Italy was willing to admit that Germany was, on the whole, smarter than him. Italy could do a lot of things better than Germany, that was true, but Germany caught onto things quicker, understood things better than Italy and he was usually better at reading the atmosphere too. Which was why, after almost a month of subtle hints, suggestions and downright obvious desirous looks thrown in Germany’s direction, Italy was starting to get a little frustrated that he wasn’t getting the point; he wanted sex. But why? Was he so dense when it came to this kind of thing that he couldn’t take even the most obvious of hints? Perhaps a more direct approach was needed, Italy mulled as he chewed slowly on the end of his fork, the pasta once on it long gone. “Italien, is everything alright?” Germany shook Italy from his thoughts with his concerned voice that really was sweet coming from such a big man. “Si, I was just thinking about stuff.” Italy smiled back calmly. Germany took this as a hint not to probe any further and so went back to his own lunch. Italy picked up his own empty plate and made his way over to the sink, swooping calmly and unannounced to wrap an arm around Ludwig and kiss him on the cheek. “Grazie!” He said cheerily, as Germany grunted something akin to a ‘you’re welcome’, his expression practically unchanged but a tell-tale red tint on his ears giving him away. Tonight. Tonight would be the night Italy would use his direct approach.
…
Italy sat in the comfy armchair next to Germany’s, an open but ignored book lying on his lap. He eyed his friend, taking in every feature and every angle of him as he sat (with impossibly straight posture) in his own chair, reading a newspaper. Feliciano glances at the clock; it’s 10.35 now, Germany doesn’t normally go to bed until 11 so he shouldn’t be too tired and he looked relatively alert. Now, he’d do it now.
Italy got up from his chair, putting the book down on the coffee table carefully so as not to annoy Germany and stands over the other nation, bearing a winning smile. “Hey, Germania, do you want to go to bed?” he asked sweetly, slyly hiding his intentions. “Not yet, Italien, I want to finish this article. You go to bed if you want.” Germany replied, barely taking his eyes from the newspaper. Italy’s smile turned to a frown. “No! Come on, Germania, come with me to bed.” He persisted, leaning on the armrests. Germany flipped down his newspaper and removed his reading glasses, looking up at his friend, thoroughly annoyed at this disturbance. “It’s just one article. Can’t it wait, Italien?” he implored in a brave attempt at being reasonable with the Italian. “It cannot wait.” Italy said seriously, sitting himself astride Germany’s legs. Germany was used to Italy invading his personal space and getting uncomfortably close so this particular action elicited little more than a raised eyebrow and an irritated sigh. Italy leaned in to kiss Germany on each cheek. “Italien, I’ll come to bed in a minute. Please, just…” But Italy continued to kiss him, wrapping his arms around the German determinedly. And then he kissed him on the mouth, a place that, until now, had not been subject to Italy’s affections. Italy was bubbling with glee inside- his first kiss with Germany! Well, his first proper kiss. It would be nice if he would kiss back, he was probably just a bit shocked, that was all. He pulled back, smiling, and looked expectantly into Germany’s eyes. He had been expecting surprise, embarrassed shock even, on his friend’s face. He hadn’t been expecting the purely horrified expression in Germany’s eyes, the face drained of colour, the trembling brow. Italy’s heart pounded loudly, worried by the fear in Germany’s face. This wasn’t what he had wanted at all. Germany stood up and Italy fell to the floor on his arse with a painful thump. The blond left the room quickly and wordlessly, leaving his friend hurt and perplexed on the floor.
Italy slept in the guest room that night. Well, he slept some of the night in the guest room; the rest of the night was spent lying awake in his bed, sussing the situation. Why did Germany do that? He was always hugging him and kissing him, sharing his bed, touching him. What was it about that kiss that had frightened him? Could it be that Germany wasn’t really into guys? No, that wasn’t it- Italy had seen his collection. Maybe he just… didn’t like Italy in that way. They were friends, the best of friends, so maybe he had just never seen Italy in that way. Well then, Italy told himself, you’re just going to have to make him see you in that way! If you love him and you want this to happen, make him want to have sex with you as much as you want to with him. This was going to be difficult.
…
“Please stop!” the young boy yelled forlornly through his tears. His face was bruised and scratched from blows and kicks and his pale body was stripped bare, limbs tied together with rough ropes. The older nation stood over him, leering at his prey. It drove him wild to see this nation, this petulant young boy that had given him so much grief, writhing and suffering at his feet. It was the body of a boy barely through puberty, with little hair and weak muscles only just gaining bulk. It looked so innocent, like the body of a young marble Adonis, and he was about to happily steal its innocence. France grabbed the so-called Empire by his blond hair and pulled him up from the ground with one hand and handled his steel dagger with the other, a cruel grin playing on his lips. “No more noise from you, bastard!” He snarled into the boy’s ear, smashing his body against the cold stone wall of the cell. “You’re going to pay for every war you waged against me tonight, and I’ll make sure you don’t forget it in hurry!” He announced proudly to his victim, his pathetic, snivelling victim, sniffing back his childish tears and choking in fear. France looked at the young nation with distaste. He wanted to remove every scrap of dignity he still possessed, crush what he had left of his spirit. Such an innocent young thing, he doubted he’d ever even had a first kiss. He licked his lips and crushed his lips against the boy’s pale trembling ones, probing with his tongue and kissing him as roughly as he could, leaving his wine-soaked taste for the boy to enjoy before he broke off with a satisfied smile.
