k, so this fic was an entry for a contest on tumblr somewhere along the line. yeah... i dont own hetalia or nothing, or the characters. hope you gusta! :3


The Autumn I met Gilbert wasn't particularly special. It wasn't any more or less beautiful than the one before, or the one that followed much too soon after. It wasn't too cold, nor too hot to be memorable. Nothing astounding happened, there was no big news or bad news and nothing amazing startled me or warned me, as I made my way upstairs to my dorm three days after the start of semester, of the surprise yet to come. I remember stopping on the third floor landing, next to a large print by M.C Escher, and re-arranging the books in my arms so I could dig my keys out of the back pocket of slightly too skinny jeans. I didn't pay attention to the view out the window in the least, but for some reason I know that it was breezy, the afternoon sunlight was warm but the air was chilly and demanded a scarf of anyone wanting to brave it. Trees shedding amber leaves tapped on old glittering window panes. I glanced down the hall to Antonio's dorm room before mounting the next flight of stairs. He had forgotten to empty his cubby again, and a tumble of letters in the characteristic Mint green envelopes, with Italian stamps tacked sloppily in the corners, fluttered to the floor.

My key ring jingled, the culprit a small catbell I had found one day on the quad and tied to a piece of purple ribbon. When I reached my dorm and jammed it in the lock, I didn't even notice it met no resistance.

The door was already unlocked.

The man lying on my bunk looked up when I walked in and raised his hand in salutation.

"'Sup." He grinned, before returning to whatever he was doing.

By the looks of things, reading a battered copy of hustler.


He doesn't like me. That much is obvious in the way he walks and the way he talks to me, clipped and curt as though I'm a particularly nasty something, all up in his face. He kicked me off the top bunk when I arrived, telling me it was his. We fought, and in the end he stormed out, swearing he would talk to the dean and get the mess sorted out. So when he comes back, the beds are separated, no longer bunks, set one under the window, the other against the wall.

"Happy now?" I ask, dropping onto the edge of my bed. It's obvious, what with his expression, that he is not.

At least, I think to myself, watching him settle in his own bed later that night for sleep, he is beautiful. Something nice to look at, when I'm sad, and a pretty face to remind me that the world is a wonderful place.

I fall asleep smiling.


The first time he kisses me, he is drunk, stumbling into our room at three am smelling of beer, wearing a vocal lei and waving a bottle of schnapps.

"Heyyyy! It's the Little Master!" he laughs, slamming on the lights and throwing the bottle onto the desk. It spills, the stinging alcohol seeping across the surface and pooling in shallow puddles over my sheet music. "Oh…" he stares at it blearily. "Oops."

I hiss at him, furious and half asleep, because I have my first test of the semester the next morning and need my rest.

"You're an idiot!" I tell him, shoving him toward the bunk in a demand he go to bloody sleep. "I'm trying to sleep!"

"You're so could Roddy… do you even like me or what?" he flops back onto the bed and groans.

"No!" I assure him, reaching for the ladder to hitch myself up onto my own bed. "I don't! You're junior trash and you're a horrible person and-"

His hands secure around my hips, jerking me down, pulling me recklessly into his lap and smashing his open, bitter tasting mouth on my own. It is unpleasant, unwelcome, and infuriating, but it is so demanding, so devastatingly mind blowing, that once he releases me, giggling and collapsing backward in an almost instant drunken coma, I stand there for about ten minutes more, unable to banish it from my mind.


Roderich was just asking for a fucking.

I could see him, sitting there in the beanbag and reading a NationalGeographic magazine, his glasses off and his whores eyes lowered behind a weave of lovely lashes. Imagine him sucking me, licking me up, kissing and begging for my cock. His lips were like cotton candy, glistening with shy sugar and creamy soft, accented by a delicious little beauty mark I longed to kiss and touch and suck. His hair waved gently over the side of his face, his legs crossed shyly were more invitation than anything else. The anarchy of my heart in my chest was endless, raging, and I longed for him more than just physically. I wanted him like need, I wanted him so much it hurt, and I didn't bother to hide the fact I was rubbing myself through my jeans.

The noises alert him, he looked up, frowning at me, but not surprised.

"Could you do that in private?"

"How about you come here and suck me off instead?"

He rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his magazine. But I knew. I could tell, from the way his eyes began to linger on me sometimes, the way his shoving when I was in his space became softer, more considerate. It wouldn't be long, one day, he would say yes.


