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Kissing Italy is all warmth and goodness; Italy himself is these things, all on his own, but Germany hadn’t known you could truly taste happiness on someone’s lips before kissing Italy.
Italy kisses passionately, but gently. He cups Germany’s face with slender hands, pillows their lips together in a way that sends Germany’s hands to automatically pull him closer, can only focus on getting Italy closer to him when he expertly slides their tongues together like that, hums these pleased little noises into Germany’s mouth that only make him melt and relax and want.
He always feels Italy smiling into kisses like that, when they’re still pretty clothed and it’s not inherently sexual (yet). Often he has to pull back from Germany, in order to get a few laughs out of his system before his lips will cooperate with kissing again; it’s hard to kiss when he’s smiling so hard, he’s told Germany before. When Germany asked what makes him smile during times like that, Italy had thrown his head back and laughed for a good minute before telling him sincerely, “You do!”
But right now, all Germany wants to do is bring Italy close and closer yet. Italy is already naked, had stepped out from a shower and didn’t bother with redressing, especially because he was going to bed with Germany. Especially because Germany wanted him, wants him, Germany always wants him, has wanted him since—
Italy makes his way to where Germany has sat up in bed, to sit before him and move right in to kissing him. He’s a little more predatory than during the daytime, when they share kisses between this and that, but Germany has come to expect this type of thing. Italy once told him that he has no need for restraint when it’s just the two of them, and Germany had blushed all the way up to the tops of his ears when he nodded in agreement.
But Germany isn’t embarrassed now. Not even as Italy’s smooth, so wonderful and smooth, hands move down under the hem of his shirt, inching it up as he feels up Germany’s body, up to his chest, and then helps Germany slide out of the shirt, tossing it away before Germany can go totally perfectionist over it and insist on putting it away. When his shirt is gone, Italy wraps his arms around Germany’s neck, moving to straddle him with a fond little smile as he brushes his lips against Germany’s brow, taking a moment just to hold and feel and adore him.
“I love you,” Italy laughs out quietly, like it’s so obvious (it is), like Germany doesn’t know (he does, oh, he does).
Germany kisses Italy’s shoulder, over his clavicle, until his lips rest quirked against the soft skin of Italy’s throat. There, he murmurs a very sincere, “You, too,” before tipping his head to kiss just under Italy’s jaw, making Italy chuckle as he pulls back to watch Germany’s face with a tender gaze. He strokes Germany’s hair back, lets it fall after he pushes it back, no gel to keep it in place, and it’s a wonderful look for him, relaxed and unguarded. He kisses right between Germany’s eyebrows, letting one of his hands trace Germany’s hairline and stroke the edge of his face, cupping his cheek.
Italy doesn’t say anything, but there’s enough for Germany to guess the thousands of things he could say, looking at him with such loving eyes. You’re wonderful. I adore you. I love this.
So Germany leans up and kisses him again, and Italy complies with that. He nudges Germany back, getting him to lie down, which earns Germany another round of delicious kisses as Italy straddles him far more properly this time, but he does some weird wiggly thing with his legs that—oh, he’s just—!
“Oh,” Germany stutters out in surprise around a kiss, because Italy has managed to wriggle Germany’s boxers off his hips with just his knees. He wants to ask how, where in the world would Italy gather that kind of skill, but Italy is sucking Germany’s tongue back into his mouth, rolling his hips down against Germany’s and drawing a rumble of a moan from him, so Germany just settles his hands on Italy’s hips and guides him down while he arches up against him.
Italy fits so well with him, it’s truly something artistic, in a sense. The cut of Italy’s hipbones fits so well into Germany’s palms, leaves his thumbs resting just to either side of the vee that delves down, the path to Italy’s cock, already plumping up for him. Italy purrs at the feeling of Germany’s hands on him, guiding him (as if Italy is the one that needs guidance in this, goodness) down against Germany, the latter’s cock sliding against Italy’s sac in the most wonderful way. Italy is so warm, so perfect, Germany lets out another hum of delight as Italy cards his fingers through Germany’s thick hair.
