Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of the characters. Rights go to Hidekazu Himaruya and distribution, publishing, and broadcasting associates. I make no money from this.

Rated M: This fanfiction contains a sex scene, and some aspects of light BDSM. If you're not comfortable reading such material, please be warned.

The Readymades

By Arlia'Devi

One: Ties and Storerooms

It wasn't that Germany hated the World Conferences. He disliked them, true – because all the other nations seemed to do was argue amongst each other and nothing was done – there were no laws passed, no problems solved. They were simply tedious. If it wasn't England getting mad at America, it was France trying to pick at England, or China telling Japan where to shove it or Russia sitting on Canada again. Greece was usually asleep, like he was now and Italy – oh, don't get him started on Italy.

He and Italy… where to begin?

They'd had this predicament for a long time. The kind of predicament where he got so frustrated and hot under the collar that the only way to deal with it was to rip his clothes off, pin Italy's body underneath his and give it to him for all he was worth - over and over again. It drove him insane – he drove him insane. The Italian, from the very day he'd met him, had this way of getting completely under his skin and making him itch all over.

Ludwig looks to the Italian man representing the northern half of his country to his left. He is doodling on a notepad while the American is half addressing the band of countries, half having a major bitch about England while he has excused himself to the toilet.

Sometimes they call each other by their real names; by their 'human' names they've coined over the centuries of life. It seemed nicer, more intimate that as they got closer, they began calling each other human names – like pet names. Yet, he does not call France by his real name, nor Romano – though Italy calls his brother fratello, predominately - because it is not proper. He has heard America and England call each other by their real names, often in their own conversations he sometimes overhears accidentally.

Feliciano sighs and rests his head on his hand, noticing that Germany has cast his gaze toward him.

"It's boring, Ludwig," he hums, flicking the pencil on the notepad. "When will it be over?"

"We only started a few hours ago," replises Ludwig. "And you're not even taking notes."

"Well you haven't either!" retorts Italy. Germany looks down to his notepad. It is startlingly blank.

"That's because there's nothing noteworthy about these conferences," grunts the German and Italy laughs

Feliciano looks to America, who was busy talking to other countries, like France and Canada. America's much too full of himself to notice what is happening amongst the European countries as he delivers his economics report – 'American style'.

"So like, America is totally kicking it with the economy,– I mean check it yo, we're so rich, and if we need money, we can totes demand it from England."


Ludwig sighs and looks at Italy's notepad again. Doing what he loves most – drawing. He's finished his drawing of his brother, who sits directly opposite him on the other side of the room. Now he is starting on something else, but he's only started the sketching for the head, and it is hard to tell who he's chosen to immortalise in graphite this time. Ludwig is in half a mood to tell the little Italian to stop messing about and listen, but America is rambling on and on, and Ludwig s barely listening to the self-indulgent narcissism himself let alone telling someone else to.

Italy hums a small tune Germany recognises but doesn't know the title. He watches him inconspicuously for the next few minutes. He is drawing his older brother, France. Germany doesn't like France much – old rivalries and different cultures are the predominant factor, but Italy has known him for quite a long time.

The drawing is very good. Italy is good at things like that. He spends much time drawing and painting. Germany appreciates it when he has the time, but being a general of a military doesn't leave much for cultural endeavours.

"I think I speak for everyone when I say we need a break…," says France suddenly as America winds down his rant. Italy breathes out and drops his pencil and leaves the conference room without a word. Probably for the toilet, Germany thinks – he knows his neighbour drank copious amounts of coffee throughout the morning knowing he was to miss this afternoon's scheduled siesta.

Germany shifts in his seat as he sees Romano, approach his brother as he exits the conference room, leaving the empty seat next to Spain who soon begins talking casually with England. Prussia has never attended a World Conference; his country was dismembered many decades ago. Sometimes he likes to hear of the gossip and Germany divulges it for him – of France being a twat, and Spain making cow-eyes at his Southern Italian partner across the table.

"Do you make cow-eyes at your northern Italian partner?" chuckled Prussia once. "Ludwig and Feliciano sitting in a tree-,"

"Finish that sentence and I'll leave you on Austria's doorstep."

Prussia had shut his mouth, and then promptly burst out laughing.

Ludwig sighs and rises from his seat and goes to the water cooler. America is standing there, talking with China – boasting and Germany does his best to ignore him. America doesn't bat an eyelash at the man, and continues talking to China. Romano comes back into the conference room, Germany notices with perked eyebrows. He crushes the Styrofoam cup and brushes past the Italian sibling.

"Potato bastard," says Romano, grasping Germany by the shoulder. Romano's eyes are open, and they're hard. He's got such a temper compared to his placid brother.

"If you hurt my brother, you'll be sorry."