France grabbed the boy’s slim shoulders and spun him around, pushing him up against the wall again. He felt the boy’s shoulders heave with ragged breaths and suppressed sobs and felt himself aroused by the revenge he would inflict on this upstart, this bastard. He sheathed his dagger and, with one hand grabbing the back of the boy’s neck to keep him still, he plunged with scabbard painfully into his opening. The boy howled in pain and France retorted by digging his fingernails deep into the nape of his neck. “Tais-toi!” He growled and pushed the scabbard in further, ignoring the muffled yelps and cries, pushing it further and further until the length of the blade had completely disappeared. Then, with a smirk, France turned the handle with a jerk. The boy screamed and France yanked his dagger out with the same speed. He dropped it on the stone floor with disgust and began to loosen his belt and unbutton his trousers. “I’ll give you something to cry about, boy.” He laughed sadistically at the sobs coming from the no-longer-holy Holy Roman Empire, and shoved his long, hard length inside the boy. He thrust roughly inside of him, going quickly with no concern for the excruciating pain he was causing the young nation who was still screaming for mercy and clawing at the brick wall. He could feel the vibrations through his body each time he slammed the boy into the wall and he knew how much it hurt, how the flesh would be bruising and bleeding and the pure suffering he was going through. He picked up his pace, ramming himself into the boy, now almost limp, his cries hoarse and quieter than before. He came inside him with a sigh of satisfaction before pulling out and letting the boy go. He promptly fell to the ground in exhaustion, breathing heavily, eyes red, face wet, body scarred and tender. Francis looked down proudly at his victim, broken. Irreparable. He thought of making the boy clean up the mess of blood and cum on his length, but decided against it- the boy was close to falling unconscious and nothing was worse than a half-arsed blow-job. So he left the boy to curl up in his dark cell in the prison of France’s empire where he could fester for all he cared. It would take more than that to kill a nation, but it was certainly enough to break one.
Italy decided it would be best if he went home early the next morning, believing a couple of days apart would give some time to clear the air. He was pretty embarrassed by Germany’s rejection but he knew that he would never do anything to hurt Italy’s feelings on purpose. He could get rid of whatever it was getting in the way of them doing it. He just had to find out what it was.
“Francia! I need your help!” Italy’s plaintive plea came down France’s receiver. France grimaced- he was not in the mood for giving advice. He sighed, “What do you want, Italie?” “How do you get someone to want to sleep with you?” Italy asked. If it had been anyone else on the receiving end of this question they would have looked shocked or at least raised an eyebrow (or started spluttering and gone red in England’s case), but France’s expression didn’t change. It was just another silly enquiry from a silly nation. “Well it is very subjective- who is it you want to sleep with?” “Germany.” Italy admitted almost shyly. “That guy? I thought you two had been at it for years already!” France cried, only now resorting to shock. “No. I tried kissing him the other night and he looked really scared and ran away without another word! What should I do?” France laid back in his chair with the receiver to his ear. He thought. What should Italy do? How could you seduce a man whose only experiences of sex had been as forms of punishment? How could you convince him it would be good when all he could think of was pain and violence? How indeed. France had tried to some years before, after Germany had been reunited with his brother, the wounds long since healed. After all, the wars were in the past, and Germany was a healthy, strong, attractive nation with (allegedly) a lot of kinks- he’d be fun to play with. But nothing he did could convince the nation, who instead flinched whenever France touched him. He’d thought that Germany was only scared of him personally because of what he had done. But the fact that he had rejected Italy who had never done anything to inflict harm on him… maybe it was worse than he thought. “Francia?” France realised he hadn’t spoken for a while. He cleared his throat. “Oh you know… get him drunk or something. That usually works.” “No! I don’t want to do that; I want to properly make him want… me. You must help me, Francia. Please!” It was hopeless. There wasn’t any advice that France could really give for a case like this one. But he needed to tell Italy something or else he’d send to poor boy away feeling empty handed. “Well, just be… sexy. Irresistible.” “Okay… how?” “I don’t know, maybe… dress provocatively. And bend over a lot.” Even Italy had to blush at that. “Really?” “He’s a kinky guy… Maybe England could help you.” “A-alright. Thanks, Francia.”
“I always knew you’d be nothing but trouble, you piece of shit.” France said, each syllable dripping with disdain. Germany sat across from him, staring at the signed treaty lying between them wordlessly. He looked so small underneath the uniform that he had easily filled at the start of the war; four years of fighting and dwindling rations had taken their toll on the country. England frowned at France from the corner of the room. “Steady on, France. The war’s over, alright? We’ve got what we came for, just leave him be.” “Leave him be?” France repeated in disbelief, glaring at his ally. “After what he’s done to us? To me? No. No this bastard deserves everything we put in that treaty and more. He killed millions of our people, don’t you understand? Perhaps you only lost soldiers but the war was fought in my country! My civilians died too! My land has been churned up and destroyed by his trenches and his bombing. He’s bankrupted the lot of us. And you want me to ‘leave him be’?” France spat, pure hatred flaring in his eyes. “No, mon Dieu, no! I’m going to teach this bastard a lesson!” He stood up, chair scraping backwards on the wooden floor and he marched around the table to Germany, still quiet and motionless, still not reacting to anything. “Here, France! What are you playing at?” “This kid needs to be taught some manners.” He growled and, without warning grabbed Germany around the neck. The younger nation looked up in shock; the fear in his eyes now was the same as back then… “On your knees!” France yelled and Germany slowly and unwillingly obeyed, lifting himself painfully off the chair and lowering himself onto his knees on the floor. France lifted his eyes from the kneeling nation to England, standing dumbstruck in the corner. “Watch the door.” He ordered. “I… look, France, we can’t do this.” “Don’t act all soft on me now, England! You want revenge on this bastard just as much as I do. You’re just scared he’ll take it out on us when he gets big and strong again and you don’t want to be on the receiving end of the abuse, you coward!” France glared at England, knowing full well he’d got it spot on. England looked impertinent but said nothing. “Now watch the door.” France repeated, loosening the buttons on his trousers, locking his eyes on Germany’s pathetic bowed head. France took himself into his hand and commanded the nation, “Suck it.” Germany looked up at France, eyes wide as if he were pleading for clemency, mouth unable to form words. France grabbed the pistol from the holster at his hip. “Suck it. I’ll do it. Nobody would miss you.” France stated in a low, flat voice. Germany continued staring up at him a few seconds longer, then obediently closed his eyes and took France into his mouth as far as it could go and began to suck on it. He was steady and mechanical about it, treating it as if it were just a particularly unpleasant job. But that wasn’t enough for France, who proceeded to grab the kneeling man by his fringe and ram repeatedly into the back of his throat. Germany coughed and spluttered, unable to control his gag reflex. His eyes were watering and his cheeks were flushed with humiliation. He opened his eyes and scanned the room. He looked at England imploringly, but England simply avoided his gaze, deciding instead to admire his boots. Germany held back tears that were threatening to well up in his eyes and tried to imagine it wasn’t happening. France started thrusting harder and faster until finally he came into Germany’s throat. He pulled out and let go of Germany’s hair, letting him fall back mortified and drained. France cleaned himself up and straightened his uniform. He nodded without a word and left the room. England glanced over at Germany, sitting disgraced on the floor, face dark. Then he too mumbled some feeble excuse and left. Germany was alone and nobody in the world gave a fuck whether he lived or died; he was everyone’s enemy.
