A/N: BLAME IT ON THE HETALIA KINK MEME! (Hetalia_Kink) I know that's what they all say but it's true, swear to God! Now the prompt was that when someone pulls on one of the Italy's curls, the other can feel it. Because they're ONE Italy and therefore share that erogenous zone. I'm not sure if it pertains to other erogenous zones, but for the purposes of this story I'm gonna say no. That would be too much work. :/
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or the plot really; that belongs to the anon on Hetalia_Kink that came up with this.
Charging into the kitchen at high speed, Antonio smirks when he finds just what he's looking for, standing in front of the stove in an apron (One that's only plain white, sadly enough) and comes up behind the little redheaded Italian. He's muttering to himself again, as he is wont to do, and Antonio smirks as he reaches Lovino and creeps his hands up into the subtle curves where Lovino's waist is. The tan nation doesn't even jump, and Antonio pouts just a little.
Lovi growls, but can't deny the fact that he heard Spain coming and didn't move away. You can't survive in the Mafia without obtaining spectacular hearing skills and Antonio was anything but quiet when he'd let the screen door slam behind him upon his entrance. Also, there's a floorboard down the hall that creaks something awful if you listen for it.
He feels Spain's lean arms, made of sinewy muscle, wrap around his middle just below his pectorals. Antonio's breath whispers over his neck as he murmurs into Lovino's burgundy hair, "What are you making, mi poco tomate?"
"Spaghetti," mutters Romano. "Alla puttanesca." He gasps slightly. "Oh hey Spain! You and the pasta have something in common."
"What would that be?" Antonio remarks indulgently, twirling a piece of hair not far from Lovino's neck between his thumb and forefinger.
"You're both easy!" Lovino replies as if he's giving Antonio an intense compliment. "Puttanesca, Antonio. It translates into whore. You of all people should know that." He smirks at the little, indignant sound Antonio releases into the nape of his neck, and turns around in the Spaniard's arms after turning off the stove and relocating the pot. He crosses his arms over his chest when he's met with Antonio's pouting face.
"I'm not easy, querido," Antonio says with an incredibly pitiful face. Lovino rolls up the sleeves of his white button-up, revealing his delicate-haired, tan forearms to the Spaniard's view. The Italian has a series of moles running up the right arm—four in all, that created a straight line. The Italian had once murmured something about them representing the Isole Eolie.
"So why are you here?" asks Lovino, idly watching as Antonio moves his fingers along the trail the moles form; from wrist to the underside of his elbow and back again. "If it's not for a booty-call, then what?" For the first time in a while, Lovino had been prepared to indulge Antonio's raging libido. He'd thrown on clothes that were a little sexier than usual (Hence the tight pair of pants that he knew Antonio loved to see him wear) and placed himself in the kitchen, anticipating Antonio's arrival and subsequent hunting down of him.
"It's not a booty-call," chuckles the perpetually-happy Spaniard. He tugs one of Lovino's arms loose from the other and kisses Romano's wrist, gracing his teeth over the oh-so-sensitive skin over his veins.
"Oi, stop molesting Cosenza," mutters Lovino. He tries to tug said wrist out of the grip of the Spaniard, knowing that the last time the idiota left a mark there, a power line came down in that province.
"You protest too much, querido," whispered Antonio. He places his lips against Lovino's shoulders, and his hands go to grip trim thighs. Lovino's legs aren't like that of a chicken's, but they aren't that of a world-class athlete, either. They're thin in the way that comes from a lot of running; slim and nicely round with vibrating muscles under them. His thighs barely touch together when he walks.
Antonio loves Lovino's legs, especially because they fit so perfectly in his hands.
His lips travel up Lovino's shoulder slowly, and the Italian watches in something that could be amusement. He flicks his fingers against the chest of his lover as Antonio's lips fix onto his neck. Lovino murmurs that Potenza doesn't like him much either, and that if another freak lighting storm hits the area and causes an acre of trees to burn down, Spain will have hell to pay.
The threats are empty, though. It seemed as though that region had adjusted to the every-day, love-induced blemish, and the lightning storm had happened a few years ago. And he doesn't worry too much, because the marks Antonio leaves have never caused harm to his people. As long as it remains that way, Lovino is content to let Antonio mark his skin as he sees fit.
Within reason, that is.
Antonio moves his lips around the Italian's neck, flicks his tongue under his heavily protruding Adam's apple, and behind Lovnio's ear to move his tongue over the soft skin there. Lovnio gasps, the Spaniard having just located one of his less obvious weak spots, and slumps against the stove, which is still hot. It doesn't scald him though, and the problem is taken care of soon enough when Antonio lifts him right off the floor and carries him to the adjacent counter.
