Stages of Influence 1a/5
anonymous
February 27 2011, 05:10:03 UTC
The narration refers to them by their country names, but in dialogue, when addressing each other, they will use their human names. Sorry in advance for how bad this fill is going to be. This will have shota, masturbation, future (not in this part) noncon/dubcon, and OOC characters. Be warned and run if this isn't your kink.
fantasy
"Good morning, Romano," Spain grinned, perching himself on his knees and moving closer so his face was centimeters from his henchman's. Romano's eyes fluttered open, and he stared at Spain unsurely for a few moments (those dark, long lashes brushing lightly against his cheeks). He snarled at Spain's smiling face.
"It's not morning, dumbass." He turned onto his side, so Spain was only able to see his back. But it was morning. The sun was up and shining to signal the new day; dawn was long past, and Spain, who was normally still sleeping-not a morning person by any standards-was wide awake. "Get your eyes checked." His breathing remained uneven, though, so Spain could tell that Romano hadn't yet fallen back asleep.
Spain said nothing for a while, watching the little shifts in Romano's movements, tiny fingers grasping at the sheets and pulling them closer, tiny legs kicking the blankets away despite it all. He licked his lips, focusing on the bare shoulders and back so graciously provided for him to see.
(The arches of Romano's little boy curves were accentuated by the light in the room, shadows showing the curves where bones were present, where soft skin gathered.)
Why did his henchman tempt him so? Never before had a child been Spain's destruction, and never again would he find himself so weak. (Or so he thought.) Romano was hurting him in this way, doing things to his heart and mind that should never happen, should not exist.
Spain bit his lip, worry setting into his face before hiding behind a mask of indifference. He wasn't conquering the New World by considering their feelings, so he wouldn't conquer his lackey by considering his motives.
He watched as Romano stretched a little, undoubtedly soft skin tempting him like it always had before.
Romano wouldn't notice, would he? Romano was a heavy sleeper, a lazy boy. The chances of Romano turning around were slim, the chances of Romano even understanding what was going on, even slimmer. And there was a thrill to doing this while Romano was right next to him, a unique feeling that he loved almost as much as he loved his little henchman.
Besides-he shivered as Romano took a breath-Romano was the one forcing him into this; Romano was the one without the decency to sleep with clothes, without the thought to cover up his delicious body.
(Was God really watching now? Could He see what Romano was doing to Spain? What Romano was forcing Spain to reduce to?)
He waited for about five minutes, waited for Romano to do something or nothing, before deciding to go for it.
Spain slid his hand down the waistband of his pants. He brushed against his cock with the gentleness he imagined Romano would have. Shivering, closing his eyes, and squeezing himself with more roughness, he scratched at the (throbbing, aching) shaft and gasped.
Romano wasn't gentle at all-though he would be at first, slow and hesitant and unsure of what he was doing, because he was so young-and if Spain was more forceful, it would be more realistic, more like Romano.
Pretending the blankets were no longer covering Romano's body, he pictured Romano's cock, so small and able to fit in his hand. He imagined touching it, pressing his lips along the length and feeling blood pulsing in the veins. It would be so hot. Spain rubbed at his own cock with renewed vigor. His pants were uncomfortable covering him, and he wanted to free himself.
Hypothetically, he would spread Romano's legs and wrap them around his waist. . . but if Romano's legs weren't long enough, maybe Spain could just take him from behind. . .
Stages of Influence 1b/5
anonymous
February 27 2011, 05:11:30 UTC
More content with that mental image, he imagined flipping Romano onto his stomach so that cute little ass could wave in the air for him. Take me; take me, it would say. Romano would beg for the same thing. He imagined fondling those sweet ass cheeks (maybe spanking Romano for being such a cruel little henchman, taunting Spain every day), running his tongue down the crack and swirling it around the twitching hole.
He squeezed himself harder, biting back a moan. The taste would be a little salty, yes, but still delicious. He'd revel in Romano's cries, his trembling body as he struggled to support himself while Spain touched him.
What a mess Romano would be, if Spain had control.
Romano was beautiful, a part of the Spanish Empire that gave both nothing and everything to Spain. He was a sin, a sin that whispered cruelties and truths, a sin that made Spain do things he'd never before wanted, things he'd never before desired.
(Spain hated himself for not understanding, but he ignored any attempts to try whenever Romano came near. Why bother understanding, when he could just take, take like he was destined to do?)
Spain would part those ass cheeks and slide his tongue around that hole, in and out, around and around, until it was deliciously wet and demanding for attention from Spain's much larger cock.
He could fantasize all day about this. He'd force his tongue into Romano's hole, savoring the taste and the smell and the feeling. It would be so hot, so so hot, and it would turn him on much more than he would have already been turned on.
Romano, despite his teary eyes and whimpers, would be hard as well. He'd beg for Spain to take him, beg to be fucked in the dirtiest ways possible.