Okay, I know France isn't coming out of this fic very well but historically France and Germany have been at each other's throats quite a lot and the Treaty of Versailles (in the part above) was mainly due to France. I'm not saying Germany was cokpletely blameless when it came to reparations in the treaty because the reparations Germnay inflicted on Russia were far higher than the ones in the Treaty of Versailles. But France was scared of Germany being so big and powerful so she took away most of Germany's military in the treaty which was humiliating; Germany was a military nation, united by warlike Prussia and practically led by the army; taking away her military was like taking away her very essence. France also made Germany forbidden from joining the League of Nations after WWI, emphasising Germany's loss. In short, France was a bitch. But that's not to say England was blameless- France was right, the British people wanted revenge for their losses in the war but the British government had enough sense to know that harsh punishments brought harsh repercussions. So anyway, I love France and I know he doesn't come out well in this fic but if it was a fic the other way round, believe me I'd have plenty of stuff to write about what Germany did to France (and Belgium) in WWI.
Oh, what an interesting take on Franco-German animosity. I like the little we saw of France in present day, because that way he doesn't come out so bad
I want to admit to being a bad, lurky anon. A few weeks ago, I read this, loved it, and wanted more. But I was a bum and didn't comment. Today, I came back to check on it. So I feel like maybe this time I should say something, to let AuthorAnon know how much I like this story.
“Inghilterra! Are you home? Hello?” Italy shouted at England’s door, knocking on the old, oak door and ringing the old fashioned bell between impatient cries. Finally a stomping could be heard and the door swung open violently to reveal a frowning England. “What do you want, Italy? This had better be important.” “Oh, it is! I promise! I need to borrow some stuff.” “…what stuff?” “Some stuff that Germany would like.” Italy continued unabashed. England raised an eyebrow suspiciously... “And that would be…” “Oh, you know, handcuffs, clamps, anal p…” Italy reeled off before being grabbed roughly by the collar and dragged into England’s large, cold hallway. The door slammed shut and England glared at the short brunette. “Jesus Christ, Italy! Could you please not talk about that kind of stuff in front of my house! Regardless of rumours spread among you lot, my people don’t actually see me as a depraved sex maniac with an extensive BDSM collection.” England looked weary and humiliated. “Sorry, Inghilterra. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” It was hard to be cross at Italy for very long. “It’s fine. Just, please don’t believe everything France and America say about me. I’m not quite as bad as they say I am.” “Oh… so you don’t have any of the stuff I need?” England blushed. “Well… not as much as they say I do.” Italy grinned and followed the grumpy, older nation upstairs. England forced him to stay out on the landing at the foot of the ladder as he got some stuff together in the attic. As he creaked about in the attic looking for forgotten things, England asked Italy “So why do you need these things anyway? I thought Germany was… well…” “Well, I want to have sex with him but he doesn’t seem to want to so I thought some stuff like this might make him want to do it more.” “Wait, you two haven’t done it yet? I thought you were…” “No. Francia said the same thing. When I tried though he just looked completely terrified and ran away.” England could practically hear him pouting. He was silent for a while, conflicted as he moved boxes around. “... Inghilterra?” “Uh, yes?” “Is… is Germania a virgin?” England looked pained and swallowed. “N-no, not as such.” “Who else has he slept with then?” “Uh… look, I don’t think I should be telling you this, I…” “Please, Inghilterra! I just want to…” England cut him off by sliding the box down the ladder so it landed on the carpet with a loud thump. He quickly followed it and stared Italy into silence. He picked up the box and handed it to him. “Listen, Italy; I really doubt this’ll work. If anything it’ll make it worse.” He started pushing the ladder back into the attic with a pole and closed the door behind it. “Well, tell me why!” Italy cried, infuriated. “I can’t! It’s not my story to tell, Italy. You need to talk to Germany about this, not me. I’m sorry.” England honestly looked it. He didn’t want to keep Italy in the dark about everything (Lord knew he wasn’t blameless in the story) but equally it was Germany’s past and if he hadn’t told Italy about it yet, he probably didn’t want Italy to know. Italy glared. “What aren’t you telling me, Inghilterra?! What is wrong?” “… Italy… just talk to Germany, alright?” England said sternly with a sense of finality. Italy met his gaze and tried his best to glare him into submission but England stood firm, arms folded, lips pursed. Finally, Italy gave in and, turning on his heel he marched back down the stairs to the hallway and let himself out.
Italy had been lying on Germany’s bed for about half an hour and he was getting frustrated. He had handcuffed himself to the bed-railings. And the metal was starting to dig uncomfortably into his wrists. He had not taken England’s advice because he was now angry at England and decided everything he said was stupid. Besides, once Germany saw Italy all naked and submissive and unable to resist like this, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself!
Finally the click of the lock and the opening of the front door downstairs reached Italy’s ears and he smiled. “Germaniaaa!” He shouted. Pause. “Italien? What are you…?” “Come upstairs!” Italy ordered. He heard the stairs creaking as Germany obeyed. “Where are you?” Germany sounded suspicious. “In your room.”
Italy grinned excitedly as he heard Germany’s slow, heavy steps along the landing approach his room. And then there he was at the doorway. “Ciao!” Italy smiled unabashed. He looked at Germany for a reaction. His face was similar to last time but he hadn’t left yet. Maybe that was just the face he made when he was turned on? Italy proceeded to shake his hands, making the chains jangle. “I can’t move! What will you do to me?” He grinned, almost laughing at how stupid he sounded. Germany was pale and he looked sweaty. His hands trembled and the briefcase he had been gripping fell to the floor with a loud clatter. “G-Germania?” Italy was concerned. Germany’s eyes widened and a hand went to his mouth as he rushed away from the door down the landing. Italy heard a door slam and lock and a succession of sickly choking, gagging sounds. He was scared now.
What the fuck was wrong with Germany?
And how the fuck was he going to get out of these handcuffs?