He's light, propping himself above me on his elbows and indulging me in a kiss, though my leg is flush between his own and the steady undulating of his body, up and down like a wave, betrays the patient kissing and tender touching as mere pleasantry. Every sinuous movement he makes gleans a huff, my hands glide through the space between our bodies, (there's still quite a lot, I wonder when he will untense, and let himself drop so we are chest to chest,) and over his stomach, caressing his waist with the tips of three main fingers. Murmuring something, his eyes flicker open, his teeth catch my lower lip.

"Gilbert…" soft, glassy eyes gemmed on my face from behind crooked glasses. His cheeks were pink, his hair dishevelled.

"Mm?" I skated my mouth along his jaw, stopping to suck lightly on the lobe of his ear.

"Be quiet. And promise me you will be careful."


"Do you mind? I'm trying to study over here!"

Gilbert poked his tongue out, evidencing that no, he genuinely didn't mind, and clicked the remote on his iPod speakers so the volume lifted a little more. A vein in my temple twitched.


"Mmm?" he took another mouthful of beer and returned his attention to his magazine.

"Please turn that off."

A laugh was the only response.

"You," Gilbert assured him, "are worse than my mother."

I gripped my pencil tightly, and tried to resist the urge to engage in homicide.


I can tell when he's feeling amorous because he props himself on one elbow beside me expectantly, and takes the initiative to kiss me first. Its shy, sure, and brief, but when he moves back I follow him, and he can always be persuaded to give more. Swift at first, he pulls away and comes back, like a tide dancing in and out, unsure of himself I meet him when I can in a strange and slow pushing and pulling motion, bringing our bodies together, then letting them fall back away. Soon he's on his back, breathing soft but a little faster than usual, his glasses slipping down his nose. His legs open out of habit as wide as they can, and I settle between them, crotch pressing to his own, still tasting awkward lips and enjoying his hands running imaginary seems absently over my sides.

There's a moment of just kissing, still with that strange push and pull, and a subtle mimicry of sex as I get us comfortable, his hips lift, as if pulled to mine by invisible string every time I moved them away. He doesn't complain when I shift back, not saying anything he watches me push up his shirt and bow my head to kiss his nipples, his chest is falling erratically but no noise has been made since he entered the room, the only thing between us is breathing. It isn't until my kisses drag down his abdomen a soft breathless sigh and an insistent hand calls me back up for more kisses, more touching, more mouth on his neck and tongue teasing and exploring territory I knew off by heart between his lips. I hitched him down by his belt; our motion becoming a little bigger was pushing him up the headboard, and dipped my hips a little deeper into his own. Charmed, he followed me up onto his elbows when I shifted back, my fingers knotted in his hair and I served him the most tongue yet, a gentle grunt mixing with a needful whine between our lips.

When I pulled away, it was obvious that he wanted to be the one in charge.

Sucking through his gritted teeth, he gave me a look so heavy with lust it surprised me, he sat up, wrestling me backward with his mouth, fingers clawing on my upper back and shoulder blades in an attempt to remove my shirt. It was gone soon, and so it was his turn, an almost excited smile visible for a split second before his expression clouded with desire again. He ran his hands across my bare skin, head tipping back as I pulled off his tee and already forcing me down again by the time it was off. I pulled him into my lap, his arms coiling around my neck then slipping away as he tilted backward onto my erection in obvious pleasure. Fair enough, I pushed my hips up, letting him ride it still clothed, and his breathing deepened, his lips parted slackly. He still surveyed me with a fierce, hungry look. It glimmered in his eyes dangerously, I swallowed, and letting him kiss me down again fell to the mattress, fingers catching in his pantline and working the buckle while his hips still waved and the bed slats beneath us complained of the shifting weight above.


"No way!" my voice lifted barely above the electric sling of guitar chords, and the flat bass voice of that Rammstein fellow I had made quite a point of hating in the past. Gilbert cupped his hand to his ear,


And with a devilish smile carried on moshing to the music. His necklace swung around his neck and I swallowed.

Because goddamn that bass…

There was something about music, I already knew this, that seemed to alter life and everything about it. Sound fiddled with the chemicals in your brain, it blocked receptors and sent surges of chemicals flooding neurons in neon numbness. It fired links and pumped blood and it thrummed through a body… I had been taught since I was very young to acknowledge this, to learn it and utilize it. And I had always believed that this something, this tangible chemical proven truth, was just that. It was a tool, a toy. Something a skilled man could use in much the same way as a hammer. I had always known it as controlled, I had always known it as restrained and formal and measured.

But Gilbert, and Gilbert's music, and Gilbert's dancing… it was something else.