His amber eyes would be wide, imploring, and his mouth would be parted, little tongue darting out to lick his lips. That odd hair curl that stood up on his head would droop, and he'd twiddle his fingers. But, as he was Romano, appearances were deceiving. "Fuck me hard, Boss Spain, Antonio," Romano would demand after that lie. "Fuck me like the powerful Empire you claim you are."
Spain slid one of his hands under his shirt and tweaked his nipples, holding back a loud groan. (How wonderful it would be wonderful if Romano could do this for him. Romano, with his tiny hands, would grab and twist Spain's nipples until they were hard.)
Spain's fingers around his cock were hot, being gentle and being rough and rubbing at a fast pace. He was getting lost in the fantasy.
They'd both need to be lubricated enough, of course, so he'd grab Romano by the hair and pull him to a sitting position, setting that tiny mouth in front of his cock. Romano's expression would show his disbelief, slight anger twisting his face because of lack of confidence, and he'd open his mouth a little and wet his lips.
"It's so big, Antonio," Romano would say. But he'd take in as much of Spain as possible, eager to please his Boss. Romano's mouth would be hot, his tongue swirling around the head of Spain's cock. Romano would moan more than Spain (like a male nymphomaniac), lapping up the precome and sucking hard on his Boss.
Spain groaned loudly, arching his back as he twisted one of his nipples and pumped his cock. His fingers were a little cold as he squeezed his balls and tilted his head back.
He'd position himself properly in front of Romano's ass, leaking enough precome to make the process easier, if Romano's saliva wasn't enough. "Shove it in there, dammit!" Romano would yell, and Spain would be thrilled to comply. The tightness and heat of Romano's ass clenching around his cock would make it difficult to set a steady pace, but he'd find a way. . .
"You okay?" Romano turned to face him, the noise startling. "Spain?"
The walls of his imagination crashed around him, leaving cracked openings for reality to grow and settle in. Cheeks tinted a light pink, he smiled awkwardly at his henchman. His hands did not leave his cock, remained buried in his pants.
Stages of Influence 1c/5
anonymous
February 27 2011, 05:13:07 UTC
Romano stared at him, eyes wide as he scrambled as far from him on the bed as he could. Spain's mouth went dry; his heart pounded.
"What're you doing?" Romano's face was bright red compared to Spain's.
It was the expression on Romano's face, the fact that Spain had gotten caught for the first time (along with the intoxicating mental image of Romano coming with Spain's first thrust) that made Spain come hard into his hand. "My Romano," he breathed, and he collapsed into the sheets, panting. Romano stared at him, not quite understanding what had just happened.
"Idiot."
possession
He had small, twig-like arms. Spain wasn't surprised to see that Romano couldn't do chores with them (or maybe he was just looking for an excuse), but he couldn't help but keep assigning chores. He'd watch from the sides, watch as his incompetent lackey knocked down shelves and broke precious memories and spread dust and dirt everywhere.
Spain sighed.
Romano screeched, spinning around and glaring at Spain. "Stop looking at me, dammit!" The broom in his hands had somehow become a weapon, and Spain was half expecting to be whacked on the head with it. (Or at least lose another vase.)
"Can't a Boss watch his cute little henchman 'cleaning' the house?" Spain smiled, reaching forward and patting Romano on the head. Silky brown hair slid through his fingers, and oh how he would love to touch more, even though it would be wrong, wrong, wrong. Romano was so warm. "Romano?"
Face a cherry red, Romano puffed his cheeks and scowled. "Don't watch me!" His broom swung, and Spain was sure Romano was aiming for him, but his aim was terrible. The swing missed Spain and hit a small figurine instead. It shattered to pieces on the floor. The sound was petrifying, and while Romano looked sad for making the mistake of breaking something else, he glared at Spain. "Look what you made me do, you stupid, perverted bastard!"
Spain stared at the ground. "Do you need help cleaning it up?"
"I can do it myself," he snapped, rolling his eyes and bending down.
Under the bulging skirts that swished and swayed with every step Romano took were two, pale (from lack of exposure), delectable legs. Spain licked his lips, trying to resist the urge to lift those skirts higher, to see more beautiful baby skin. He wanted to see the white panties he'd forced Romano to wear; he wanted to see Romano's quivering knees when he lifted the dress.
Resist.
Spain was rooted to the spot, the sudden desire to raise Romano's skirts overtaking his body. Romano was so cute, so little. Spain wanted to touch touch touch. Tiny calves leading to knobby knees and trembling thighs and a little cock. . . He needed it.
That night, so many weeks ago, was etched in his mind.
"Let me help you," Spain found himself growling, and he kneeled to the ground and placed his hand on Romano's. Romano's hand was so small in his, so soft to his touch. He squeezed gently, a small breath escaping his lips because, yes, he had finally been able to touch.
Romano blushed and looked down (the perfect, beautiful image of the subservient henchman Spain had originally wanted-but that wouldn't be the Romano he was growing fond of), then glared at Spain. "You do it then." He stood up, and for another moment, Spain caught a glimpse of those luscious, barely covered calves. His mouth went dry, and he licked his lips to remedy it.