“You feel so good,” Italy whispers as he tugs Germany’s lower lip, wrenching a slightly louder sound from the man that sends a shiver right down Italy’s spine and straight to his cock. He smiles against the corner of Germany’s mouth, his thumb petting Germany’s temple as he allows himself a moment to take in Germany’s beauty—romantic, really, like old statues of heroes from long ago. The shape of his nose, the cut of his jaw, Italy loves every single bit of it.
Especially the bit he’s seated over, Germany’s cock hard between his legs, pressed up against his own prick. Italy licks his lips as he pulls himself up from hunching over Germany, smiling as Germany’s hands move to slide over Italy’s arms, almost as if he’s just a second away from yanking Italy back down against him, demanding more affection, more kisses and sweet murmurs. But he doesn’t, because Italy isn’t leaving him, only hunching off to the bed side table to dig around for the lubricant. He sticks out his tongue, just a peek, when he has to make a truly dangerous reach for the bottle, tucked in the far corner of the drawer, but Germany moves a hand from Italy’s hip to hold his side, make sure he doesn’t topple of the edge of the bed and crack his skull on the table.
“Ah!” Italy gasps in delight once he has what he needs, moving to sit back over Germany’s hips with his prize in-hand. He smiles at the adoring, heartthrob look Germany is giving him (he looks at Italy like that a lot, nowadays; it is very cute indeed), and leans over to kiss him chastely on the mouth before he sits back again, popping the cap on the lubricant and squeezes some out into his hand.
Germany’s hands sit at Italy’s sides as he does this, readies the lube in his hands, and Italy smiles at him with a fond little laugh as he feels Germany’s thumbs stroking his sides.
“What am I going to do with you?” Italy asks playfully, and the look on Germany’s face is adorable, one of wide-eyed surprise with the statement that morphs into a small, relaxed smile.
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” Germany murmurs as Italy shifts himself to lean forward, pressing his hips back so he can reach his entrance. He reaches a hand behind him, the other braced beside Germany to keep him upright. Germany’s hands slide away from Italy’s hips to cup each cheek of his backside, spreading him open while Italy slowly rubs over his pucker with one slick finger, teases himself a little before sliding it in with a soft hum. He turns his face into Germany’s neck, smiling against his warm skin.
“You always know what to do with me,” Italy tells him in a flirty whisper, and feels Germany’s breath hitch a little, his fingers dig a bit more into the meat of Italy’s ass. It feels good, and Italy laughs quietly as he starts to work himself open with one finger, then two. The addition has him letting out actual groans, even though he isn’t fully pleasured just get with only fingers inside and nothing touching his cock, but he wants Germany to think about how good Italy feels, will feel when it’s Germany inside him instead.
Germany is pressing little kisses to Italy’s shoulder, his neck, and Italy can feel him breathing through his nose, a little labored, but that’s probably from his incredible, admirable restraint; Germany is too perfect. Italy hides his smile against Germany’s neck, letting out a quiet moan as he rolls his hips back, tries to give Germany something to envy, the fact that Italy is the one doing this to himself and Germany is being made to watch and wait until Italy allows otherwise.
He feels Germany’s hips stirring beneath him, his cock clumsily pushing against Italy’s pubic bone, the lowest part of his stomach. Italy hums at the feeling, wants to laugh at Germany’s stuttering restraint, but he’s three fingers deep, now, and there will be plenty of time for things like that later, when Italy isn’t aching to have Germany fill him.
Italy lets out a small breath against Germany’s neck, making him shiver, and Italy smiles as he presses a few wet kisses there as well. “I’ll take care of you,” Italy assures, his voice only a little bit shaky, and he slowly moves to pull his fingers out, lift himself up to sit over Germany once more. The blush Germany’s currently sporting dusts all the way down to his nipples, which is hilarious and darling at the same time, and Italy smiles widely at him as Germany watches him with piercing eyes, wets his lips as he watches Italy reach to spread more lube over his hand.
Then he’s lifting himself up on his knees, reaching his newly-slicked hand down to take Germany’s cock, thick and warm and very lovely in his hand (but even better inside of him) and gives it a few loving strokes, with a twist in his wrist that wrenches the most incredible noise from Germany, a long moan that forces him to tip his head back. He’s probably aching for it, Italy thinks sympathetically, and maybe strokes him for longer than is strictly necessary to slick him up to make up for the wait—Germany greatly approves of that, if the little rocks of his hips and the low sounds leaving his throat are anything to judge by.