It was simple and wild and undiluted, when Gilbert played his music, I had shut it out because to dip my toes in that untameable thump pump pound of adrenaline and sound was tempting fate. Because once you embraced that crazed machine of being and let every note scream, you would drown. And the boy who had crashed into his life on a wave of Metal, he was so far on the bottom he had learned to breathe the bass line and drink the howl of slaughtered instruments. Controlled chaos, a whirlwind of life and love and drums. The thought of it made me weak at the knees. Gilbert launched into the chorus as usual, the bedsprings creaking beneath him and no intention to stop. Singing loudly and aggressively, thrusting his hand to me and taking it in stride when trembling and hesitant I accept it. I am yanked onto the bed and I know the words, they come out lightly, but confidently.

As though I had written the song myself.


I'm happy to lie across him, his arm beneath my neck, his waist curves smoothly under my hand and our legs tangle easily. Its warm here, cosy, and though normally so distant he seems happy tonight to cuddle, leaning forward to kiss me without warning, a brief peck on my lips dissolving into another, then some more. The cotton of his underwear is soft under my hand, and it's nice, I like it. It's a lot warmer than satin boxers and any of that other childish sort of stuff. It's intimate and welcoming, and I pull him over, hitching his leg around my hip comfortably so I can touch his ass, his arms draping around my waist.


He had this insane thing about his nipples. It was just… whenever I wanted a change of pace and felt like being the tormenter, all I had to do was touch his nipples. Doing so tended to shock him every time, as though he hadn't realised they were sensitive areas, and it always made him breathless… And easy to control. A few kisses on the sofa and a hand up his shirt bam, he was on his back, chest heaving in time with my hands squeezing his chest. Sometimes, it was so cute I giggled, and his pale skin burned red with embarrassment. He never complained though. Not even when I ducked my head down and licked them. He never even asked me to stop when he moaned. His breath got all raggy, and more often than once he tried to regulate it with heavy huffs and deep draws that he exhaled only when my lips moved away. I'd never been able to get such a reaction from him before, and not only was it arousing it was amusing too. Comforting to know that if he ever gets on my nerves, I will have something to get him to calm right down.


Sometimes, he laughs.

He thinks that I don't notice, when I'm writing up my homework under his duress. When I'm sitting, making shitty up formulas to solve complex quadratic equations, pen cracked between my teeth and dripping blue ink over my bottom lip, I watch him from beneath my stubby fan of lashes. He sits just so, studying his Macbook air and scrolling lazily through god knows what and looking perfect in every way. Like the perfect student he is, everyone leaves him alone, they think he's busying himself, curing cancer or something. Who knows.

But then he starts laughing. He smiles in a quirky, secretive way, where only one corner of his lips pulls up and a sharp white canine is bared. His cheek dimples, and a soft lift of air carries the faintest snicker across the table.

I drop my eyes, so he doesn't see me watching when he realises he made a noise, and scratch an equation with the wrong end of my pen.

It goes on for a while, these small chuckles and snuffles of amusement, and with each one I feel more and more inclined to laugh myself. It's that smile that does it. It's so... awesome I guess. It's an awesome maniacal little smile and I know one day when he does it I will lunge at him, and ravish him on the floor in front of everyone in this room.

I will be honest. If I didn't think doing so would get my ass dumped, I would have fucked him on this table a long time ago.


He wasn't always a fan of tongue. Sure, a little was alright, but the moment in which, in his words, he felt 'something hot fat and slimy' in his mouth was an 'instant boner kill.' And it was so we learned to make do with small, shy kisses that maybe during the heat of sex would warm into something a little more deep, but always started off sweetly, with dipping tongues, teasing lips and not making it far past teeth. He makes wonderful noises though, soft, loving ones. When he's really into it, I can feel him murmur my name against my mouth, then my neck. His hands guide me down, shifting to my hip and running lazily over my thigh. Its comfortable, safe, he's around me and above me and everything is perfect. His lips trail down my chest, trailing over my ribs and missing my nipples for a much sweeter prize beneath the fly of my jeans. Once it's out, he gives one single squeeze and sucks on the cloth around my erection.

The key always scraped in the door lock at exactly the wrong moment. His Dean walks in with a new Timetable and we have to sit up, look respectable, even though all the way through the meeting I want to throw him down and ride him like a fucking silver stallion.


Roderich wasn't the most confident of guys.

Well, it wasn't that he was un-confident.

It was just, he was more… kind of sort of like… well…

I bit my lip and gazed at him across the room, chin resting in the cup of my palm. He worked studiously, glasses reflecting light from the window, mouth set in a calm, soft line. His breathtaking chocolate mop of hair was always swept so elegantly off a fine face, lilac eyes perpetually curtained by a frame of long thick eyelashes remained lowered when around others.