"Roma. . ." His fingers itched to grab hold of those fluffy skirts and drag his child down to the ground, down with him to the depths of Hell (because God condemned this love on so many levels), drag him down to Hell as he pressed his lips to places on Romano's skin that Romano would have never even thought of touching.
Oh, how disappointed God would be. But God never dealt with Romano, the beautiful child sent from a mix of Heaven and Hell, the beautiful boy who demanded attention with every deliberate action he dealt.
Romano's scowl was so pretty, and the words that left his lips, despite their ugliness, sounded gorgeous to Spain's ears.
Stages of Influence 1d/5
anonymous
February 27 2011, 05:15:41 UTC
control
"Vargas?" Romano made a face, crossing his arms and glaring at Spain. "That's stupid."
(Vargas wasn't an Italian name by any standards, and Romano probably knew it, just as he'd been catching on to the subtle hints that Spain had been dropping as of late. Still, Romano must have been hoping for a more. . . Italian name. He was Italy, or at least a part of it, after all.)
Spain patted his henchman on the head so the soft, light-brown hair slipped between his fingers. He fought down the urge to yank on Romano's hair. "It's not stupid; it's going to be your new name!" His voice was light, and he was smiling, but his eyes were purposely unreadable.
If he was going to keep Romano forever, he needed many ways to solidify their relationship. Romano was his his his, and this name change would prove that.
Romano took a step back. "Who says I want a new name?"
"All nations have human names," Spain continued, licking his lips. Romano had such a cute face. "As your Boss, I'm assigning you a really good one to show my authority."
The more authority Spain had, the less chances there were of Romano leaving. Romano had to stay with him forever, Romano was his. He couldn't risk anything, he had to make South Italy a part of Spain.
"Like you haven't influenced me enough, bastard," Romano grumbled. "You already fucking own my inheritance; isn't that enough for you?" He kicked at the ground, the pout on his face making Spain take his objections much less seriously than he was already taking them. "Besides, I already have a name from when I lived with that jerk Austria. And he'd changed it from when I-"
"I'm your Boss now, so I decide what to call you." Spain clapped his hands together. "It just shows how much you love and appreciate your Boss, right? How much control I really have?"
(Control. Control. Control. If Spain had his way, he'd hold Romano forever, he'd never let go. Those nightly rituals only proved how much he loved Romano. His sweet little Romano. . .)
"Like anyone would appreciate you, dumbass." Romano considered Spain's thoughts, a frown decorating his face instead of the usual scowl. "You reign over me enough as it is."
Spain's sight was crimson for a moment, and visions of the New World-and the land and the wealth and the power and the glory that had come with conquering it-controlled him. More more more. He needed more. "Not enough," he pushed it all aside, "because you never listen to me."
"You're a terrible boss," Romano said, as if it was explanation enough.
Spain wondered if he should be offended before deciding, at last, that he wasn't. "And as your Boss, I have complete power over you. You're supposed to do as I say, when I say it, but I've been lenient because you're a child." (Though he didn't treat Romano as a child, especially not at night, he couldn't deny it.)
They both stared at each other, and there was a brief moment of understanding between the two that they would never again share, at least until Romano was older.
". . . I still don't think I need a new name." Romano stared at the ground before looking up at Spain.
"You don't have a choice."
"I didn't have the choice to move in with you, either!" he snapped. Spain observed him with practiced distance, a neutral, oblivious expression on his face. Romano's voice grew soft. "Let me keep my original name."
Romano's original name-the one his grandfather had given him before he'd taken Veneziano and left Romano behind, the one he'd had before Austria had given him something a little more German-had been so completely him, so completely Italian, Spain could understand not wanting to let the name go.
And he would have conceded to that, too, under other circumstances, when he wasn't blinded by the scoldings of his boss, the pseudo-peaceful discussions he'd had with other empires, the fact that Romano was a child and Spain was the Boss and if he didn't have control over something when he was already starting to lose control in the New World he was going to lose everything and goddammit he needed to keep Romano.
Stages of Influence 1e/5
anonymous
February 27 2011, 05:17:08 UTC
Romano was his.
He bit his lip, considering for the last time, how this would affect Romano. He had to do it: "I don't think so, Lovino. Your name has to be Spanish because I'm your Boss."
Romano stared at him for a couple seconds as the name, hidden beneath the layers of his other words, processed through his mind. (Lovino. Lovino. Lovinare. Rovinare. Rovino. Rovino. Lovino.) Then it became very clear to him exactly what the name meant.
Spain wasn't exactly trying to hide anything.
"That's the name you chose?" Romano stomped his feet on the ground, fists clenched. His face was a light pink, slowly blossoming to a splotchy, darker shade.
Spain watched the expression on Romano's face shift from something close to tears to something else. He didn't bother trying to interpret it; he had more important things to look over, things to deal with that weren't as trivial as this. "Yes."