"Put me down, tomato bastard!" Lovino snaps without any real heart. Because Antonio can literally hear the moaned, I need you! under the harsh words, and that's all he needs. He sets the Italian on the countertop and murmurs against his skin, "If I can't…molest, as you put it, Cosenza…what can I molest?"
"Barcelona!" Lovino cries defiantly, glaring. His legs—those thin, lovely legs—are squeezed together so tight that Antonio isn't entirely sure the Jaws of Life would be able to pry them apart.
Antonio laughs, firstly at the absurdity that Lovino just told him, in geographical terms, to go fuck himself. And secondly because the blush, the quaking of Lovnio's legs, and the pants exiting his mouth all tell a different story than his words do.
"How about…Naples?" Antonio suggests, his hand moving towards the vital regions which he can see perking up underneath the Italian's black jeans. Lovino squirms indignantly and tries to kick the hand away while still keeping his legs closed. Stupid Spain, thinking he wouldn't have to work for it.
"No," Antonio mumbles, moving his hand away at the last second. He smiles. "That would be too obvious, wouldn't it, Lovino?
"Shut up, bastard," Lovino says, but the effect is lost because he moans this, rather than growling it as he'd attempted. Antonio has just found Isernia and is playing with the nub between his two fingers. He leans down and mouths the nipple through his shirt. Lovino exhales and makes a sound resembling, "Ah! Chigi!" and has to work to keep his legs together. Antonio had wormed his way in-between what may as well be an iron clamp, so his left hand is being squished between Lovino's knees. He smiles at the minor victory.
"Still too obvious, hmm Lovi~?" inquired the Spaniard. "No, I think…I think I'll play with L'Aquila."
Lovino gasps and, before he can even think, Antonio's fingers are on his curl. Contrary to popular belief, Antonio does not abuse L'Aquila very often. He'll avoid it most times with a murmur about not wanting Lovino to built up immunity—the bastard probably doesn't realize he'd just as soon build up immunity to what the curl causes in him as what that organ between his legs does.
With only one tug, Lovino's legs have flung themselves open. He keens and leans back on shaky arms, blushing and feeling vulnerable with his legs shamefully wide and Antonio now moving to stand between them. But he could no sooner close them than tell Antonio to stop.
And that is not happening.
Ludwig stares down at the book before him, trying to get in some light reading before the day is done. The weekend was coming and that meant a break from paperwork—always enforced by Feliciano. But, thankfully, he was able to finish all of his paperwork this afternoon, so it wouldn't be on his mind this weekend.
The little Italian himself is somewhere in the large kitchen of Ludwig's Berlin home. Over the years, the Italian has come to know the kitchen just as well as his own, and now navigates it expertly as he cleans up from dinner—some dish with an excess of cheese in it. It was good, but much too rich for Ludwig to even think about having a second helping.
Feli hops over to the table after turning off the stove and sits down next to Ludwig, pulling the book out of his grasp with a playful little smirk. Ludwig lets him have the book, though makes sure the redhead doesn't throw it over his shoulder as he has previous. Feliciano, noticing the scrutiny, gets up to place it on a bookshelf and comes back to sit on the table in front of Ludwig, thighs spread invitingly. Feliciano's legs are similar to his brother's, but they have an extra layer of muscle from the training Ludwig still puts him through periodically.
And, of course, they get exercise from wrapping them around Ludwig's waist and trying to anchor himself to earth by squeezing.
"Ludwig?" he croons, taking the bigger man's hands in his own and placing one on his knee while the other goes to his inner thigh.
With a slight sigh-chuckle combination, Ludwig stands up. He shakes the table slightly, making sure it will hold up to Feliciano's weight and the activity that is to come, and when it stands as rock-solid as ever, he places his hands back on the preferred places on the Italian's body.
Quite suddenly, Feliciano moans loudly and his legs literally fling apart, displacing Ludwig's hands and opening his body to an almost shameful degree. It makes Ludwig blush and furrow his brows.
"Feliciano?" inquires Ludwig with a frown.
"Yes! Ah, ve…" Feliciano fixes him with the pseudo-intoxicated gaze of someone incredibly aroused and when his lips part, Ludwig almost expects a hiccup to exit. But all that comes out is a husky moan, his eyelids fluttering. "Ludwig…did you…touch my curl?"
Ludwig shakes his head and steps forward, staring at the long, auburn curl that protrudes out proudly from his lover's head. Sometimes, he swears the thing has a mind of its own. This is one of those times—the thing is practically vibrating. Carefully, he reaches out and pulls it, hearing Feliciano's scream in response.
