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valmoraTitle: Dinner Service
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: hard R or NC-17
Pairing: North Italy/Germany. The order does matter.
Originally posted: here on the kink meme for this prompt and not kindexed yet.
Notes: There's a stereotype in Japan of yakuza rolling their r's, and according to Wikipedia a weapon that the Triads like to use to injure people is a machete, nicknamed "watermelon knife".
Warnings: There are implications of potential or threatened violence, especially as regards sex, that may squick some readers.
Summary: Italy's bad day leads to his Mafia-like side showing. Germany is appreciative.
A Nation can only take so much before he starts wanting to shoot things. In Switzerland’s case, that’s his ground state. In North Italy’s, it tends to involve world summits and America being blithely hypocritical. Pasta as a non-addictive temporary opiate can only last until his stomach gets full, somewhere around the third hour of discussion. It’s good, but by the time Germany’s lost control of everyone again Italy is busy dozing on his shoulder to escape the annoyance.
Besides, if nobody thinks he’s competent then nobody’ll expect him to run anything. And dealing with these idiots? He’ll leave that to Germany, who has more than enough herding instincts.
Unfortunately, sometimes things get to be too much. And then he goes and lives in his brother’s place for a while and runs small illegal schemes and beats some trees, and maybe while he’s at it does some shooting. And then he can come back.
However, he can’t leave the hotel to go shooting, and there’s no stove where he can get pasta easily. Tomorrow is going to be even worse.
He returns to his hotel room, takes a shower to try to calm down, and beats a pillow against a wall for a while. It calms him down some, so he goes to Germany’s room to see about dinner.
Germany is seated at the desk, looking over PowerPoint slides from various presentations and making notes on them. Italy will have him email them tomorrow and then send the notes on to some aides.
“Dinner?” Italy asks.
Germany grunts, and Italy claps his hands together so that he doesn’t do something regrettable.
“I’m so glad! I’m hungry. What do you want for dinner?”
“I think the conference center will cater it.”
“But I looked at the menu and there’s no pasta!”
Germany’s eyebrow twitches. “It’s America. He’ll have pizza.”
“And it’ll be icky. Come on! I want to have a romantic dinner for two…”
Germany looks away from his computer screen and glares at Italy, though that may be just the headache that he tends to get at conferences.
“I think,” he says, “that in this economic environment, you shouldn’t waste money.”
Which just tears it. Italy lets his hands drop into his pockets, his fingers wrapping around his car keys, and takes the few steps closer so that he’s standing right in front of Germany.
“I don’t like asking things more than twice,” he says. “Come to dinner, Germany.”
Germany looks up at him, brows furrowed. “Your accent,” he starts, and Italy pulls out his car keys, and his keychain with the switchblade on it, from his pocket. Holds the knife to Germany’s throat.
“Come to dinner with me, Germany,” he sing-songs, and presses the blade a little into the soft skin of Germany’s throat.
Germany stands. Shifts slightly. Swallows, his flesh pressing into the knife, and his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip.
“Yes,” Germany says.
So Italy takes the blade away, but doesn’t fold it up, and allows Germany to walk in front of him, out of the hotel room, out of the hotel.
Dinner is wonderful.
When they get back to the hotel, Italy’s almost feeling back to normal. He figures he can get through about a half-day tomorrow. He doesn’t say that to Germany, though. Why raise his hopes?
Except as he’s about to frolic happily off to his own bed Germany lays a hand over his wrist, eyes gone deep and wide and intense, and says, “Who were you when you held the knife?”
Italy laughs, smiles, closes his eyes. Feels the heat of Germany’s fingers over the bones in his wrist, so easy to break. “The part of me that doesn’t like silliness,” he says.
Germany’s thumb strokes the inside of his wrist, follows the veins. “If… if you want to bring your anger to me, I will accept it.”
What does that mean? That he likes knives to his throat? That he…? Likes knives. To his throat.
Italy smiles, and smiles, and pulls away. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” he chirps.
He lasts half the day and spends the rest of it pretending to sleep on Germany’s shoulder, like he did for real yesterday. Occasionally he shifts his hand so that the open blade of his switchknife presses up, through the side-slit in Germany’s suit, to his side. Traces sharp thin-blood lines in his skin.
