Italian Strokin'
Warning: Possibly explicit content
Italy is sitting above him with his legs spread, playing with his meat in the space between them gingerly as Germany watches, noting how the Italian's hand flexes and cups at just the right places.
It feels a little dirty to be doing this here, in the kitchen, especially with Italy sitting on the table so nonchalantly; but he's been waiting to learn for so long, and it would be a lie if he tried to convince himself otherwise…
"Germany, here," a voice above him coos, bringing said nation back to reality. Italy is holding his meat towards Germany. "Just do like I did and you'll be fine, okay?" He says and nudges it closer to him.
Nodding, Germany takes the offered meat into his hand and immediately feels a heat rise to his cheeks. It's warm and fills his hand more than he had expected, despite how swollen it looked (he had chalked it up to Italy's relative smallness). Italy must have picked up on his hesitance because he starts to whisper encouraging words and tips when Germany raises an eyebrow questionably.
"Ve, don't worry about it," Italy assures sweetly, "you won't break it!"
Well yeah, he knows that. Nevertheless, he can't quite push away the nervousness welling in him. Germany swallows hard and blinks at it in disbelief. Tender and pink, it's hard enough to stand alone; however, he can tell that it is leaning into his hand. Just a little harder and he'll be done.
First, though, he needs to get there.
So he strokes it experimentally, feeling for any signs of stiffening or softening (something he absolutely does not want to happen – how nerve-racking). What he truly needs is a clue on how he's doing, some sort of guidance, since Italy isn't giving him cues, only watching his every movement and humming.
He works the meat thoroughly until it's a rosy pink, finding that changing techniques ever so often helped. It's a nice firm in his grasp. Giving one last pump, Germany hands it back to Italy with a glint in his eyes.
Just the sight is making his mouth water, although he won't let Italy know; not yet, anyway.
Smile beaming, Italy grabs his meat and hops off the table, feeling around it to check for consistency before pumping a fist in the air. "Magnifico! You're even better than I thought!" And he means it. This is the firmest he's ever felt before. Moving with every bit of giddy bubbling inside, Italy joyously places the sausage on a fresh pan and slides it into their preheated oven, closing the hot door with a snap. "I should work you more often, ve?"
Germany smiles back at Italy and nods. "Ja, I guess. I've never done that before, it's always been 'tenderize' over 'harden'. But whenever you make it, it tastes wonderful," he comments while walking over to the sink and rinsing off the slime of raw meat from his hands.
Italy is practically bursting with energy. "Really? You mean it?"
He opens his mouth to reply but a pair of arms wrap around him and pulls him into a tight hug – a hug full of uncooked sausage on Italy's part, effectively stopping whatever words he planned on saying. Germany tries not to think about it and instead pats Italy on the back, mumbling, "Yes, Italy. Honestly, I'm just ready to eat."