Spain is watching the confrontation from across the room. The German only gives him a small nod in acknowledgement before shrugging Romano's hand off his shoulder and leaving the conference room. He half wants a cup of coffee though he's slightly thinking about making a run for it while on a break…

And then he sees Italy coming out from the bathroom at the end of the hallway. His hands must be damp because he sees the Italian style his hair with the residue moisture before Italy notices him, gives out a happy yelp and approaches leisurely.

Germany looks at his watch. There's fifteen minutes before he is due back at the meeting.

"Aye, Germany!" says Italy with a comical grin. "This meeting sucks. I saw a gelato place down the road – why don't we go, huh? Gelatooo-,"

There's something in Germany that suddenly snaps. Maybe it's because his little nation lover has styled his hair a little differently with the water, or maybe it's because the button of the top of his shirt has come undone, but something just snaps.

It. Just. Snaps.

There's a storage cupboard at the end of the hallway, and Germany swings the door open. Violently, he throws Italy down onto a spare table, hidden behind a few buckets and mop heads. He closes the door behind him and presses his back against it, breathing heavily. The light flicks on. Italy squirms against the table, his buttocks wiggling against his black trousers.

"Germany!" cries Italy, looking back at the German man as he grabbed his arms and pinned them to the small of his back. "Ah! That hurts!"

"Shut up," Ludwig growls, pushing him down onto the table. His nose presses into the cold surface.

And then Feliciano can feel Ludwig behind him, pressed against him so intimately and scorching him through his trousers. It makes him drool and he screws his eyes shut. Ludwig is so devious… so naughty, so damn right hot – because any one of those people in the boardroom can come in. They could hear them, and open the door and then one of the worst kept secrets would be out in the open. Italy had no idea the German was possibly an exhibitionist, but it doesn't feel like that - it feels dirty and hot and desperate and Italy whimpers as the German flexed his hips.

Ludwig goes for the buckle at his pants, undoing it with deft fingers before unfastening his button and fly. Feliciano's pants pool at his shoes. The cold air feels is a balm against his thighs and he feels his lover's other had caress his legs, just under the curve of his ass – just under the hem of his pink lace panties.

"Wore these… for me?" he asks. His voice is deep and seductive and makes Feliciano's ears ring.

"Yes…," he sighs deliciously.

A hand spank against his left cheek makes Feliciano squeak before it dissipates into liquid pleasure in his veins.

"Did I say you could speak?" growls Ludwig.

The Italian man's lips curved up into a smile. "You asked me a question… captain."

Another swift, hard smack and Italy staggers forward a little and bites back a groan.

"Shut up."

Feliciano knows his lover. He knows his lover well. When he feels Ludwig's erection pressed against the fabric of his revealing underwear, he drools and suppresses his moan. He knows Ludwig's turned on by this – the time he'd 'accidentally' stumbled upon his dirty (filthy) books should have given him a clue. As a military general, he's all about control and it just tickles him the right way to know he can take Feliciano whenever, wherever he wants. He's been thinking about playing that card a little more. Sometimes he sees something dull within his lover's eyes after they finish - he knows he wants something more than the blowing, then the fucking, but too scared to suggest it. Too scared to wonder if his German will change. Too scared in case he doesn't like it - in case it hurts, and he hates it, and then he hates him.

Feliciano, however, has been toying with the idea of public sex for a while now. Discreet public sex is vanilla compared to some of the other stuff he's a little scared to know his lover is into. One of his dirty books contains candles – hot burning wax candles on flesh and the thought makes his insides churn, and not in a good way.

"Ludwig…," Feliciano groans. "Someone… could…see."

He hears Germany groan out in frustration and suddenly the pressure against his behind is gone. Italy turns back to his lover only to see him loosening the buttons of his crisp business shirt and unfastening the brown tie, before rolling it into a small ball and pressing it to Feliciano's lips.

"I said: shut up, Italy. Do you want to be caught?"

Yes. No. He doesn't know. Maybe. He takes the tie into his mouth anyway and bites down onto it to relieve some of his tension. Germany's eyes are hot and unrelenting. They're icy.

His panties are pulled done none-too-gently and Italy whimpers. He doesn't want them to be torn – they are new, and they're expensive and oh! They frame his ass so perfectly. He wriggles his hips a little, so the panties fall to his feet. Germany slaps him once more and Feliciano whimpers as the same hand rubs the over-sensitised skin.

Behind him, his lover shuffles a little and Feliciano turns to see Germany reveal a small bottle of lube from his he had been planning this. Feliciano's head spins at the thought of his lover planning such an illicit activity. But then again, he went out and bought provocative underwear in anticipation for today – so fair is fair.

Feliciano drools as he feels his lover's fingers enter him. It feels so naughty and satisfying all at once - there's no real way to describe such a feeling. After three months apart, he could almost feel his virginity growing back and the muscles around his opening protest a little at the intrusion. Ludwig's tie is soiled by now. He wiggles his hips and tries to get the right angle, but it evades him as Germany shifts his fingers, thrusting them in and out slowly – just to tease. Italy bucks forward on the table, catching himself on the end. He wants to spit out the tie, he wants to yell and scream and plead his lover to give it to him like never before, but he doesn't risk it – he doesn't risk the possibility of his brother finding him, or big brother France, so he leaves it in.