Germany is very tense all through the meeting. At one point he snaps at Japan, who freezes and starts rolling his r’s afterwards, a little growl that has America on edge, broad grin vanished. China is glaring at Japan and keeps talking about how maybe the attendees want watermelon, since he has the perfect knife for it, aru.
Somehow the meeting adjourns early, probably because Russia starts humming lullabies, and the rustling of papers covers the click of Italy shutting his knife. He waits to pretend to wake up until Germany is finished putting his things away, then stands, stretches. Exclaims, loudly, how well-rested he is and how fun it’s been all day.
Switzerland huffs and rolls his eyes, and Italy follows Germany back to his room. Collapses on the hotel bed, which is big enough for three, or two if one of them needs more space.
And, as Germany is putting his things away and plugging his computer into the wall, Italy throws a small knife into the wall next to Germany’s head. It strikes, and quivers, and Germany stops cold, turns around.
Italy smiles.
“Come to dinner,” he says.
Germany swallows, and nods. Italy stands and then rises onto the balls of his feet to press a kiss to Germany’s Adam’s apple.
“I promise you don’t need to rile me up during dinner,” Italy says, “since we’re going to the catered one.”
Germany tightens under his hands, and follows him down the stairs to the banquet hall.
Dinner is terrible.
By the end of the meal Italy’s stomach is full of inferior pizza and his temper is close to breaking. Nobody seemed to notice but Germany, who was constantly by his side, and who didn’t eat much of anything. Italy’s been watching.
Upstairs, Italy stands at the door, just outside it, while Germany tries to get the little magnet-key to work. Sets a hand at the small of Germany’s back, where his suit stops following his spine and the breadth of his shoulders.
“Are you sure?” Italy asks. “It’s not all white flags and cries for food.”
Germany finally gets the door open, sticks his foot between it and the jamb. Turns. “I’m sure.”
“What if you want to stop?”
Germany bows his head a little, and Italy watches the meticulous gelled-straight line of the part in his hair.
“Bismarck,” he says finally, and Italy listens to him breathe.
“Good,” Italy says, and shoves the door open to the side of Germany’s shoulder, knocks him into the room. Watches Germany stumble in his black-shined boots and smooth suit. Italy pretends to ignore it and goes to his suitcase in the corner which he brought over during the lunch break. It has some of the tools of his darker trades. Some of those tools never leave him, like his switchblade. Some do, like the gun whose case he takes from the bag.
“We’re such good friends,” Italy says, turning so that Germany can watch him load it and remove the safety. “I’m glad I can share this with you, you know? I like that. I don’t think you’ll be very happy that I have, though.” He pouts a little at the gun in his hand. Listens to Germany’s breathing – heavy, but not with fear.
“Italy, are you sure –” Germany starts, and, his accent. Italy points the gun at him.
“Very,” he says. “You know exactly how I feel about events catered by America. It’s not so bad for you – you’re happy enough with potatoes that getting a cheap steak is the high point in a week – but it’s a little different for me, you know? And the fact that you don’t quite seem to be able to find a way to handle this is making me sad. Really sad. Sit down on the bed, please.”
Germany takes two steps backward and sits. “You know I’m proficient at,” he begins, and Italy laughs.
“It’s not like in the movies. It’s hard to be faster than a gun.” And Italy holds out a set of handcuffs that he’d stuffed in his suit jacket pocket some hours before. “Wrists behind you, please – no, wait, take off your shirt first.”
Germany does. Hands twisting over the buttons in his jacket, his shirt. Loosening the red-saffron stripe of his tie and casting it aside.
“Thank you!” Italy sings, and puts the manacles on him. Slides the muzzle of the gun up Germany’s spine and watches him shiver. Germany arches away from it, eyes closed and brow furrowed.
Italy moves to kneel between Germany’s legs, presses the gun muzzle to Germany’s belly at an angle that will go through to his heart if it needs to. “I think you’re starting to get it. Am I right, Germany? Do you understand what I mean?”
Germany licks his lips, staring at him, and doesn’t answer. Italy presses the gun harder into his belly.