"Goddammit, you fucking bastard! Why would you even. . ." He clenched his fists, glaring at Spain with all his might. "Why would you fucking choose that?"
There was a short pause where Spain wondered whether it would or would not be the best time to voice his true opinions. Expressions flickered across Romano's face that Spain never had the ability to interpret.
"It's appropriate," Spain smiled, an innocent look falsely dancing in his eyes, despite the full knowledge that Romano was insulted and hurt and would despise the name and its connotation until the day when Spain would take it away and change it, "don't you think?"
Romano screeched. His eyes seemed teary, but Spain forced his mind away from the situation and refused to look into it. Didn't Romano see? The name would bring them closer, would show that Spain was the one with the greatest role in Romano's life.
"Appropriate, my ass! One day I'll be independent from you and your stupid house and you'll see! I'm not keeping a dumb name like this! You wait!"
(That day of Romano's supposed independence, of course, was a long time coming. Spain would be in charge of South Italy for a long time, and he would make his influence impossible to ignore.)
Spain clucked his tongue, ending the discussion. He had work to do. "You're so very cute, Lovino Vargas. So very cute indeed."
communication
Romano licked his lips, the usual frown adorning his features as Spain watched his little henchman interact with the guard. The words flowing from Romano's mouth were an odd combination of Spanish and Italian. The language was beautiful, yes, but it was still very odd.
"Lovino," Spain called, waiting until the guard had left to ask for Romano's attention. "Come here."
Fiddling with the collar of his shirt, he started toward his Boss. Romano's cute little lips were pouty, and Spain resisted the urge to kiss Romano again. Romano wasn't ready to reciprocate yet, Spain didn't think.
"What?" he snapped, his hands on his hips like a little girl.
Spain's grin slipped from his lips when he remembered he was supposed to be serious at the moment. Thinking of serious matters (the New World, his armada, gold), he pressed, "Speak to me in Italian."
Romano stared at Spain for a long time, an unreadable expression on his face. "Why?" he said finally.
Thinking of a quick excuse wasn't one of Spain's fortes, but he managed, somewhat. "I haven't heard you speak in Italian in a long time, Lovino. It's always Spanish."
"Because you said I couldn't speak Italian anymore, dumbass!" Romano's glare was fierce, but his voice shook a little toward the end of his exclamation. "You said. . ." His hands clenched into fists, and his voice became more desperate. "You said I'm never supposed to speak Italian around you!"
Spain was surprised that Romano had taken his threats so seriously. "For now, at least, let's talk Italian. I'll start, if you want."
Stages of Influence 1f/5
anonymous
February 27 2011, 05:19:36 UTC
Romano looked at the ground before letting out a huffy breath. "Stupid bastard. Fine." He bit his lip before speaking, and the words that left his tongue were neither Spanish nor Italian, a peculiar blend of the languages becoming a dialect of the language Romano once called his own.
"Lovino?" Spain was a little annoyed. Whatever Romano had just said, it hadn't been the Italian he'd been so adamant about speaking when they'd first begun living together. "I told you that you can speak Italian now. So speak it for Boss, alright?"
"I just did!" Stomping his foot, Romano let out a barrage of curses, a mix of Spanish and the odd little not-Italian (dialect) thing he was now speaking. "There!" he snapped at the end of his tirade. "Are you fucking happy?"
Sighing, Spain let out an impatient breath. "Fine, Lovi, don't speak Italian for Boss. That was your last chance."
"I just fucking spoke it!" Romano growled, his glare even more powerful than before. "Fuck you!"
Spain had made it a rule-especially after how difficult it had been to teach Romano the language-that any part of the Spanish Empire had to speak Spanish, or he'd punish them. He'd never had the intention on punishing Romano. (Numerous times, though, he'd had to discipline the New World countries.) With light, pattering footsteps, Romano fled from the room.
"Lovino!" Spain called after him, following his lackey away.
"Don't call me that!" his voice carried to Spain's ears, and Spain was only a little relived to hear it was the Spanish Romano had been forced to speak.
--
Future warnings for shota and non-con/dub-con coming from an inexperienced writer.
Yes, I am aware that I don’t know how to write and this fic makes no sense and it kind of sucks. I’m pretty sure this is all plotless crap basically dragging this story on until there actually will be the promised smut the prompt is asking for. (It will be here, OP. Just. . . I suck and I’m pulling this story down with unnecessary stuff. *dies*)
But I have an unhealthy love for a kink regarding shota and this prompt. XD And I lovelovelove the art fill that has already been posted. I had already been writing this when that was posted, and it inspired me to keep going. If you don’t like this, I guess you can tell me. But it has to be for a legitimate reason rather than a general dislike for shota.
And I’m so sorry Spain is so ridiculously OOC. *fail* I hope you still enjoyed this; the next part should (hopefully) be coming soon.