Italy strokes his hand down to the base before holding him there, keeping him steady as he lines himself up over him. He doesn’t watch Germany for this part, eyes closed as he forces himself to focus with touch, guiding Germany’s cock to prod just at his entrance. Only then does he crack his eyes open, smiling distractedly down at Germany’s red face as he slowly sinks down on his prick, the stretch so good that Italy throws his head back with a delighted swear as he carefully seats himself atop Germany once more—far more intimate than before.
Germany’s hands guide Italy to hunch down over him, coaxing more kisses from him. Italy takes the moment to adjust from fingers to full-sized dick, letting Germany tentatively suck on his tongue, card his fingers though Italy’s hair, cup the back of his skull and hum into Italy’s mouth. Italy lets his hands slide over Germany’s strong arms, over the swell of his biceps and to his chest, where he presses his palms flat to brace himself as he gives the first rock of his hips with Germany inside him. They both break from kissing to gasp at the feeling, and Italy unapologetically curls his fingers into Germany’s skin, gripping at him tightly.
He sits up a little bit, still hunched, but not as close to Germany as before, as he starts with a rhythm, unable to resist rolling his hips, feeling just how deep Germany is inside of him with the tiniest motion of his lips. Italy lets out a moan, soft and breathy, keeping his hands pressed flat against Germany’s neck as he moves like that again, then again, eyes falling shut as he just tries to feel all that he can.
Germany’s heavy breaths are pretty cute, but not nearly as cute as the little gasps and moans he lets out, some unintelligible, some being Italy’s name, some being swears to the heavens. He slides his hands over Italy’s, pinning them there to his chest, and when Italy manages to spare him a glance, the delirious sort of pleasure he finds there is quite enticing.
“Italy,” he whispers, hopelessly wanting and needing and a million other things all at the same time. Italy’s pace is slow—deep, but slow—and Germany is sure he’s going to go crazy before Italy decides to pick things up on his own; there’s only so much waiting he’s capable of, especially like this.
Italy hums at the sound of his name, but it’s interrupted when Germany bucks up against him, jolting a loud moan out of his lover. He watches Italy’s back arch, hips press down firmly over him, and hisses at the addictive feeling of Italy’s nails dragged over his skin, red streaks bumping up in their wake; he likes some pain, something to balance out the pleasure that makes his head a little dizzy.
The request in his voice does not go unheard, it seems, because Italy seats himself a little higher, fixes his knees tightly at either side of Germany’s narrow hips. He starts lifting himself, and Germany is seriously distracted by the beautiful, incredible flex of Italy’s pale thighs (hairy, like most of him, but it’s cute, Italy is so cute) as he changes the motions—Germany doesn’t get to think about Italy’s wiry strength before Italy uses other muscles to clench around him, wrenching a louder gasp from Germany.
“You sound so good,” Italy encourages quietly, because he knows how Germany gets. He thinks he’s being too loud, too embarrassing, and then he tries to shut up for the rest of the time, which is pretty discouraging when one has a bit of a kink for driving control right out of Germany’s hands. Italy pets his hands over Germany’s chest a little shakily, swirling his hips down and grinding against him. “You just—God—“ Italy groans throatily when Germany grinds right back up against him, cockhead prodding at the most delicious part inside of him. “There.”
Germany writhes a little, trying to move under Italy, which isn’t very easy without practically bucking him off, but Italy sinks his nails into Germany’s flesh, flexes slender thighs around him and clenches tight around his cock, and Germany is sure he’s either going to die right here if he doesn’t get to cum soon.
There’s a point very soon after that thought that Italy starts shaking his head, stopping as he hunches down to kiss Germany, wet and entirely too sloppy, but Germany really couldn’t care. He’s trying to ask what Italy wants, needs, but Italy pulls back, letting his lips brush against Germany’s as he speaks (begs, more accurately).
“I want to switch,” he says, sounding quite breathless. “I want you over me—fuck me, please, please,” he’s telling Germany, all hushed and hurried and wanting—no, needing.
Germany is not about to deny him.