“Did you hear me, Germany?”
“Yes,” Germany whispers. Italy doesn’t think he even knows what question he’s answering, but that’s all right. He doesn’t need to.
Italy unbuckles Germany’s belt and opens his trousers, and finds Germany as hard as if they’d spent the last half hour in serious foreplay. A gun and a pair of handcuffs, and a knife – well. At least he knows now. Italy knocks the barrel of the gun lightly into the base of Germany’s ribs, not to cause pain but like tapping his fingers in thought, just with steel against flesh.
“You know what? I think that a knife is better for this, and I know you’ll agree. Give me a second to get it. It’d be a shame if my finger slipped on the trigger – ” and Germany’s muscles tense briefly. Italy rises from between Germany’s legs to put the gun on the business-desk table in the corner, rolls up his sleeves, and takes out his knife again. Returns to the bed to stand looming.
Germany parts his lips. Whispers, probably because his voice won’t come, “This is an act of war.”
And Italy smiles. “Is it? I couldn’t threaten anyone. I’m North Italy, and everyone knows that all the Mafia are with Sicilia, who’s an autonomous province. How could silly,” he sets the blade of the knife against the soft skin at the side of German’s throat, pressing enough that Germany will feel like it’s cutting but won’t bleed, “little, food-loving North Italy ever raise a weapon against big, bad, ex-Nazi Germany?
“Stand up.” Italy pulls the knife away enough that Germany can stand, then shoves Germany’s pants down. “Now get face-down on the bed before I decide to cut open a hole for me to fuck.”
Germany’s hands, when he turns around, are clenched. Italy likes that. It’s a good sign. He watches Germany struggle onto the bed – if he weren’t so turned on by Germany being turned on by this it would be funny and he’d already have collapsed into a pile of giggles – and picks up and opens the container of lubricant that was on the nightstand. He brings it back with him to the bed, where he kneels between German’s barely-spread legs. There’s not enough room, really, with the pants around Germany’s ankles, so he uses the knife to coax Germany’s hips up into the air a little – a lot, really, but at that point it’s more for the aesthetics, and Germany has really good aesthetics – and traces the ring of muscle at his entrance with two lubed-up fingers.
“I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t make sure you enjoy this,” Italy says, and Germany keens into the comforter. His muscles flex with Italy’s fingers sliding in, tight and hot, and if he doesn’t push back he’s definitely not pulling away.
The handcuffs rattle when Germany shifts his weight, and when the whole bed and everything on it tilts when Italy shoves his own pants down and slicks himself up. But, not yet pressed to Germany’s entrance, he pauses and asks, “Knife or cock?”
Germany visibly tightens so hard Italy wishes he’d said that when he was balls-deep in him.
“I should probably start with cock, right, Germany? Because if I cut you open first you wouldn’t be nearly,” he lines himself up and starts to press in, “so,” centimeters inside, and the heat and the sensation of sweet-easy slide is enough to make Italy want to stop talking and finish already, “tight.” All the way, and Germany’s body’s resistance is just enough to make it delicious.
“What with all the blood, and your muscles being cut,” Italy adds, and Germany moans and shifts away so that Italy slides out, so that Italy can slide into him again.
Germany is – incredible, like this. Italy wishes he could take a photograph so he could paint it, the beautiful obscenity. But more urgent is that Italy is close, and Germany is closer, and Germany’s hard and sticky in his palm against the hilt of the closed switchblade, and Italy doesn’t know if Germany is even breathing.
Germany comes quick and sudden and painful-tight around him, and Germany’s gradual relaxation afterwards makes it easy to finish inside him.
Italy pulls out. There’s still lube around Germany’s entrance, which is friction-red and a little swollen, like an invitation to another round whenever Italy’s ready again. Now’s not it, though, so he takes the handcuff key out of his trouser pocket and unlocks them. Germany’s wrists are a little raw, but nothing bad – his shirtsleeve cuffs will cover it if he bruises.
“I should ask Japan to teach me how to tie you to a chair,” Italy says thoughtfully, crawling up the bed to lie down. “Unless you want me to experiment?”
Germany nods faintly, eyes already closed. Italy sets the knife aside on the nightstand and curls up around him.