Re: Stages of Influence 1f/5
anonymous
February 27 2011, 07:06:27 UTC
Wait what does Lovinare mean? I am confused.
Also what language is romano speaking? Is it a dialect from south italy or has he just been speaking Spanish for so long that he forgot his own language?
Sorry confused!anon is so confused. But I really like it so far. Especially the beginning hehehe can't wait to see more.
Random Passerby!Anon
anonymous
February 27 2011, 08:50:22 UTC
Lovino/Rovino means "to ruin". Spain calls him this because-- obviously --Romano has basically broken all of the rules, as far as banging children goes.
Not sure about the second part, but I'm tempted to sayyyyyyy...Latin-ish something something? It's late and I am tired and not in a thinking frame of mind. oTL
Re: Stages of Influence 1f/5
anonymous
March 8 2011, 01:29:42 UTC
Actually, Southern Italian dialects can be very different from Northern/Official Italian, much more slang-y. I guess you could compare it roughly to the accents of the Deep South vs. the East Coast in America; it's technically the same language, but has a lot of differences that can be confusing.
Stages of Influence 2a/5
anonymous
March 5 2011, 19:12:15 UTC
affliction
The sheets were tangled in his legs, twisting around him and sticking to his skin. It was hot, uncomfortable, oppressive. He could barely breathe, it was so stifling; he wanted to make it stop.
How could Romano sleep so comfortably when Spain couldn't manage to keep his eyes closed for more than a couple seconds? Romano's breathing was even, calm. Most times, it had enough of a melody to act as a lullaby and help him through the night. This time, though, it didn't seem to be working.
(Was God punishing him? Surely the love he felt for Romano wasn't as wrong as it was made out to be. Romano was his angel, his beautiful angel. Was it so wrong for Spain to love his little angel?)
He turned onto his side, tracing with his eyes the outline of his little lackey's body. Every curve was so clear and white in the moon's glow, and Spain licked his (dry, hungry, craving) lips. Romano's dark lashes fluttered, but his eyes remained closed, and his rose petal lips were slightly parted for air. A small moan escaped the boy, and Spain shivered in the heat.
Romano. Romano. Romano. Lovino. Lovino. Lovino.
Spain knew what he wanted. It was evident from the way his body had stiffened, from the way his cock had every so slightly stirred through his pants. He was tempted, oh so very tempted, to take Romano then and there-and what fun it would be, to have that usual sex with Romano while he was sleeping and oblivious-but he craved something different from his normal behavior.
He wanted reciprocation, this time.
"Lovino?" His hand shot out before he had time to think his plan through, and he was shaking Romano's shoulder with the signature roughness that he was beginning to associate with his henchman. Spain gathered himself and sat on his knees near his lackey's sleeping figure, peering over Romano. "Lovino?"
It took all of two seconds for Romano to shoot up from the bed. "What the hell?" Romano demanded, shooting a fierce glare despite his half-awoken state. "Spain?"
"Are you mocking me?" He chucked a pillow at Spain's head, mouth set in a straight line. "Why'd you wake me up?" The windows let in enough moonlight so Spain could see everything.
The blankets were pooled at Romano's waist, but he could still see the outline of Romano's tiny penis. (And he both thanked and cursed God that Romano slept naked.) His gaze was centered there for a while, and he dragged his vision up, up, up, so it was settled on two cute candy nipples, perked up and demanding Spain to touch.
His breath caught-and, God, the room was sweltering-and his cock jerked when his vision honed in on Romano's cock again, imagining how it would fit in his mouth, how fun it would be to play, how Romano would cry out with wide eyes. . . Imagination wandering, he could imagine parting those lily white legs (only in this darkness was that the case, otherwise, Romano had tanned skin) and squeezing that ass and-
"Touch me, Lovino," Spain said, voice husky. (He felt as though he was damning himself more than he already had.) His fingers itched to yank aside the blanked and take Romano, unprepared, despite the blood and pain it would bring.
Romano sat up a little. "What?"
Spain grabbed Romano's hands-such soft, tiny hands-and pressed them to his chest. Romano's fingers were splayed out, his sweet baby skin clashing with Spain's tanned skin, and the heat radiating onto Spain's body from that touch was enough to make him go wild. "Here. Touch me."
Romano pulled his hands back with an immediate, "What the hell?"
"Lovino," Spain pleaded, scrambling closer to his lackey. He wrapped his hand around Romano's again, squeezing it gently. He led it back to his heart, dragging it down his chest, pausing a little at the nipple and leaving Romano's hand there. "I need you."
Romano was confused more than anything, and it was apparent when his hesitant fingers trailed over Spain's torso to echo the earlier movements. Spain groaned.
"Do this for Boss, please?" he begged. He ran one of his hands through Romano's hair, the silken strands sliding out of his grasp so easily.
Stages of Influence 2b/5
anonymous
March 5 2011, 19:14:44 UTC
". . . No one else is as good as you."