Germany half limped, half ran through the city. His city. Berlin. Or rather, what was left of it. All around him was dust and flame and rubble. Bodies lay on the ground, shot or crushed. There were distant cries from all directions but not a living person in sight. His breath came ragged and his eyes watered against the smoke. He’d lost. He’d lost again and he’d been lied to again.
What was there left to do? His leader was dead. He had lost the war and Russian soldiers were flooding his capital. He was doomed and there was nothing he could do.
A nearby scream reached Germany’s ears and he turned to see a young woman in the clutches of a Russian soldier. “Hey!” He shouted hoarsely, stumbling weakly over to the pair. “Stop that!” He pulled the pistol from his holster and pointed it at the soldier’s head, knowing full well that there were no bullets left in the gun. The Russian soldier turned around to face Germany. Oh God. “Why, hello, Germaniya!” Russia grinned. His eyes were glazed over and the circles under them were dark. He let go of the young woman who ran away aimlessly through the rubble, still crying. Germany still held his empty pistol to Russia’s head, his hand trembling. Russia calmly pulled out his own pistol and, fixing his gaze on Germany, hit the empty gun out of Germany’s hand to the ground with the butt of his own. The impact broke the skin on Germany’s quivering hand and it bled. “How many summers, how many winters!” Russia exclaimed in a breaking voice. He stepped closer to the shorter nation, his left eye twitching. “You caused me quite a few problems the last time we met, you know? But I have you now.” Russia grabbed Germany’s hair as he said this as if to emphasise the statement. Germany wanted to react, he wanted to stop this. But his body did nothing. He was petrified. Russia’s grin widened manically and he breathed in Germany’s scent. He smelled of fear and of death. He tightened his grip and threw Germany face-first into a pile of rubble. He struggled to get up but failed and was soon pinned down by Russia’s mighty weight. “You are mine.” Russia growled into Germany’s ear before breaking into a mad cackle. Germany could smell the vodka and blood on his breath. “MINE!” Russia barked and ripped at Germany’s clothes, bearing bloody and scarred skin to the stinging night air. He mumbled in Russian and laughed sporadically as he pulled down Germany’s trousers. Germany squirmed and struggled but inside he knew it was hopeless. He knew what was coming. It was inevitable as his defeat and his people’s suffering. Russia shoved his hard shaft in. Germany gasped and tried to suppress a cry. He was bigger than France. Russia started thrusting, large hands pinning Germany to the pile of rubble.
“It’s been so long,” Russia snarled, “It has been so long that even an ugly whore like you will do. You dirty fuck! Piece of shit!” He started screaming into Germany’s ear now. The rubble and broken glass was digging into Germany’s front and he could feel it tearing at his skin, his head was throbbing and spinning and he could feel his opening tearing wider and bleeding with each thrust. Hot tears welled in his eyes and screams got stuck in his raw throat. Russia suddenly stopped and pulled out. He flipped the bleeding nation over and came onto his face and into his hair. He smiled. “Did you like that? Did it make you hot, you little whore?” Germany lay panting on the rubble, holding something back in his throat. Russia cocked his gun. “Answer me, whore! You loved it didn’t you? You want some more of this?!” He was shouting again. Germany finally opened his mouth to answer and vomit spewed out. The vomit was full of blood and thick, red bile dripped off Germany’s chin and covered his uniform. Russia howled with laughter. “You sick fucker!” He screamed and bent over laughing. Germany tried to cover his mouth with one hand while pulling up his torn trousers with the other. Russia turned around, still laughing and saw a petrified young boy, still loyally clad in his Hitler Youth uniform. “Enjoy the show?” Russia asked. “You want a go too? Fucking fascist!” He grinned and started walking towards the boy, too scared to even move. “N-no!” Germany croaked, stumbling to his feet. Russia turned around and looked at his enemy. “No? No, you say? Who are you to tell me what I may and may not do?” “Please… please punish me all you want… do not punish them. They did nothing, they were only subject to my own stupidity.” “…fine.” Russia conceded and walked away from the boy who took the hint and ran away. He stood in front of Germany who barely had the energy to stand and kicked him back into the rubble. Germany looked up through bleary eyes at Russia. “Death…” he muttered to himself “… how nice.” A large, black boot came into contact sharply with the side of his head and everything was dark.
“Is he dead?” “Of course he’s not dead!” “What should we do with him?” “Well. We can’t just leave him here. If he dies he’ll disappear, and nature abhors a vacuum.” “So, what do we do?” “…We’ll get him better. Then he can work to pay us back.” “How will we punish him?” “… I think we’ve learned our lesson about punishment, don’t you?” “But, I mean, what he did to the Jews… that was just sick!” “Yes. But there is nothing we can do to bring them back. All we can do is make sure nothing like it ever happens again.” “What?! No! We’ve got to do something to…” “He is going to be hated by everyone for decades to come. And no matter how much he repents later, he will never be allowed to wipe away his history. I think that’s punishment enough.” “I don’t!” “Well you can do whatever the hell you want to him in your section, but other than reparations and division, there’s nothing we can do.” “… Russia fucked him up pretty badly, huh?” “Indeed.” “C’mon, let’s let him sleep in peace for a while.”
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“Is he dead?” “Of course he’s not dead!” “What should we do with him?” “Well. We can’t just leave him here. If he dies he’ll disappear, and nature abhors a vacuum.” “So, what do we do?” “…We’ll get him better. Then he can work to pay us back.” “How will we punish him?” “… I think we’ve learned our lesson about punishment, don’t you?” “But, I mean, what he did to the Jews… that was just sick!” “Yes. But there is nothing we can do to bring them back. All we can do is make sure nothing like it ever happens again.” “What?! No! We’ve got to do something to…” “He is going to be hated by everyone for decades to come. And no matter how much he repents later, he will never be allowed to wipe away his history. I think that’s punishment enough.” “I don’t!” “Well you can do whatever the hell you want to him in your section, but other than reparations and division, there’s nothing we can do.” “… Russia fucked him up pretty badly, huh?” “Indeed.” “C’mon, let’s let him sleep in peace for a while.”
<A/N>
Okay hi out there in kink-land! I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while- I checked back for comments a few days after posting the last part but saw none so I stopped updating. Came back and found a bunch so now I feel guilty. But hey! Someone other than France sexually abused Germany in this! Nice change of pace. So on the off chance that somebody bothers to read this, I hope it made you feel appropriately awkward and sick :D
Poor, abused, traumatized Germany. And poor, confused, handcuffed Italy!