"Are you going to scream the whole time again?" mumbles Ludwig, licking Feliciano's neck. Last time, the neighbors were heavily under the assumption someone or something was in danger of dying, and had accordingly alerted the authorities.
That had been a really awkward conversation.
"N-no?" Feliciano whispered, and it disconcerted Ludwig that it came out more as a question. He shouts again suddenly and his hips thrust up of their own accord, making bruising contact with the table when he comes back down. Ludwig is concerned for his tailbone for a moment, but Feliciano doesn't seem to be in any sort of pain that isn't caused by sexual dissatisfaction.
Feliciano has taken to whispering in Italian under his breath; "Cazzo mi, cazzo mi, mio dio! Cazzo mi…!" and Ludwig's hand goes to his zipper, unzipping and unbuttoning.
As expected, Feliciano isn't wearing underwear. When Ludwig thinks about the Italian's tendency to go without undergarments, it simultaneously annoys him and turns him on. On one hand, it makes undressing the Italian very simple. On the other, it sometimes makes for messy situations.
Looking up, Ludwig suddenly realizes he left the curtains of the sliding glass door open. For some reason or another, it excites him that someone could glance in from the street at any moment and see them.
"Ah!" Feliciano convulses again, for seemingly no reason, and says, "Ludwig, you're sure you're not pulling my curl?"
"No, I only pulled it once…," mutters Ludwig. He's getting slightly annoyed by the Italian's constant accusations of contact he isn't initiating. After a moment, he adds, "If I was, it would feel like this." before leaning forward to lick Feliciano's curl as he peels the Italian's tight white jeans down his thighs.
Antonio picks Lovino up again so the Italian can get off and instead lean over it, propping himself on his elbows. Team effort over with, Antonio kneels down behind Lovino and completely shucks him of the pants and underwear, tossing them over his shoulder to topple a chair. Lovino curses at him, and Antonio winces.
"Is it fucking broken?" demands the Italian, glaring back at the table set. Then he stares down at Antonio, giving him a face that obviously asks, what the fuck are you doing down there?
"No," assured Antonio. He gently parts Lovino's legs, getting him to place them about two feet apart. "It just tipped over."
"Good, that table set wasn't—ah! Tomato bastard!" Lovi's hips shoot forward when he suddenly feels as if someone has wrapped their lips around his curl. "What the fuck? How did you reach my curl from down there?"
"I didn't," chuckles Antonio, too turned on for confusion. "I haven't touched L'Aquila for a few minutes now. I'm much more interested in Sarno."
"Ah!" Lovino screams out, jerking again as Antonio sticks his face between the back of his thighs and laps hungrily at his perineum. "You asstwat, that's Salerno!"
"Isn't it ironic?" ponders Antonio, almost idly as he moves his lips from the patch of skin, backwards to the entrance that represents the Sarno River. "That this cute, pink little pucker represents the most polluted river in Europe?"
"I will fucking end you Antonio!" cries Lovino, groaning as he feels Antonio trail his tongue over his entrance. The bastard's lucky he'd fucking showered before he'd shown up. Antonio's tongue breeches the tight ring of muscle and proceeds to thrust in and out a dizzying number of times—excruciatingly slow and Lovino just knows that Antonio wants to make him beg for it.
The Italian doesn't give up easily. He waits out the torture, sure Antonio will get bored eventually and stand up to fuck him properly. But Antonio seems to actually be enjoying himself; going from Lovino's entrance to his perineum and back again, never removing his tongue and never stopping his happy hum-singing.
He's singing the Spanish National Anthem, the bastard.
Somehow, Lovino had completely forgotten that Antonio has more patience than he ever would. When the licking has gone on for more than ten minutes, Lovino finally cries out and screams, "Antonio! God damnit, stop singing about your flag and fuck me already!"
"Tú eres, bandera—That's not good enough, Lovi—el signo del humano afán…"
"Goddamnit, Spain!" hisses the Italian, thumping his head down on the countertop. He mutters into his forearm, "Pl's' m'k' l'v' t' m'?"
"You sound like Sweden, mi poco tamate!" chuckles Antonio, though he stands up and begins hunting around for the olive oil. "I cannot understand you, try again!"
"I am not your little tomato!" Lovino growls savagely, kicking one leg out in a mini-tantrum. His cinnamon brown eyes watch as Antonio roots through the pantry, looking for something to lubricate themselves with. Romano gives a whine when Spain turns around expectantly, tapping his foot. He's still fully dressed, the asshole.
"What do you say, Lovi~?"