Romano perked up a little at that, though his hands (how dare they?) stopped moving. "Damn right I can do it best." He bit his lip and looked down in thought. Spain couldn't have that happen.
He reached for Romano's hands again, placing them on his body once more. "So you'll do this for Boss?" Spain asked, hope shining in his eyes.
"Why do you want me to touch you?" Romano's fingers tweaked Spain's nipple and circled around it. His other hand sort of just rested on Spain's abdomen. It felt wonderful. "It's weird."
Spain snarled-and it surprised him, because he never snarled before near Romano and it couldn't be healthy and what was Romano doing to him, dragging him to the depths of Hell in desperation (lust, love) for a child-clenching his hand around Romano's arm and yanking him closer.
Lovino, Lovino, how you ruin me.
"I'm not sitting on your lap, dumbass!" Romano shrieked, flailing so his little penis was innocuously (but not really) rubbing against Spain's skin.
Spain sighed but said nothing; Romano settled down. As expected.
Romano did, however, pull himself off Spain's lap to kneel on the bed. His and Spain's knees brushed against each other as Romano reached up to touch Spain's body. They were facing each other, so Spain could see everything he wanted.
Everything.
Romano's face was red, and he looked like he was concentrating hard. He bit his lip and ran his fingers down the center of Spain's chest, seemingly unaffected by Spain's gasps and slowed breathing. Spain's fingers tingled with the urge to grab the cock that seemed so intent on parading itself in front of him. He wanted to flip his henchman over and part those sweet little ass cheeks and shove his own cock straight into this writhing (crying, most likely, at that point) child.
Romano pinched the tips of Spain's nipples in curiosity more than anything, dragging his fingers over the sensitive skin before pulling back and considering what he was doing. Tilting his head, Romano started tracing his fingers over Spain's skin in a pattern, like he was drawing or writing.
(When Romano was older, perhaps, they would slide their tongues across each other's skin, tracing out words of love and declarations of affection.)
Spain let out a breathy moan, leaning toward Romano and pulling Romano's hands so they pressed harder against his skin. "More."
Both of Romano's hands lay flat on Spain's chest, and he looked up at Spain. His hazel-but weren't they brown-eyes shone with pride, and he smiled a little.
"More."
Romano sat still for a moment before letting his hands drop to Spain's waist, and then to Spain's abdomen. His fingers were light, breezy, at some points, but there were other moments where he would literally drag his palms across Spain's skin, teasing him.
With a growl, Spain pulled Romano's hands closer to the waistband of his pants. Romano's tiny fingers taunted him, unsure of whether or not to move. Spain was so very tempted to shove Romano's hands down there to rub and squeeze his cock. His warm hands would touch all the right places, pumping and brushing and-
"That good?" Romano asked, cutting into his thoughts.
Spain felt a lover's fondness and lusty desire battling for control of his body. The right thing for a Boss to do would be to coddle Romano and stop him there. The right thing for a Boss to do would be to kiss Romano's hair and tell him to sleep. The religious thing to do would be to leave Romano alone. Romano was a boy, a child. Spain felt like he was betraying someone, but at the same time, when he was with Romano, everything felt right.
He gulped, saliva somehow going down his throat when his mouth was so dry. "More than good," he managed.
Romano beamed, and Spain's heart twisted.
The petite body in front of him was spread out for him to take take take. He was a Boss, a Conquistador, he had to take. Take his henchman and fuck him so hard he passed out. Take his henchman and run his hands (and mouth) over every inch of that delectable body. Take his henchman and corrupt him. Spain was no longer innocent; Romano no longer needed to be.
Stages of Influence 2c/5
anonymous
March 5 2011, 19:15:43 UTC
Spain narrowed his eyes, the predatory noise escaping his throat stopping Romano from talking. "Lovino. . ."
Moving so quickly Romano barely had time to react, Spain pounced, shoving his lackey so Romano was lying against the mattress again. He climbed on top of Romano-so his knees were on both sides of Romano's thighs, keeping him down but not hurting him (he could never hurt this child)-towering over him, looking down on him. Spain's fingers dug into Romano's wrists, which were pressed near the child's head, and Romano squirmed, eyes wide.
"Bastard!" Romano kicked his legs and tried to pull out from under his Boss. His struggles made Spain chuckle a little. This was much more fun than his late night escapades. Much. More. Fun. "Get the hell off-"
Spain brought his mouth lower, to suck the sweet skin of Romano's baby chest. Delicious, he breathed in the smell. Delicious, he relished the taste. Delicious, he bit down, intending to mark the skin as his own. Romano gasped and tried harder to pull back.
"Spa-ain!" he whined, arching his back and crying out. Spain blew a gentle kiss against the nipple he'd just attacked. "What are you doing?"
"You did so well before," Spain explained, "I'm rewarding you, Lovino." Romano didn't look convinced, and Spain didn't want to have to hurt him. "Let me show you how you made me feel, okay?"