He hauls Italy close to him, bear rolls so that Italy is the one on his back. His legs hook up around Germany’s hips while his arms wrap right around Germany’s shoulders, holding him close as he seeks a few more kisses that are more tongue than lips, but that’s okay. Germany indulges him in that much as he settles himself over Italy, brackets his arms around Italy before he gives one sharp thrust. Italy immediately rewards him with a moan, loud and desperate, his nails scraping into Germany’s shoulder blades.
“More, more,” Italy pleads, and Germany can feel him panting, each exhale coming out with a whine as he hooks his legs tighter around Germany’s hips, trying to keep him deep inside. “Germany—“
Germany kisses him plainly, bumping their foreheads together as he continues. His pace is far faster than the one Italy had set for them, but that seems to be just fine. Italy’s moans are gorgeous, a siren song that makes Germany’s skin goosepimple all over. He lays careful kisses to Italy’s throat when he tips his head back to cry out for God and Jesus and Germany—it is very nice to be called out for with the same intensity as the first two.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop—“ Italy hisses, and the way his nails drag against his skin, Germany thinks he’ll be bleeding after this; he shivers at the thought, and gives a thrust rough enough to make Italy’s head bump the headboard with a dull noise. He stutters, only to move an arm so he can cradle Italy’s head, sparing him the headache that might come with the rough thrusts.
Germany sucks a mark against his throat. “I won’t,” he vows, inching up to nibble Italy’s ear, ghost a breath over it. “You know I won’t.”
Italy wails something that doesn’t make sense, but sounds very passionate indeed. He drops a hand down to worm between them, so he can stroke himself while Germany fucks him, hard and quick. He’s good at this, way better than he gives himself credit for, and Italy can’t help but think of how Germany’s cock has ruined anyone else for him; he pegs that wonderful spot again and again, and while he’s stroking—
“Germany,” Italy gasps, cheek pressed painfully to Germany’s ear. “I—mmm, so good, you’re so good—“
Germany groans against him, slams into Italy once, twice more, before he keeps himself pressed deep inside, grinding in rough swivels of his hips as he spills into him, letting out a shaking breath as he does so. Italy’s name doesn’t leave his mouth, but he does press dozens of kisses to Italy’s neck, his shoulder, over his clavicle, hugs him close as he trembles and grinds and feels unreal with pleasure.
Italy’s hiccupping out some wail as he tenses, clenched around Germany in every single sense of the word when Germany reaches a hand to wrap around Italy’s, helping him to stroke himself and bring Italy to a brilliant, perfect orgasm that wrenches a near-scream out of him. He shakes in aftershocks for a good minute or two, while Germany slowly regains higher brain function, laying loving kisses over his skin, smoothing a hand up Italy’s torso, cupping his cheek as he guides Italy in for another kiss. More breath than kiss, but it’s fine, it’s wonderful.
When Italy’s chest is no longer heaving and Germany’s hips aren’t twitching to keep them pressed so deeply together, Germany brushes his nose to Italy’s, humming at him softly, “You’ll need another shower.”
Italy laughs, smoothing flat palms over Germany’s back. It stings just a bit, and Germany thinks Italy really might have opened some wounds on him, but the thought doesn’t bother him—it might even excite him a little.
“I don’t know if I can get up just yet,” Italy tells him, and his legs limply fall away from Germany to flop down on the bed to demonstrate his point. He grins at Germany, eyes squinted from the intensity of it as he adds, “Maybe you could join me? I could wash your back, you wash mine…”
Germany smirks. “Just that? Back washing?”
Italy snickers, knows that he’s caught. He toys with Germany’s unstyled hair. “Maybe a little more, if you’re feeling up for it.”
Germany sighs fondly, pulling away from Italy so he can lie down beside him, gathering the other in his arms once more once he’s settled. Italy tucks his head under Germany’s chin, smooths a hand over Germany’s chest, pressing a few kisses to the red marks left there by his fingernails earlier; the red really does stand out on Germany’s pale skin.
“In a minute,” Germany mumbles. He could seriously, truly mean a minute, but with the way he lets his eyes fall shut as he hugs Italy a little closer, Italy thinks maybe he means a little more than a minute—but that’s okay, Italy isn’t about to correct him (lets he deal with the consequences that will wrought, he knows from experience). He’s far too content to just settle into Germany’s embrace, until Germany decides they really should clean up.
Until then, he is content.