Germany's fingers exit him suddenly and Italy is wrenched forward by the scruff of his blue business shirt. His cries are muffled as Germany enters him. He's slippery, warm and wet, and Germany's grunts are divine to Italy. Somewhere soon after, the German releases Italy's wrists in preference of grasping his hip and Italy reclaims his limbs, grasping onto the edge of the table and holding on for dear life.

His pace is fast from the beginning. It's unrelenting and Italy closes his eyes, grasps blindly for the edge of the table and screams into the necktie his blissful agony. Behind him, Germany swears and pants and hisses as he forces Italy's body back and forth against the table, hearing the offending object's squeaky protests.

Feliciano whimpers. Germany's hand is on his lower back, grasping his hip while he slams into him. The wet slap of flesh-on-flesh contact is a blissful, sickly erotic sound. The backs of Italy's legs are raw.

Germany pants and hunches over Italy's body. It's so tight, and he should have more lube, but the sharp pains he feels with the slightly rough, dry thrusts selfishly please him. He shuts his eyes and groans loudly. He's almost there… almost.

"Italy," he calls desperately, his hand grasping the edge of the table, beside the smaller nations as he leans over him. Italy looks up to Germany, watches his handsome face flush and contort and his bottom lip tremble. Italy's wanton and sexy and gagged and he feels so naughty, and he just wants to come.

A particularly deep thrust on the new angle hits the right spot and Italy convulses and cries out as it hits that spot deep inside him. He doesn't have time to recover as it happens again. Suddenly he feels hot all over, so hot that he can't handle it any longer. His skin is burning.

Feliciano comes almost silently, his whimpers and cries being swallowed by his lover's necktie that is partially hanging from his mouth – wet and dripping. His body contorts and arches. His toes curl and his fingertips dig into the wood of the desk. A grunt above him and erratic breathing against his neck tells the Italian his partner has received the same satisfaction. Ludwig slows his pace, revelling in the euphoric glow of orgasm before slipping out, flaccid and sated.

"Are you all right?" asks the German in strained voice, touching the Italian's cheek affectionately. Italy always likes it when Germany's like this after sex - a little bit more affectionate than usual, a little more touchy-feely and he never complains about it.

Feliciano nods and sits on the top of the table. He spits out Ludwig's tie and hands it to him.

"Ah… thank you…," mutters Germany and takes the gooey fabric and stuffs it into his coat pocket. By his watch, they have exactly two minutes to get back to the conference room.

"Do you think anyone heard us?" Italy whispers as he nuzzles Germany's neck. He makes use of the German's mood while it lasts. He is painfully strict sometimes in his 'no-touching until training' regime. He uses that dirty trick quite often because it works.

"I don't know. We have to get back. Hurry up and help me clean up the mess."

There's a small packet of wipes on the shelf – Italy realises how ingenious it is to have sex in a janitor's closet: clean-up is super easy. Germany throws away the soiled rags as Italy pulled on his pants.

"Ve, Germany, that was pretty sexy," he smiled. "I'm glad you liked my underwear."

The German offers a smile.

"Ja, well, don't tell me you didn't want it when you showed half the table your ass when bent over to get your pencil this morning. Even Greece noticed that."

"I wanted it. Very much," Italy laughs. "I can't help it. But you never used to carry lubricati0n in your pocket." He taps it and watches as his lover blushes furiously. "Car troubles?"

Germany fails to respond and Italy laughs.

"I'm sorry I was away with big brother France for so long…," says Italy eventually; his tone is sober. "I missed you."

"Ja, it was all right." Germany shifts uncomfortably. Italy takes his hand.

"Let's go. We're running late. I'll check if the coast is clear and then you can leave a little while after."

Germany nods. Italy opens the door, looks around and motions to Germany to come out. The hallway is empty, so they both approach the conference room. Italy slicks over his hair and adjusts the buttons on his shirt before following Germany into the conference room. There are still some nation representatives missing and Germany sighs in relief – they're not late.

The two take their seats again at the table as other nations filter through. Romano comes back, and Switzerland enters again – on the phone with someone. Germany reminds himself to call his brother. America enters again, talking harmlessly with England.

"Ey, Germany..," a voice calls to him across the room. It's France.

"Ja?" Everyone's notices the sudden conversation.

"Weren't you wearing a tie before?"

This is a multi-chapter fic I'm working on at the moment – basically a collection of Gerita PWPs (include BDSM, role play, etc). I aim to have about 5-6 chapters; they have continuity but can stand alone. Hopefully I'll be able to upload the next chapter within the next few weeks – its end of semester at University, so I should have time to write more soon.

If you're interested in seeing more, I'd love to hear from you! Please take the time to leave a quick review before you go.

~ Arlia'Devi