I wonder: Italy was on the same side as France and England in WWI, and was one of the countries surrendered to at Versailles, though they didn't drive for reparations the way England and France did. Will that come up?
I'm also thinking that America was a lot easier on Germany after both world wars (I suppose it's easier to be when you were an ocean away). Will America come into this fic at all (or was he one of the unidentified speakers in the last bit of chapter 3?)?
My knowledge of WWI history is a little sketchy seeing as I did it for GCSE nearly two years ago, but from what I remember Italy didn't play a huge role in the the Treaty of Versailles. The scene you're referring to is set in that famous room in the palace of Versailles where the treaty was signed and it's meant to take place after all the ministers and what-not have left. So Italy, Russia and America were probably there before and left but the other three stayed. Germany due to being catatonic, France because he wanted personal revenge, England because he always feels the need to meddle and be at least a bit in control :| So no, Italy's involvement in Versailles won't come up because headcanon says he agreed to what everyone was saying and went back home to recover a little and eat some food that didn't contain potatoes or sausages.
Yeah, America was one of the unidentified speakers (they were England, France and America. France was less demanding this time.) I decided not to give him a big part because after WWI he was like "Go easy on him, guys! He didn't do that much damage. Also, no, I'm so not sticking around to help with the League of Nations or reparations. I'm going to isolate myself and get rich!" He was more involved after WWII with the American sector of Germany but mainly in a "keep the commies out" way and helping Germany get back on his feet while France and Russia sucked him dry. So in all, America has usually been sympathetic to Germany and something tells me he didn't get the full extent to which Germany damaged France and England or viceversa.
Anyway, sorry for rambling reply. I'm really glad that someone's reading this and that you don't seem to hate it!
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Zerbrochen (1a/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-08-22 10:50 pm (UTC)(link)“Italien, is everything alright?” Germany shook Italy from his thoughts with his concerned voice that really was sweet coming from such a big man.
“Si, I was just thinking about stuff.” Italy smiled back calmly. Germany took this as a hint not to probe any further and so went back to his own lunch. Italy picked up his own empty plate and made his way over to the sink, swooping calmly and unannounced to wrap an arm around Ludwig and kiss him on the cheek.
“Grazie!” He said cheerily, as Germany grunted something akin to a ‘you’re welcome’, his expression practically unchanged but a tell-tale red tint on his ears giving him away. Tonight. Tonight would be the night Italy would use his direct approach.
…
Italy sat in the comfy armchair next to Germany’s, an open but ignored book lying on his lap. He eyed his friend, taking in every feature and every angle of him as he sat (with impossibly straight posture) in his own chair, reading a newspaper. Feliciano glances at the clock; it’s 10.35 now, Germany doesn’t normally go to bed until 11 so he shouldn’t be too tired and he looked relatively alert. Now, he’d do it now.
Italy got up from his chair, putting the book down on the coffee table carefully so as not to annoy Germany and stands over the other nation, bearing a winning smile.
“Hey, Germania, do you want to go to bed?” he asked sweetly, slyly hiding his intentions.
“Not yet, Italien, I want to finish this article. You go to bed if you want.” Germany replied, barely taking his eyes from the newspaper. Italy’s smile turned to a frown.
“No! Come on, Germania, come with me to bed.” He persisted, leaning on the armrests. Germany flipped down his newspaper and removed his reading glasses, looking up at his friend, thoroughly annoyed at this disturbance.
“It’s just one article. Can’t it wait, Italien?” he implored in a brave attempt at being reasonable with the Italian.
“It cannot wait.” Italy said seriously, sitting himself astride Germany’s legs. Germany was used to Italy invading his personal space and getting uncomfortably close so this particular action elicited little more than a raised eyebrow and an irritated sigh. Italy leaned in to kiss Germany on each cheek.
“Italien, I’ll come to bed in a minute. Please, just…”
But Italy continued to kiss him, wrapping his arms around the German determinedly. And then he kissed him on the mouth, a place that, until now, had not been subject to Italy’s affections. Italy was bubbling with glee inside- his first kiss with Germany! Well, his first proper kiss. It would be nice if he would kiss back, he was probably just a bit shocked, that was all. He pulled back, smiling, and looked expectantly into Germany’s eyes. He had been expecting surprise, embarrassed shock even, on his friend’s face. He hadn’t been expecting the purely horrified expression in Germany’s eyes, the face drained of colour, the trembling brow. Italy’s heart pounded loudly, worried by the fear in Germany’s face. This wasn’t what he had wanted at all. Germany stood up and Italy fell to the floor on his arse with a painful thump. The blond left the room quickly and wordlessly, leaving his friend hurt and perplexed on the floor.
Zerbrochen (1b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-08-22 10:54 pm (UTC)(link)Well, he slept some of the night in the guest room; the rest of the night was spent lying awake in his bed, sussing the situation. Why did Germany do that? He was always hugging him and kissing him, sharing his bed, touching him. What was it about that kiss that had frightened him? Could it be that Germany wasn’t really into guys? No, that wasn’t it- Italy had seen his collection. Maybe he just… didn’t like Italy in that way. They were friends, the best of friends, so maybe he had just never seen Italy in that way. Well then, Italy told himself, you’re just going to have to make him see you in that way! If you love him and you want this to happen, make him want to have sex with you as much as you want to with him. This was going to be difficult.
…
“Please stop!” the young boy yelled forlornly through his tears. His face was bruised and scratched from blows and kicks and his pale body was stripped bare, limbs tied together with rough ropes. The older nation stood over him, leering at his prey. It drove him wild to see this nation, this petulant young boy that had given him so much grief, writhing and suffering at his feet. It was the body of a boy barely through puberty, with little hair and weak muscles only just gaining bulk. It looked so innocent, like the body of a young marble Adonis, and he was about to happily steal its innocence. France grabbed the so-called Empire by his blond hair and pulled him up from the ground with one hand and handled his steel dagger with the other, a cruel grin playing on his lips.
