That was odd; he thought he had worn his brown suit and green tie today, but his clothes were all black, and his Iron Cross lay heavy on a white cravat. He didn’t think he had worn a cravat since the early 20th Century. Actually, he didn’t think anyone had.

“Sir, are you alright?”

Oh, that voice was warm. His head shifted. He wanted to be warm. Light. His eyes were weak but in the light beaming from the large windows was Italy, concerned for more than the dusting he must have been doing. Prussia had given him a feather duster just like that when he was little. But more importantly-

“Italy?” Why are you wearing a dress? No, that wasn’t how he wanted to ask. Italy might go cold. And Italy was warm. Germany wanted to be warm, too. He knew he had to say something soon - Italy was staring like he was the one in a dress.  “Your dress suits you well. Is it new?” And it does, Germany thinks. From the way the fabric hugs his chest and flares at his hips; the earthy color. He likes green; all the better on Italy. The color brought out the cinnamon of his hair and the starkness of his apron and bandana. 

“Thank you, sir. And yes, it is.” Italy’s face flushed, swishing the fabric and Germany followed the waves around his legs. The hem cut just above his rosy knees and the dark boots came just below them. His legs looked long..

Wait, that wasn’t right. “Why aren’t you calling me Germany?” 

And when did you get so close? But he didn’t want to ask that, the smaller man might go away and he was finally close enough that Germany could reach out and touch the odd choice of clothing for himself.  Italy’s clothes were strange but his fingers caught Germany’s as he traced the ruffled hem, ”that’s very unprofessional, sir.” his voice danced on the rays of light. Had his voice always been so high and songful? Stranger still, and he didn’t understand the playfulness.

A game. Of course. Italy was playing a game, and Germany knew Italy’s spontaneous games usually had easy rules. “Are we really so formal?” He asks as he takes Italy’s hand, soothing the smaller knuckles with his thumb. 

“Oh, Mr. Germany .”

Mr. Germany? That was strange too. But the mister was unimportant now.  

Italy hadn’t played this kind of game with him before. 

Knees trap Germany to his chair in a blink, slender thighs settling on his own; hands stroking long and firm across his body, tracing fire. He has no choice. His own hands have to find somewhere appropriate. The small of Italy’s back seems the best option until the smaller man’s spine arches to touch and the surprise under his skirt grinds against him. “I thought I had imagined it.”

Imagined what? No. “No,” Germany didn’t want to imagine anything more than what was happening to him now. He was finally warm. Italy was draping him in his heat and the blonde pulled the smaller man flush to bury his face in his neck. The embers flick in his nose and Germany thinks to kiss them calm, dizzy at the sighs vibrating under his lips but Italy is greedy; pulling his hair until he is forced to drink Italy’s fire. Burning. Burning in his lips and throat as Italy fans the flames, tongue a hot coal.

“ Germany, are you alright?”  Italy’s voice was far away. But he was here? Germany could feel him and pulled him closer just to be sure. Surely the Italian couldn’t sound so far if he couldn’t speak, but his whimper-  “Touch me.”

If Italy gave it willingly then he’d take it all. He’d said it so temptingly Germany would be a monster to refuse, and he wouldn’t. Not with the slender hand freeing him from his trousers, offering him sweet freedom. Scorching desire ripples from Germany’s tip as his cock is met with another, just as hard, just as wonton and his hands delve under the garment to find only skin. Full and soft, Italy’s thighs form to his hands and force his rhythm faster. “Oh, Germany, Germany-” 

Their swollen heads slick their rutting, down their shafts and the friction of ridges bumping and grinding but the fire ripping through him demands more. Using the swell of Italy’s ass he takes it; pressed without a hair between their bodies. Delicate hands are wild on his shoulders and neck; so different from the soft sac rolling against Germany’s own.  

“Please, you’ll make me cum - Germany please-” Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what he wants and Germany slides a hand to circle them both, rutting into his fist with abandon. Italy’s tip is drooling half-way up his cock smoothing the way and he feels it building low in his belly; the fire to match Italy’s. He would give his fire to Italy till there were nothing but cinders. Germany pressed a slick finger to the rim of his opening; consuming Italy’s scream as he erupted-

“Wake up!”

Warm. He was still warm, but it was dark. Why was his office dark? No, he was laying down, one arm stretched under his head as a pillow, shared by Italy as always, spice and shampoo pleasant in his nose.  Stomach wet and hot against the Italian’s, his muscles reached, spreading satisfaction through his veins. 

Wait-

“Germany?”

Cold. 

It’s freezing when he leaps from the bed. He hadn’t been prepared for his boxers midway down his thighs and he finds himself looking at the ceiling with his ankles over him. Shame, anger, self-pity - horrible sensations course under his skin as his dream goes fuzzy. Pink-cheeked and panting, Italy’s face appears above him, perched at the edge of the bed. 

“Are you okay?” The question stutters out.

He has to concentrate to swallow the lump in his throat, recovering his vital region before he replies, “I think so.”

Blushing, Germany rolls to sit and takes Italy’s offered hands; dropping them as quickly when thoughts to their softness brings memories of his dream. The smaller man has already grabbed a cloth from the nightstand and offers it to the blond to clean himself. He tries to do so discreetly, as silly a concept as it seems in his head. Focusing on his twisting fingers, Italy asks, “Um, Germany?” 

The cloth feels like sandpaper among the tense air. “Ja?”

“Were you having a naughty dream?”

Desperate wishes for the night to take him go unanswered, but Italy will not.“J-ja,” Germany tries to find somewhere other than the brunet but the dark stain he sees on his underwear makes it impossible unless he wanted to stare into blackness. “Sorry.”

“Ve~it’s okay,” moonlight shone on Italy’s blush, creeping down his neck. “Did, did I happen to be in it?”

Denial had been his instinct, yet he was unable to refute the Italian’s claim that he had called the petite nation’s name. Straight-forwardness had always been one of Italy’s more redeemable traits, but at the moment Germany felt it was a curse and again replied, “ja, sorry.”

“Oh.” Silence is unusual from his companion, and Germany’s mind is frantic with outcomes when a calming hand draws his breaths back. Italy rustles against his side and links Germany’s clammy hand with his. “Um, does this mean you love me too?”

The color returns to Germany’s face as he looks down at the other man in shock, “ too ?” but is only met with a confused look as Italy straightened. “I’ve loved Germany for a long time.”

He breaks their fingers but Germany retrieves them just as abruptly. “Why didn’t-”

“Are you mad?”

“Italy,” disbelief hung his jaw, but the honey eyes offered no trace of deceit. Never one for words, Germany cupped his face, hands feeling massive as he leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to Italy’s lips. He couldn’t remember now if he had kissed Italy in the dream, but the real thing tasted of citrus and honey and he pulled away breathless despite the chastity. “I want us to talk about this tomorrow.” 

Expressing his agreement with a pleased coo Italy tugged the other man down, draping over him like a human blanket. Touching is different, Germany thinks - more electric that he knows Italy has craved as he has. It’s blissfully reminiscent of a dream he only vaguely remembers feelings of warmth and softness and his mind drifts, eager to discover all the realities of loving Italy in the morning.