He really had nothing to be unconfident about, and he knew that. He just… didn't like people, I supposed. Didn't like to interact with others, especially those who he saw as beneath him. He was a bit of a priss like that, I know, but minor faults like that were over-lookable. After all, when he smiled, it was totally worth it.

He raised his eyes from his paper and set his expensive pen down carefully on the desk. With a pleased little smirk, he raised his hand, the Professor approached and they had a whispered conversation. The little smarty had finished the test. I was only on question six.

I sighed and returned attention to my paper, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He must have been allowed leave, because he was packing up his stuff. Putting pens and books carefully into the neat satchel he carried, tucking his hair behind an ear before nudging his chair under the desk with his hip. He looked über cute in the winter uniform, I thought again. The dark blue blazer suited him so well, the black pants and tie combo the icing on the cake.

He nudged me when he passed by, dropping a note onto my desk.

Meet you at Starbucks when you are done?

I smiled and nodded, he gave me the faintest ghost of a grin before flitting out the door, like a walking dream. A teenage girl's heart-throb.

My Little Master.


Gilbert didn't always stroke. Sometimes, if he was impatient, he would squeeze instead, propping himself up beside me and not bothering to even slide his hand inside my underwear. I let him, because it was then that I felt his kisses most genuine, and his intentions so true, my hand sliding over his bare chest could feel the hammer of his heartbeat, and he always took his time to attend not just to my lips but to my jaw and neck as well.

And maybe I liked the feeling of his palm clenching gently around me. But if I admitted to that he would do it more often, and when one wanted a good, hard fuck, being pulsed gently to a long and slow orgasm isn't always the best thing.

Besides, afterward the squeezing became the rubbing between my legs. Oh god I loved it when he rubbed between my legs.


Roderich is… pretty horny. It's not often I ever have to initiate sex anymore. Or um, ever. In fact I'm sure I've not initiated sex for over two months. It's always a surprise, sometimes I will be sitting in the room one evening, lounging on my bed or whatever, and he just comes in. More or less without a word he sits down on the edge of my bed and gives me this look. This sad, defeated kind of lonesome look I can't really say no to. I hold out my arms and he is happy to fill them, crawling over me and expecting to get laid before we talk bout whatever it is on his mind. I pull him down, wasting no time in disrobing him, letting him kiss me urgently and grind. Occasionally even, he ruts between my legs. Our bodies fit together nicely then, he can lean against me and I can kiss his chest, devour the flawless skin there and suckle fiercely on his nipples until his arms supporting him quiver, and his voice begins to leak in time with his breath.

Stretching like a cat he lets me space to divest myself, and he's back again, hands through my hair, kisses all over the place.

I like it when he comes in his jeans. I've managed to make him do it twice already, by pinching the small of his back and propping my knee up, to dig into his crotch.


He and I get hammered on new years. I realise it's the first time I have ever seen Roderich drunk.

"What's so funny?" I thread my fingers with his lazily and give his hand a tug. He shakes his head and laughs harder, setting his drink down on the side table and nuzzling against my chest.

"What?" I ask him again, smiling despite myself because for some reason, when he laughs like this, all silent and shaky, it makes me grin like a dick.

"Nothing." He assures me, hand rubbing my thigh. He lifts it and wipes a few stray tears of mirth aside.

"No what?" I repeat, kissing his crown.

"It's nothing."

"If it's amusing you that much, it must be something."

He dissolved into giggles again, tying his fingers in the cloth of my shirt and sniffing with every breath in. His cheeks were pink, eyes glittery and alive behind his glasses.

"If I tell you, you can't get offended."

"I won't get offended."

"Alright." He laughed a little more and snuggled against my chest. "I'm just... thinking about cocks."

"... What?" I frowned immediately. It was like every feature on my face had been centralized into a knot. He was still shaking in laughter.

"Cocks. You know. Dicks, cocks, penises..." he seemed to find the word penises utterly hilarious. "It's just... have you ever not noticed how ridiculous they look?" his laughter now was bordering on hysterical. I wondered if I was hearing it right, or if it was just his laughing that made it sound like what I thought.

"I uh..."

"I mean like, when you look at one... especially a hard one. They are all... God." He couldn't finish, clearly. His face was buried back against my chest and all I could get out of him for the next twenty minutes was "hilarious.", "Stupid looking." And the occasional "God that's fantastic."

And so I sat there pretty awkwardly, patting his hair and frowning, utterly bewildered and unsure wether or not I should be offended as well.

But every time he laughed, although I didn't quite get what was so funny, I felt my frown fade more and more replaced by a bemused smile.

"You're a nutter." I told him and he snorted. "But I still love you."


When he takes the lead, he's gentle, always very gentle.