“No more noise from you, bastard!” He snarled into the boy’s ear, smashing his body against the cold stone wall of the cell. “You’re going to pay for every war you waged against me tonight, and I’ll make sure you don’t forget it in hurry!” He announced proudly to his victim, his pathetic, snivelling victim, sniffing back his childish tears and choking in fear. France looked at the young nation with distaste. He wanted to remove every scrap of dignity he still possessed, crush what he had left of his spirit. Such an innocent young thing, he doubted he’d ever even had a first kiss. He licked his lips and crushed his lips against the boy’s pale trembling ones, probing with his tongue and kissing him as roughly as he could, leaving his wine-soaked taste for the boy to enjoy before he broke off with a satisfied smile.
Zerbrochen (1c/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-08-22 10:55 pm (UTC)(link)“I’ll give you something to cry about, boy.” He laughed sadistically at the sobs coming from the no-longer-holy Holy Roman Empire, and shoved his long, hard length inside the boy. He thrust roughly inside of him, going quickly with no concern for the excruciating pain he was causing the young nation who was still screaming for mercy and clawing at the brick wall. He could feel the vibrations through his body each time he slammed the boy into the wall and he knew how much it hurt, how the flesh would be bruising and bleeding and the pure suffering he was going through. He picked up his pace, ramming himself into the boy, now almost limp, his cries hoarse and quieter than before. He came inside him with a sigh of satisfaction before pulling out and letting the boy go. He promptly fell to the ground in exhaustion, breathing heavily, eyes red, face wet, body scarred and tender. Francis looked down proudly at his victim, broken. Irreparable. He thought of making the boy clean up the mess of blood and cum on his length, but decided against it- the boy was close to falling unconscious and nothing was worse than a half-arsed blow-job. So he left the boy to curl up in his dark cell in the prison of France’s empire where he could fester for all he cared. It would take more than that to kill a nation, but it was certainly enough to break one.
Re: Zerbrochen (1c/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-08-23 01:40 pm (UTC)(link)Zerbrochen (2a/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-08-29 09:42 am (UTC)(link)“Francia! I need your help!” Italy’s plaintive plea came down France’s receiver. France grimaced- he was not in the mood for giving advice. He sighed,
“What do you want, Italie?”
“How do you get someone to want to sleep with you?” Italy asked. If it had been anyone else on the receiving end of this question they would have looked shocked or at least raised an eyebrow (or started spluttering and gone red in England’s case), but France’s expression didn’t change. It was just another silly enquiry from a silly nation.
“Well it is very subjective- who is it you want to sleep with?”
“Germany.” Italy admitted almost shyly.
“That guy? I thought you two had been at it for years already!” France cried, only now resorting to shock.
“No. I tried kissing him the other night and he looked really scared and ran away without another word! What should I do?”
France laid back in his chair with the receiver to his ear. He thought. What should Italy do? How could you seduce a man whose only experiences of sex had been as forms of punishment? How could you convince him it would be good when all he could think of was pain and violence? How indeed.
France had tried to some years before, after Germany had been reunited with his brother, the wounds long since healed. After all, the wars were in the past, and Germany was a healthy, strong, attractive nation with (allegedly) a lot of kinks- he’d be fun to play with. But nothing he did could convince the nation, who instead flinched whenever France touched him. He’d thought that Germany was only scared of him personally because of what he had done. But the fact that he had rejected Italy who had never done anything to inflict harm on him… maybe it was worse than he thought.
“Francia?”
France realised he hadn’t spoken for a while. He cleared his throat.
“Oh you know… get him drunk or something. That usually works.”
“No! I don’t want to do that; I want to properly make him want… me. You must help me, Francia. Please!”
It was hopeless. There wasn’t any advice that France could really give for a case like this one. But he needed to tell Italy something or else he’d send to poor boy away feeling empty handed.
“Well, just be… sexy. Irresistible.”
“Okay… how?”
“I don’t know, maybe… dress provocatively. And bend over a lot.” Even Italy had to blush at that.
“Really?”
“He’s a kinky guy… Maybe England could help you.”
“A-alright. Thanks, Francia.”
Zerbrochen (2b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-08-29 09:43 am (UTC)(link)“Steady on, France. The war’s over, alright? We’ve got what we came for, just leave him be.”
“Leave him be?” France repeated in disbelief, glaring at his ally. “After what he’s done to us? To me? No. No this bastard deserves everything we put in that treaty and more. He killed millions of our people, don’t you understand? Perhaps you only lost soldiers but the war was fought in my country! My civilians died too! My land has been churned up and destroyed by his trenches and his bombing. He’s bankrupted the lot of us. And you want me to ‘leave him be’?” France spat, pure hatred flaring in his eyes. “No, mon Dieu, no! I’m going to teach this bastard a lesson!” He stood up, chair scraping backwards on the wooden floor and he marched around the table to Germany, still quiet and motionless, still not reacting to anything.
“Here, France! What are you playing at?”
“This kid needs to be taught some manners.” He growled and, without warning grabbed Germany around the neck. The younger nation looked up in shock; the fear in his eyes now was the same as back then…
“On your knees!” France yelled and Germany slowly and unwillingly obeyed, lifting himself painfully off the chair and lowering himself onto his knees on the floor. France lifted his eyes from the kneeling nation to England, standing dumbstruck in the corner.
“Watch the door.” He ordered.
“I… look, France, we can’t do this.”
“Don’t act all soft on me now, England! You want revenge on this bastard just as much as I do. You’re just scared he’ll take it out on us when he gets big and strong again and you don’t want to be on the receiving end of the abuse, you coward!” France glared at England, knowing full well he’d got it spot on. England looked impertinent but said nothing. “Now watch the door.” France repeated, loosening the buttons on his trousers, locking his eyes on Germany’s pathetic bowed head. France took himself into his hand and commanded the nation,
“Suck it.”
Germany looked up at France, eyes wide as if he were pleading for clemency, mouth unable to form words. France grabbed the pistol from the holster at his hip.