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: hard R or NC-17
Pairing: North Italy/Germany. The order does matter.
Originally posted: here on the kink meme for this prompt and not kindexed yet.
Notes: There's a stereotype in Japan of yakuza rolling their r's, and according to Wikipedia a weapon that the Triads like to use to injure people is a machete, nicknamed "watermelon knife".
Warnings: There are implications of potential or threatened violence, especially as regards sex, that may squick some readers.
Summary: Italy's bad day leads to his Mafia-like side showing. Germany is appreciative.
A Nation can only take so much before he starts wanting to shoot things. In Switzerland’s case, that’s his ground state. In North Italy’s, it tends to involve world summits and America being blithely hypocritical. Pasta as a non-addictive temporary opiate can only last until his stomach gets full, somewhere around the third hour of discussion. It’s good, but by the time Germany’s lost control of everyone again Italy is busy dozing on his shoulder to escape the annoyance.
Besides, if nobody thinks he’s competent then nobody’ll expect him to run anything. And dealing with these idiots? He’ll leave that to Germany, who has more than enough herding instincts.
Unfortunately, sometimes things get to be too much. And then he goes and lives in his brother’s place for a while and runs small illegal schemes and beats some trees, and maybe while he’s at it does some shooting. And then he can come back.
However, he can’t leave the hotel to go shooting, and there’s no stove where he can get pasta easily. Tomorrow is going to be even worse.
He returns to his hotel room, takes a shower to try to calm down, and beats a pillow against a wall for a while. It calms him down some, so he goes to Germany’s room to see about dinner.
Germany is seated at the desk, looking over PowerPoint slides from various presentations and making notes on them. Italy will have him email them tomorrow and then send the notes on to some aides.
“Dinner?” Italy asks.
Germany grunts, and Italy claps his hands together so that he doesn’t do something regrettable.
“I’m so glad! I’m hungry. What do you want for dinner?”
“I think the conference center will cater it.”
“But I looked at the menu and there’s no pasta!”
Germany’s eyebrow twitches. “It’s America. He’ll have pizza.”
“And it’ll be icky. Come on! I want to have a romantic dinner for two…”
Germany looks away from his computer screen and glares at Italy, though that may be just the headache that he tends to get at conferences.
“I think,” he says, “that in this economic environment, you shouldn’t waste money.”
Which just tears it. Italy lets his hands drop into his pockets, his fingers wrapping around his car keys, and takes the few steps closer so that he’s standing right in front of Germany.
“I don’t like asking things more than twice,” he says. “Come to dinner, Germany.”
Germany looks up at him, brows furrowed. “Your accent,” he starts, and Italy pulls out his car keys, and his keychain with the switchblade on it, from his pocket. Holds the knife to Germany’s throat.
“Come to dinner with me, Germany,” he sing-songs, and presses the blade a little into the soft skin of Germany’s throat.
Germany stands. Shifts slightly. Swallows, his flesh pressing into the knife, and his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip.
“Yes,” Germany says.
So Italy takes the blade away, but doesn’t fold it up, and allows Germany to walk in front of him, out of the hotel room, out of the hotel.
Dinner is wonderful.
When they get back to the hotel, Italy’s almost feeling back to normal. He figures he can get through about a half-day tomorrow. He doesn’t say that to Germany, though. Why raise his hopes?
Except as he’s about to frolic happily off to his own bed Germany lays a hand over his wrist, eyes gone deep and wide and intense, and says, “Who were you when you held the knife?”
Italy laughs, smiles, closes his eyes. Feels the heat of Germany’s fingers over the bones in his wrist, so easy to break. “The part of me that doesn’t like silliness,” he says.
Germany’s thumb strokes the inside of his wrist, follows the veins. “If… if you want to bring your anger to me, I will accept it.”
What does that mean? That he likes knives to his throat? That he…? Likes knives. To his throat.
Italy smiles, and smiles, and pulls away. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” he chirps.
He lasts half the day and spends the rest of it pretending to sleep on Germany’s shoulder, like he did for real yesterday. Occasionally he shifts his hand so that the open blade of his switchknife presses up, through the side-slit in Germany’s suit, to his side. Traces sharp thin-blood lines in his skin.