It might start innocently, lying in bed watching a movie, or it might start dirty as sin wrapped in towels fresh out of the shower. It could start any one of a million ways, but it always ends the same.

I have to just not kiss him I suppose, because as soon as I do he takes that as an invitation to sex. It's hard mind, painfully hard. Because there are times he smiles or laughs just right and I'm helpless. Sure, he's a dick, and he's loud and obnoxious and generally faulty, but he's made of good intentions and he's great in bed, I can't really complain.

So he pushes me down, and he pulls off his shirt in anticipation and soon, somehow, we are both naked and he's smiling that little smile he does that almost looks sheepish when he goes down. He was not so good at first, but he was a fast learner and he was confident, almost too confident, the way he spread my legs and hitched my hips up, over his thighs.

He always preferred face to face, be it missionary or cowboy. We've never done it doggy style, and who am I to argue when he's pinning me down, pointing demandingly for his side table.

"Lube and condoms are in there."

I fetched them both in a hurry and he puts his hands on the headboard above me, so I can slip the condom on and slick him up. I have to bite my lip in anticipation, he pulses in my hand and always seems so stoic, when he's the boss.

"I want to try something new today." The mattress creaks when he rolls sideways. "Lie on your side and give me your leg." He takes it without warning, hitching it over his hip and smiling against the side of my neck.

"Can you take it as is?" he knows I can by now, and says it only because it gets him off. My arm, the one on the side he is draped over, reaches for his head, his lips glide the side of my chest.

The angle he enters on is new and unfamiliar, it takes me a second to adjust to, my fingers clawing in his short silver hair. But its good, after the initial surprise, it's very good. And he thinks it's good too, because he sighs softly, breath petting the side of my face.


He has this weird obsession with being touched around his ass, squeezing and stroking and groping… but the thing he seems to like most is when I jam by hand in between his thighs and rub hard through his underwear. His body always seems to come to life then, undulating over my hand in encouragement, sighing softly in delight and running his knuckles over the sides of my neck in that way that makes me hot.

He can't have all the fun though. To even the score, I preferred to squeeze. It was cute to see his astonished face the forts time I did it, and every single little jolt of surprise when I've done it every time since.


When I found myself sitting in lecture fantasizing about Gilbert making love to me, I knew that I was lost. Hopelessly, endlessly lost. I loved him. I wanted him. God knows why.

But he was mine. And I started day dreaming about the thing he had said to me before I left the room that morning, and the body of my lover waiting for me to return.


Roerich has been getting much louder recently.

Obscenely loud. And I can't figure out why. I have to be sure when I have him that our neighbours are either out or deeply asleep, because although he keeps his mouth shut tight to begin with, as soon as he stars cumming his a screaming mess, professing all amount of embarrassing things he cant really mean, can he?

But then again, who can blame him? It must feel pretty good having the awesome me inside.


"Have you ever looked at the sky?" Gilbert stopped walking suddenly, one hand jammed carelessly in his pocket, and stared upward to the Heavens with a distant, contemplative look on his face.

"What?" I pushed my glasses up my nose and frowned. "What kind of a dumb question is that? Of course I've seen the sky"

"No, I mean." He bit his lower lip, eyes narrowing as they traced the path of a bird in flight above the bloom of the forest on the horizon. "Really looked at the sky. Really, really looked at it."

"What for? It's just the sky."

And it is. Arching above us in an endless stretch of blue clouds billowing and blossoming and blowing east to west and staining with the light of a million sunsets. He sighed heavily, closing his eyes. The faintest trace of a smile curved his lip.

"I love the sky." He divulged. The wind stirred, lifting his hair from his forehead. I drew my gaze from his face to space, wherein his fancies lay, and saw nothing special. Yet I couldn't help but think I was missing something. The exultant look on his face was unfamiliar, becoming. It was the first glimpse if something truer and more perfect than I had ever seen in the expression of any man.

"Why?" I asked, still looking to the horizon puffed with clouds and beginning to hem with pink. He sniffed deeply, drawing air into his lungs.

"Do I need a reason to love something?" he replied, and the question took me by surprise. "Everyone says I need a reason for everything I do. Everyone gives reasons, everyone has motivations, everyone says that I'm wrong because I do as I do and I don't think about why. I don't care why. All I know is I love the sky." He smiled weakly and combed his fingers through his hair. "Do you know what I mean?"

I blinked, unsure how to respond to the look he was giving me. It was warm. Gentle. And uncharacteristically simplistic. I felt butterflies stirring in my chest, and raised a hand to my left cheek to hide my blush.

"… Yeah. Yeah, I really do."


The End