“Suck it. I’ll do it. Nobody would miss you.” France stated in a low, flat voice. Germany continued staring up at him a few seconds longer, then obediently closed his eyes and took France into his mouth as far as it could go and began to suck on it. He was steady and mechanical about it, treating it as if it were just a particularly unpleasant job. But that wasn’t enough for France, who proceeded to grab the kneeling man by his fringe and ram repeatedly into the back of his throat. Germany coughed and spluttered, unable to control his gag reflex. His eyes were watering and his cheeks were flushed with humiliation. He opened his eyes and scanned the room. He looked at England imploringly, but England simply avoided his gaze, deciding instead to admire his boots. Germany held back tears that were threatening to well up in his eyes and tried to imagine it wasn’t happening. France started thrusting harder and faster until finally he came into Germany’s throat. He pulled out and let go of Germany’s hair, letting him fall back mortified and drained. France cleaned himself up and straightened his uniform. He nodded without a word and left the room. England glanced over at Germany, sitting disgraced on the floor, face dark. Then he too mumbled some feeble excuse and left. Germany was alone and nobody in the world gave a fuck whether he lived or died; he was everyone’s enemy.
Zerbrochen (2b/?) Author Anon notes
(Anonymous) 2010-08-29 09:52 am (UTC)(link)Re: Zerbrochen (2b/?) Author Anon notes
(Anonymous) 2010-09-15 03:51 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Zerbrochen (2b/?) Author Anon notes
(Anonymous) 2010-09-16 03:01 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Zerbrochen (2b/?) Author Anon notes
(Anonymous) 2010-09-19 04:21 pm (UTC)(link)Zerbrochen (3a/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-10 10:49 pm (UTC)(link)“What do you want, Italy? This had better be important.”
“Oh, it is! I promise! I need to borrow some stuff.”
“…what stuff?”
“Some stuff that Germany would like.” Italy continued unabashed. England raised an eyebrow suspiciously...
“And that would be…”
“Oh, you know, handcuffs, clamps, anal p…” Italy reeled off before being grabbed roughly by the collar and dragged into England’s large, cold hallway. The door slammed shut and England glared at the short brunette.
“Jesus Christ, Italy! Could you please not talk about that kind of stuff in front of my house! Regardless of rumours spread among you lot, my people don’t actually see me as a depraved sex maniac with an extensive BDSM collection.” England looked weary and humiliated.
“Sorry, Inghilterra. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
It was hard to be cross at Italy for very long.
“It’s fine. Just, please don’t believe everything France and America say about me. I’m not quite as bad as they say I am.”
“Oh… so you don’t have any of the stuff I need?”
England blushed.
“Well… not as much as they say I do.”
Italy grinned and followed the grumpy, older nation upstairs. England forced him to stay out on the landing at the foot of the ladder as he got some stuff together in the attic. As he creaked about in the attic looking for forgotten things, England asked Italy
“So why do you need these things anyway? I thought Germany was… well…”
“Well, I want to have sex with him but he doesn’t seem to want to so I thought some stuff like this might make him want to do it more.”
“Wait, you two haven’t done it yet? I thought you were…”
“No. Francia said the same thing. When I tried though he just looked completely terrified and ran away.” England could practically hear him pouting. He was silent for a while, conflicted as he moved boxes around.
“... Inghilterra?”
“Uh, yes?”
“Is… is Germania a virgin?”
England looked pained and swallowed.
“N-no, not as such.”
“Who else has he slept with then?”
“Uh… look, I don’t think I should be telling you this, I…”
“Please, Inghilterra! I just want to…” England cut him off by sliding the box down the ladder so it landed on the carpet with a loud thump. He quickly followed it and stared Italy into silence. He picked up the box and handed it to him.
“Listen, Italy; I really doubt this’ll work. If anything it’ll make it worse.” He started pushing the ladder back into the attic with a pole and closed the door behind it.
“Well, tell me why!” Italy cried, infuriated.
“I can’t! It’s not my story to tell, Italy. You need to talk to Germany about this, not me. I’m sorry.” England honestly looked it. He didn’t want to keep Italy in the dark about everything (Lord knew he wasn’t blameless in the story) but equally it was Germany’s past and if he hadn’t told Italy about it yet, he probably didn’t want Italy to know. Italy glared.
“What aren’t you telling me, Inghilterra?! What is wrong?”
“… Italy… just talk to Germany, alright?” England said sternly with a sense of finality. Italy met his gaze and tried his best to glare him into submission but England stood firm, arms folded, lips pursed. Finally, Italy gave in and, turning on his heel he marched back down the stairs to the hallway and let himself out.
Zerbrochen (3b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-10 10:53 pm (UTC)(link)Finally the click of the lock and the opening of the front door downstairs reached Italy’s ears and he smiled.
“Germaniaaa!” He shouted. Pause.
“Italien? What are you…?”
“Come upstairs!” Italy ordered. He heard the stairs creaking as Germany obeyed.
“Where are you?” Germany sounded suspicious.
“In your room.”
Italy grinned excitedly as he heard Germany’s slow, heavy steps along the landing approach his room. And then there he was at the doorway.
“Ciao!” Italy smiled unabashed. He looked at Germany for a reaction. His face was similar to last time but he hadn’t left yet. Maybe that was just the face he made when he was turned on? Italy proceeded to shake his hands, making the chains jangle.
“I can’t move! What will you do to me?” He grinned, almost laughing at how stupid he sounded. Germany was pale and he looked sweaty. His hands trembled and the briefcase he had been gripping fell to the floor with a loud clatter.
“G-Germania?” Italy was concerned. Germany’s eyes widened and a hand went to his mouth as he rushed away from the door down the landing. Italy heard a door slam and lock and a succession of sickly choking, gagging sounds. He was scared now.
What the fuck was wrong with Germany?
And how the fuck was he going to get out of these handcuffs?
“Merda.”
Zerbrochen (3c/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-10 10:56 pm (UTC)(link)What was there left to do? His leader was dead. He had lost the war and Russian soldiers were flooding his capital. He was doomed and there was nothing he could do.
A nearby scream reached Germany’s ears and he turned to see a young woman in the clutches of a Russian soldier.
“Hey!” He shouted hoarsely, stumbling weakly over to the pair. “Stop that!” He pulled the pistol from his holster and pointed it at the soldier’s head, knowing full well that there were no bullets left in the gun.
The Russian soldier turned around to face Germany. Oh God.
“Why, hello, Germaniya!” Russia grinned. His eyes were glazed over and the circles under them were dark. He let go of the young woman who ran away aimlessly through the rubble, still crying. Germany still held his empty pistol to Russia’s head, his hand trembling. Russia calmly pulled out his own pistol and, fixing his gaze on Germany, hit the empty gun out of Germany’s hand to the ground with the butt of his own. The impact broke the skin on Germany’s quivering hand and it bled.