Germany is very tense all through the meeting. At one point he snaps at Japan, who freezes and starts rolling his r’s afterwards, a little growl that has America on edge, broad grin vanished. China is glaring at Japan and keeps talking about how maybe the attendees want watermelon, since he has the perfect knife for it, aru.
Somehow the meeting adjourns early, probably because Russia starts humming lullabies, and the rustling of papers covers the click of Italy shutting his knife. He waits to pretend to wake up until Germany is finished putting his things away, then stands, stretches. Exclaims, loudly, how well-rested he is and how fun it’s been all day.
Switzerland huffs and rolls his eyes, and Italy follows Germany back to his room. Collapses on the hotel bed, which is big enough for three, or two if one of them needs more space.
And, as Germany is putting his things away and plugging his computer into the wall, Italy throws a small knife into the wall next to Germany’s head. It strikes, and quivers, and Germany stops cold, turns around.
Italy smiles.
“Come to dinner,” he says.
Germany swallows, and nods. Italy stands and then rises onto the balls of his feet to press a kiss to Germany’s Adam’s apple.
“I promise you don’t need to rile me up during dinner,” Italy says, “since we’re going to the catered one.”
Germany tightens under his hands, and follows him down the stairs to the banquet hall.
Dinner is terrible.
By the end of the meal Italy’s stomach is full of inferior pizza and his temper is close to breaking. Nobody seemed to notice but Germany, who was constantly by his side, and who didn’t eat much of anything. Italy’s been watching.
Upstairs, Italy stands at the door, just outside it, while Germany tries to get the little magnet-key to work. Sets a hand at the small of Germany’s back, where his suit stops following his spine and the breadth of his shoulders.
“Are you sure?” Italy asks. “It’s not all white flags and cries for food.”
Germany finally gets the door open, sticks his foot between it and the jamb. Turns. “I’m sure.”
“What if you want to stop?”
Germany bows his head a little, and Italy watches the meticulous gelled-straight line of the part in his hair.
“Bismarck,” he says finally, and Italy listens to him breathe.
“Good,” Italy says, and shoves the door open to the side of Germany’s shoulder, knocks him into the room. Watches Germany stumble in his black-shined boots and smooth suit. Italy pretends to ignore it and goes to his suitcase in the corner which he brought over during the lunch break. It has some of the tools of his darker trades. Some of those tools never leave him, like his switchblade. Some do, like the gun whose case he takes from the bag.
“We’re such good friends,” Italy says, turning so that Germany can watch him load it and remove the safety. “I’m glad I can share this with you, you know? I like that. I don’t think you’ll be very happy that I have, though.” He pouts a little at the gun in his hand. Listens to Germany’s breathing – heavy, but not with fear.
“Italy, are you sure –” Germany starts, and, his accent. Italy points the gun at him.
“Very,” he says. “You know exactly how I feel about events catered by America. It’s not so bad for you – you’re happy enough with potatoes that getting a cheap steak is the high point in a week – but it’s a little different for me, you know? And the fact that you don’t quite seem to be able to find a way to handle this is making me sad. Really sad. Sit down on the bed, please.”
Germany takes two steps backward and sits. “You know I’m proficient at,” he begins, and Italy laughs.
“It’s not like in the movies. It’s hard to be faster than a gun.” And Italy holds out a set of handcuffs that he’d stuffed in his suit jacket pocket some hours before. “Wrists behind you, please – no, wait, take off your shirt first.”
Germany does. Hands twisting over the buttons in his jacket, his shirt. Loosening the red-saffron stripe of his tie and casting it aside.
“Thank you!” Italy sings, and puts the manacles on him. Slides the muzzle of the gun up Germany’s spine and watches him shiver. Germany arches away from it, eyes closed and brow furrowed.
Italy moves to kneel between Germany’s legs, presses the gun muzzle to Germany’s belly at an angle that will go through to his heart if it needs to. “I think you’re starting to get it. Am I right, Germany? Do you understand what I mean?”
Germany licks his lips, staring at him, and doesn’t answer. Italy presses the gun harder into his belly.
“Did you hear me, Germany?”