"Oh God, Antonio! Please, alright? I need you so bad…Per favore…" Lovino groans and rests his head on his arm again, reaching down to stroke himself. "Goddamnit, tomato bastard. Why do you have to be so sadistic?"
"It just feels good to be needed, querido!" Antonio chuckles, stepping up behind Lovino after finally picking up a bottle of olive oil at random.
"That's not any of my good olive oil, is it tomato bastard?" Lovino mutters, trying to catch a glimpse of the label. He has bottles of olive oil in that pantry that had cost him more than some fine wines. There are also cheep olive oils he bought at the store for things like lubricating pans, and they taste just a little bit better than eating Pam out of the can.
"I believe it's generic brand, querido," Antonio says, staring at the bottle for a moment.
"Oh, ew, yeah that stuff tastes like motor oil. Go ahead," sighs Lovino. He turns fully towards the counter again and raises his bum slightly in response to a nudge from Spain. Antonio pours some of the oil directly onto Lovino's pucker, and Lovino gasps because the oil isn't exactly warm. "Oi, bastard!"
"Sorry, Lovi," murmurs Antonio as he slides in one finger up to the knuckle. "Deep breath, now. Relax." Lovino is always so tight; Antonio contributes it to the almost constant anger flowing through him. He never really fully relaxes until Antonio is inside him, and Antonio really does hate to hurt his precious Italian.
"Nnng, Antonio," grunts Lovino, and Antonio can feel his thighs start to shake as the strain of sex while standing startes to take its toll. Antonio will have to be prepared to catch Lovino if his knees ever do give out, which is likely to happen. The hand that isn't preparing Lovi is cupping his leg, prepared to steady him should he tumble.
"More, querido?" offers Antonio, and at Lovino's furious nod, he slides in another finger. Now he can certainly feel the constriction; just the two fingers is a tight fit and Lovino groans slightly out of a pain-pleasure combination that he appears to like more than anything else. Figuring it's the best way to relax him, the hand that isn't occupied travels up to stroke L'Aquila again.
Lovino's knees threaten to give out, but his passage gives a shudder and loosens.
Feliciano had lied; he is screaming again. Very, very loudly. But honestly, you can't blame him when Ludwig is thrusting in and out of him at such a dizzying speed, Munich slamming into the Po River and hitting the little bundle of nerves deep inside Feliciano every time. He can't help but cry out as his prostate is rubbed deliciously raw by the organ inside of him.
A scream louder than the others rings out, shocking Ludwig and concerning him slightly with the volume. He slowed down slightly and said, "What, are you hurt?"
"Fine! Don't you dare slow down!" gasps Feliciano, closing his eyes and groaning as Ludwig speeds up again. His hand goes to his own arousal, hissing as he strokes himself roughly. Feliciano is a whole different entity in bed (Or on table, as it were) and Ludwig should be used to that by now. But he still finds the sight of his usually innocent partner, laying under him and moaning pornographically loud, to be very odd but very exciting.
Then again, he shouldn't expect anything less from one of the romance countries of Europe. Every single one of them is shit on the battle field, but lions between the sheets.
Or so some old proverb of America's boasts.
Having long ago figured out what is going on, Feliciano doesn't question it when his curl twinges again, only rides out the pleasure he gets from it. Someone on the other end is playing with that connection to his brother—one guess who—and Feliciano has decided to focus on what is going on with Ludwig rather than wondering what his brother is doing.
Feliciano suddenly flings his legs up in the air, bringing them back down on Ludwig's shoulders. He's not really sure at this point what's happened to the white jeans he was wearing, but can't really bring himself to care, even if they are his favorite pair. Especially not when Ludwig grips his hips and lifts, leaning forward over him and thrusting into him at a different angle. It makes for deeper penetration than Feli can remember in recent times, and he cries out as what seems like Ludwig's entire weight bores into his prostate. It's almost painful, it's struck so hard and resonates so soundly.
After staring up at Ludwig's intense face for a moment, he finds himself unsatisfied with the fact that only a few strands of Ludwig's hair have fallen loose, and buries his hands on the blonde hair for that reason. Several more golden strands come loose and another phantom stroke to his curl makes his whole body jerk in anticipation of a release that is now imminent. He can practically feel it starting and he cries, "Ludwig, I'm coming!"
Ludwig mutters something in German that Feliciano thinks might translate into, "Good." but he doesn't really bother with deciphering it at the moment. Not when he's yelling at the top of his voice in at least three languages (One of which is Latin, of all things) and his thighs are quivering and his curl is tugged on again. He's too far gone to even tell if it's actually Ludwig or if it's his brother's curl that's actually being stroked.