Romano stared at the ceiling behind Spain's head. (Of course he believed Spain. Spain was his Boss, his protector. Spain had never wronged him before-or so Romano thought-so Spain had no reason to hurt him now. Well. That was what Spain told himself.)
"Maybe. . . Another time. . ." Romano stared at him for a while, uneasy.
Another time? Did he get the option to choose when? Spain considered this, for a moment, before nodding vigorously and releasing his hold on Romano's arms. Romano jumped away from him.
Spain sighed, a pout adorning his features when he noticed Romano's suspicious expression. With a quiet voice, he said (whether to comfort himself or Romano, he didn't know), "I would never hurt you. Never."
reason
"Are you sure I can't have him?" France smiled cordially, tapping his fingers against his thigh. Spain stared at the sky, listening to Romano's shouts and footsteps against the ground.
"He's mine, Francis," he said, stretching a grin across his lips. Underneath his tone was an easygoing threat, and he chuckled, allowing his eyes to trace every movement Romano made. He clenched his fists, and clumps of grass disconnected from the ground and gathered in his hands. "Mine."
"Weren't you so eager to trade him for Veneziano, not too long ago?" France didn't look at Spain; Spain didn't look at France.
"I didn't understand Lovino before." But Spain wondered whether he understood his henchman now or if he just pretended, lied. (Romano's skirt fluttered in the wind, his curl bobbing. A pretty scowl danced across Romano's face, and Spain licked his lips.) He would love to understand every part of Romano, and, in turn, have Romano understand everything about himself.
That was what love was.
"Why would you name him Lovino, then," France pouted, leaning back so he was supporting his weight on his hands, "if you were planning on keeping him for so long?"
Spain frowned, not saying anything, trying to think. What was there to say, besides?
"Why would South Italy want to remain a part of your Empire, in the future, if you would name him something so cruel now?"
Stages of Influence 2d/5
anonymous
March 5 2011, 19:18:33 UTC
appearance
"Tie this for me, dumbass," Romano demanded, tugging at the ribbon at the collar of his shirt.
Spain swallowed. When had Romano grown to be so big? Since when had Romano been tall enough, filled out enough, to wear Spain's shirts? Romano still looked like a child, had to have been under thirteen. "Sure. Come here." His fingers itched to brush Romano's skin.
Romano stomped over-parading himself in front of Spain like the gorgeous little devil child he was-and let out a breath, tapping at the base of his neck, where the fabric lay wide like an open door. Perfectly tanned skin lay available for Spain to view and touch and lick and suck, and oh, he almost did.
"Don't make it too tight."
Spain nodded, taking the thread in both hands and trying to calm his frantic heart. He wet his lips, his gaze switching back and forth from Romano's chest to Romano's eyes, unable to decide which he preferred looking at. "You don't have to wear Boss's clothes if you don't want to, Lovino."
"I know." Romano slapped Spain's hands away, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. The touch of their skin made Spain's breathing catch.
"So. . . Why are you wearing my clothes? They're certainly large on you."
Yes, they were large, but Spain adored the way Romano looked. The thin fabric hung loose over Romano's hands, barely shielding his fingers (and delicious, supple skin) from view. The smallest movement Romano made would make the cloth ruffle around him (similar to how he'd looked so beautiful in the dress), and with those movements, Spain would try and catch the fabric clinging to the best places on Romano's body.
"Yeah, but. . ." Romano frowned. "I'm not gonna wear that fucking dress anymore. I look like I'm twelve now"-ah, so that's how old Romano was supposed to be-"and it's weird."
"I could have clothes made for you, if you want."
Romano centered his gaze on the floor, uncrossing his arms and twiddling with the bottom of his shirt. Then, he pouted his lip and scowled. "It's not that I want to wear your clothes. It's just that you're poor and stupid, and I know this'll make things easier for you. . . Not that I care if things are easy for you. Because I don't. You could die right now and it wouldn't even matter."
Spain patted his heart, oddly flattered by Romano's words. (And purposely ignoring the mean ones.) A light blush dusted his cheeks. "I'll remember that, Lovino."
"Don't!" Romano shrieked, stomping his foot. "You're over thinking it!"
With a shrug and a smile, Spain dropped the subject. "Well, you look very nice." He watched as Romano's face transitioned from pink to red within seconds. How cute. He stood up, clapping his hands together and preparing for different matters, like with his boss and with other nations. At the threshold of the kitchen and hallway, he smirked and glanced back at Romano. "You look like me."
Romano stared at Spain for a moment, dumbfounded, before managing to collect himself. "I wasn't aiming for that, bastard! Don't say that kind of shit!"
singular
Spain knew he was glaring at the child, impatience growing in a way it never had when he was with Romano. "México!" His words were harsh, his voice strong and angry. He didn't know what México had done to warrant this type of anger, but he couldn't help it.
All he could see was red.