“Yes,” Germany whispers. Italy doesn’t think he even knows what question he’s answering, but that’s all right. He doesn’t need to.
Italy unbuckles Germany’s belt and opens his trousers, and finds Germany as hard as if they’d spent the last half hour in serious foreplay. A gun and a pair of handcuffs, and a knife – well. At least he knows now. Italy knocks the barrel of the gun lightly into the base of Germany’s ribs, not to cause pain but like tapping his fingers in thought, just with steel against flesh.
“You know what? I think that a knife is better for this, and I know you’ll agree. Give me a second to get it. It’d be a shame if my finger slipped on the trigger – ” and Germany’s muscles tense briefly. Italy rises from between Germany’s legs to put the gun on the business-desk table in the corner, rolls up his sleeves, and takes out his knife again. Returns to the bed to stand looming.
Germany parts his lips. Whispers, probably because his voice won’t come, “This is an act of war.”
And Italy smiles. “Is it? I couldn’t threaten anyone. I’m North Italy, and everyone knows that all the Mafia are with Sicilia, who’s an autonomous province. How could silly,” he sets the blade of the knife against the soft skin at the side of German’s throat, pressing enough that Germany will feel like it’s cutting but won’t bleed, “little, food-loving North Italy ever raise a weapon against big, bad, ex-Nazi Germany?
“Stand up.” Italy pulls the knife away enough that Germany can stand, then shoves Germany’s pants down. “Now get face-down on the bed before I decide to cut open a hole for me to fuck.”
Germany’s hands, when he turns around, are clenched. Italy likes that. It’s a good sign. He watches Germany struggle onto the bed – if he weren’t so turned on by Germany being turned on by this it would be funny and he’d already have collapsed into a pile of giggles – and picks up and opens the container of lubricant that was on the nightstand. He brings it back with him to the bed, where he kneels between German’s barely-spread legs. There’s not enough room, really, with the pants around Germany’s ankles, so he uses the knife to coax Germany’s hips up into the air a little – a lot, really, but at that point it’s more for the aesthetics, and Germany has really good aesthetics – and traces the ring of muscle at his entrance with two lubed-up fingers.
“I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t make sure you enjoy this,” Italy says, and Germany keens into the comforter. His muscles flex with Italy’s fingers sliding in, tight and hot, and if he doesn’t push back he’s definitely not pulling away.
The handcuffs rattle when Germany shifts his weight, and when the whole bed and everything on it tilts when Italy shoves his own pants down and slicks himself up. But, not yet pressed to Germany’s entrance, he pauses and asks, “Knife or cock?”
Germany visibly tightens so hard Italy wishes he’d said that when he was balls-deep in him.
“I should probably start with cock, right, Germany? Because if I cut you open first you wouldn’t be nearly,” he lines himself up and starts to press in, “so,” centimeters inside, and the heat and the sensation of sweet-easy slide is enough to make Italy want to stop talking and finish already, “tight.” All the way, and Germany’s body’s resistance is just enough to make it delicious.
“What with all the blood, and your muscles being cut,” Italy adds, and Germany moans and shifts away so that Italy slides out, so that Italy can slide into him again.
Germany is – incredible, like this. Italy wishes he could take a photograph so he could paint it, the beautiful obscenity. But more urgent is that Italy is close, and Germany is closer, and Germany’s hard and sticky in his palm against the hilt of the closed switchblade, and Italy doesn’t know if Germany is even breathing.
Germany comes quick and sudden and painful-tight around him, and Germany’s gradual relaxation afterwards makes it easy to finish inside him.
Italy pulls out. There’s still lube around Germany’s entrance, which is friction-red and a little swollen, like an invitation to another round whenever Italy’s ready again. Now’s not it, though, so he takes the handcuff key out of his trouser pocket and unlocks them. Germany’s wrists are a little raw, but nothing bad – his shirtsleeve cuffs will cover it if he bruises.
“I should ask Japan to teach me how to tie you to a chair,” Italy says thoughtfully, crawling up the bed to lie down. “Unless you want me to experiment?”
Germany nods faintly, eyes already closed. Italy sets the knife aside on the nightstand and curls up around him.