"Liebling, can you look at me?" panted Germany, leaning down to kiss Feliciano's chest. He can't reach the Italian's mouth at the moment without contortion. When he realizes he hasn't gotten Feliciano's attention, he stands up and takes his commander voice. "Veneziano, look at me."
Feliciano whines, the tone triggering something deep inside of him, and slits his eyes open. It's ridicules that he expects Ludwig to be standing there in his 'commander pose', but he does and the imagery would seem ridicules later (Ludwig standing there, very serious, while his hips are still thrusting) but all he does now is giggle slightly between moans.
Leaving one hand supporting Feliciano's weight (A show of strength that makes the Italian swoon) Ludwig reaches with the other hand and gives the curl one, two, three hard strokes in times with a few very well-aimed thrusts.
Ludwig watches Feliciano's face as the Italian's eyes roll back in his head.
With only a slight wince at the volume (Feliciano absolutely squealed when he popped) Ludwig gives a few more thrusts before reaching orgasm as well.
Just as Antonio had suspected, Lovino's legs give right out from under him when he convulses in release. They come crashing down to the floor, but it takes Antonio a second to realize it as he'd been in the throes of orgasm when they'd fallen. He'd somehow ended up on his butt with Lovi in his lap, the Italian straddling him backwards. Lovino is still bracing himself on the floor, breathing heavily.
Antonio, impressed with himself that he'd caught the redhead while he wasn't aware, smiles and pulls Lovino's back against his chest, listening as their rapid heartbeats begin to slow.
Lovino leans his head against the cabinet, throwing a half-hearted glare over his shoulder at Antonio. "That the booty call you wanted, bastard?"
Spain simply chuckles and kisses Lovino's shoulder, before laying his head on it and staring into the Italian's dazed cinnamon eyes. "Te amo, Lovino."
Lovino sighs and rests his head back on Antonio's, then whispers, "You're not gonna leave me alone until I say it back, are you tomato bastard?"
"Mmmno," replies Spain, and Romano sighs as if the task will be so difficult. First, though, he crawls off of Antonio's lap (Which, in turn, makes the Spaniard slide out of him with an odd-sounding squelch) and winces at the feeling of sudden emptiness. Antonio's seed dribbles down the backs of his thighs and between his legs, and he stands up to go locate something to clean himself off with.
"You look so sexy like that, Lovi~!" Antonio informs, chuckling when Lovino sends him the death glare to top all death glares. He gets a piece of paper towel and carefully wipes Antonio's essence from his legs, and scowls when he locates a hickey Antonio left on his inner thigh.
"If something happens in Catanzaro, tomato bastard…," Lovino threatens. He walks back over to the chair, sets it upright, and slides his jeans back on his body. Antonio pouts at the covering of skin but Lovino just scoffs, "Unlike some people, Antonio, I don't just sit there with my dick hanging out," as he points to Antonio's still exposed manhood.
The Spaniard chuckles sheepishly, tucks himself back in, and zips up. Once he's confident in his ability to hold his own weight, he stands up and comes to set his hands on Lovino's waist. Lovino's hands go to cover his, but instead of taking them off (Like he'd intended to do) he found himself lacing their hands together where they lay in the curves of his abdomen.
"Te amo," Antonio whispers again, and he isn't disappointed. Lovino offers him a rare smile.
"You're ridicules," mumbles the Italian, but that's almost an endearment compared to what he usually calls him. Then he leans forward and kisses him before burying his head in Antonio's chest. "…Ti amo."
Antonio grins in triumph.
The next morning, Lovino wakes up to a text from his brother. He scowls at it contents.
Fratello! I know what you did last night. ;)
Blushing almightily, Lovino quickly texts back: …Shut the fuck up.
A/N: Haha, I was gonna mention something about IKEA furniture when Sweden was mentioned, but I decided against it. I really do hope you liked it! And…I don't know why, but when I found out Sarno River in Southern Italy is the most polluted river in Europe, I got the most overwhelming urge to make that Romano's…well, you know…asshole. (I hate the word ass. I prefer bum. But bumhole sounds like somewhere where a bum of the human persuasion lives.)
I hope I did alright with the tense. :) I'm bound to have switched back and forth, but not too much hopefully. I'm on a present-tense kick right now. :) This makes the...second, I think?
BTW—if you're the anon that first requested this on Hetalia_Kink, tell me because I now love you! ^_^ This was so much fun to write.
Again, hope you liked it! I know I didn't really provide as much GerIta as I did Spamano, but I love them both so…Sorry?
P.S.: Oh yeah...Feli was chanting, "Fuck me." lol.