“How many summers, how many winters!” Russia exclaimed in a breaking voice. He stepped closer to the shorter nation, his left eye twitching. “You caused me quite a few problems the last time we met, you know? But I have you now.” Russia grabbed Germany’s hair as he said this as if to emphasise the statement. Germany wanted to react, he wanted to stop this. But his body did nothing. He was petrified. Russia’s grin widened manically and he breathed in Germany’s scent. He smelled of fear and of death. He tightened his grip and threw Germany face-first into a pile of rubble. He struggled to get up but failed and was soon pinned down by Russia’s mighty weight.
“You are mine.” Russia growled into Germany’s ear before breaking into a mad cackle. Germany could smell the vodka and blood on his breath. “MINE!” Russia barked and ripped at Germany’s clothes, bearing bloody and scarred skin to the stinging night air. He mumbled in Russian and laughed sporadically as he pulled down Germany’s trousers. Germany squirmed and struggled but inside he knew it was hopeless. He knew what was coming. It was inevitable as his defeat and his people’s suffering. Russia shoved his hard shaft in. Germany gasped and tried to suppress a cry. He was bigger than France. Russia started thrusting, large hands pinning Germany to the pile of rubble.
Zerbrochen (3d/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-10 10:57 pm (UTC)(link)Russia suddenly stopped and pulled out. He flipped the bleeding nation over and came onto his face and into his hair. He smiled.
“Did you like that? Did it make you hot, you little whore?”
Germany lay panting on the rubble, holding something back in his throat. Russia cocked his gun. “Answer me, whore! You loved it didn’t you? You want some more of this?!” He was shouting again.
Germany finally opened his mouth to answer and vomit spewed out. The vomit was full of blood and thick, red bile dripped off Germany’s chin and covered his uniform. Russia howled with laughter.
“You sick fucker!” He screamed and bent over laughing. Germany tried to cover his mouth with one hand while pulling up his torn trousers with the other. Russia turned around, still laughing and saw a petrified young boy, still loyally clad in his Hitler Youth uniform.
“Enjoy the show?” Russia asked. “You want a go too? Fucking fascist!” He grinned and started walking towards the boy, too scared to even move.
“N-no!” Germany croaked, stumbling to his feet. Russia turned around and looked at his enemy.
“No? No, you say? Who are you to tell me what I may and may not do?”
“Please… please punish me all you want… do not punish them. They did nothing, they were only subject to my own stupidity.”
“…fine.” Russia conceded and walked away from the boy who took the hint and ran away. He stood in front of Germany who barely had the energy to stand and kicked him back into the rubble. Germany looked up through bleary eyes at Russia.
“Death…” he muttered to himself “… how nice.”
A large, black boot came into contact sharply with the side of his head and everything was dark.
Zerbrochen (3e/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-10 11:01 pm (UTC)(link)“Of course he’s not dead!”
“What should we do with him?”
“Well. We can’t just leave him here. If he dies he’ll disappear, and nature abhors a vacuum.”
“So, what do we do?”
“…We’ll get him better. Then he can work to pay us back.”
“How will we punish him?”
“… I think we’ve learned our lesson about punishment, don’t you?”
“But, I mean, what he did to the Jews… that was just sick!”
“Yes. But there is nothing we can do to bring them back. All we can do is make sure nothing like it ever happens again.”
“What?! No! We’ve got to do something to…”
“He is going to be hated by everyone for decades to come. And no matter how much he repents later, he will never be allowed to wipe away his history. I think that’s punishment enough.”
“I don’t!”
“Well you can do whatever the hell you want to him in your section, but other than reparations and division, there’s nothing we can do.”
“… Russia fucked him up pretty badly, huh?”
“Indeed.”
“C’mon, let’s let him sleep in peace for a while.”
“Of course he’s not dead!”
“What should we do with him?”
“Well. We can’t just leave him here. If he dies he’ll disappear, and nature abhors a vacuum.”
“So, what do we do?”
“…We’ll get him better. Then he can work to pay us back.”
“How will we punish him?”
“… I think we’ve learned our lesson about punishment, don’t you?”
“But, I mean, what he did to the Jews… that was just sick!”
“Yes. But there is nothing we can do to bring them back. All we can do is make sure nothing like it ever happens again.”
“What?! No! We’ve got to do something to…”
“He is going to be hated by everyone for decades to come. And no matter how much he repents later, he will never be allowed to wipe away his history. I think that’s punishment enough.”
“I don’t!”
“Well you can do whatever the hell you want to him in your section, but other than reparations and division, there’s nothing we can do.”
“… Russia fucked him up pretty badly, huh?”
“Indeed.”
“C’mon, let’s let him sleep in peace for a while.”
<A/N>
Okay hi out there in kink-land! I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while- I checked back for comments a few days after posting the last part but saw none so I stopped updating. Came back and found a bunch so now I feel guilty. But hey! Someone other than France sexually abused Germany in this! Nice change of pace. So on the off chance that somebody bothers to read this, I hope it made you feel appropriately awkward and sick :D
Re: Zerbrochen (3e/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-14 03:11 am (UTC)(link)Poor, abused, traumatized Germany. And poor, confused, handcuffed Italy!
I wonder: Italy was on the same side as France and England in WWI, and was one of the countries surrendered to at Versailles, though they didn't drive for reparations the way England and France did. Will that come up?
I'm also thinking that America was a lot easier on Germany after both world wars (I suppose it's easier to be when you were an ocean away). Will America come into this fic at all (or was he one of the unidentified speakers in the last bit of chapter 3?)?
Author Anon here
(Anonymous) 2010-10-14 05:26 pm (UTC)(link)Yeah, America was one of the unidentified speakers (they were England, France and America. France was less demanding this time.) I decided not to give him a big part because after WWI he was like "Go easy on him, guys! He didn't do that much damage. Also, no, I'm so not sticking around to help with the League of Nations or reparations. I'm going to isolate myself and get rich!"
He was more involved after WWII with the American sector of Germany but mainly in a "keep the commies out" way and helping Germany get back on his feet while France and Russia sucked him dry. So in all, America has usually been sympathetic to Germany and something tells me he didn't get the full extent to which Germany damaged France and England or viceversa.
Anyway, sorry for rambling reply. I'm really glad that someone's reading this and that you don't seem to hate it!