There was fear present all over México's face. The figure emerging from darkness to become presentable in Spain's eyes was not ugly, but Spain did not see the same beauty he saw in Romano. There were similarities between the two children, naturally, and yet all Spain could see were the differences. He was taking out his anger and hatred on this child in the New World, when it was unwarranted.
It wasn't fair, but everyone knew that Spain did not treat the nations in his Empire the same way. He fondled Romano, gave him love and kisses (and in turn, Romano had an unhealthy, unknown hold on Spain), while hurting the children in the New World.
He couldn't remember a visit to the New World that didn't end with blood.
"Go away," Spain demanded, at last. He didn't know why he had called for México in the first place.
fantasy
"Good morning, Romano," Spain grinned, perching himself on his knees and moving closer so his face was centimeters from his henchman's. Romano's eyes fluttered open, and he stared at Spain unsurely for a few moments (those dark, long lashes brushing lightly against his cheeks). He snarled at Spain's smiling face.
"It's not morning, dumbass." He turned onto his side, so Spain was only able to see his back. But it was morning. The sun was up and shining to signal the new day; dawn was long past, and Spain, who was normally still sleeping-not a morning person by any standards-was wide awake. "Get your eyes checked." His breathing remained uneven, though, so Spain could tell that Romano hadn't yet fallen back asleep.
Spain said nothing for a while, watching the little shifts in Romano's movements, tiny fingers grasping at the sheets and pulling them closer, tiny legs kicking the blankets away despite it all. He licked his lips, focusing on the bare shoulders and back so graciously provided for him to see.
(The arches of Romano's little boy curves were accentuated by the light in the room, shadows showing the curves where bones were present, where soft skin gathered.)
Why did his henchman tempt him so? Never before had a child been Spain's destruction, and never again would he find himself so weak. (Or so he thought.) Romano was hurting him in this way, doing things to his heart and mind that should never happen, should not exist.
Spain bit his lip, worry setting into his face before hiding behind a mask of indifference. He wasn't conquering the New World by considering their feelings, so he wouldn't conquer his lackey by considering his motives.
He watched as Romano stretched a little, undoubtedly soft skin tempting him like it always had before.
Romano wouldn't notice, would he? Romano was a heavy sleeper, a lazy boy. The chances of Romano turning around were slim, the chances of Romano even understanding what was going on, even slimmer. And there was a thrill to doing this while Romano was right next to him, a unique feeling that he loved almost as much as he loved his little henchman.
Besides-he shivered as Romano took a breath-Romano was the one forcing him into this; Romano was the one without the decency to sleep with clothes, without the thought to cover up his delicious body.
(Was God really watching now? Could He see what Romano was doing to Spain? What Romano was forcing Spain to reduce to?)
He waited for about five minutes, waited for Romano to do something or nothing, before deciding to go for it.
Spain slid his hand down the waistband of his pants. He brushed against his cock with the gentleness he imagined Romano would have. Shivering, closing his eyes, and squeezing himself with more roughness, he scratched at the (throbbing, aching) shaft and gasped.
Romano wasn't gentle at all-though he would be at first, slow and hesitant and unsure of what he was doing, because he was so young-and if Spain was more forceful, it would be more realistic, more like Romano.
Pretending the blankets were no longer covering Romano's body, he pictured Romano's cock, so small and able to fit in his hand. He imagined touching it, pressing his lips along the length and feeling blood pulsing in the veins. It would be so hot. Spain rubbed at his own cock with renewed vigor. His pants were uncomfortable covering him, and he wanted to free himself.
Hypothetically, he would spread Romano's legs and wrap them around his waist. . . but if Romano's legs weren't long enough, maybe Spain could just take him from behind. . .
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More content with that mental image, he imagined flipping Romano onto his stomach so that cute little ass could wave in the air for him. Take me; take me, it would say. Romano would beg for the same thing. He imagined fondling those sweet ass cheeks (maybe spanking Romano for being such a cruel little henchman, taunting Spain every day), running his tongue down the crack and swirling it around the twitching hole.
He squeezed himself harder, biting back a moan. The taste would be a little salty, yes, but still delicious. He'd revel in Romano's cries, his trembling body as he struggled to support himself while Spain touched him.
What a mess Romano would be, if Spain had control.
Romano was beautiful, a part of the Spanish Empire that gave both nothing and everything to Spain. He was a sin, a sin that whispered cruelties and truths, a sin that made Spain do things he'd never before wanted, things he'd never before desired.
(Spain hated himself for not understanding, but he ignored any attempts to try whenever Romano came near. Why bother understanding, when he could just take, take like he was destined to do?)
Spain would part those ass cheeks and slide his tongue around that hole, in and out, around and around, until it was deliciously wet and demanding for attention from Spain's much larger cock.
He could fantasize all day about this. He'd force his tongue into Romano's hole, savoring the taste and the smell and the feeling. It would be so hot, so so hot, and it would turn him on much more than he would have already been turned on.
Romano, despite his teary eyes and whimpers, would be hard as well. He'd beg for Spain to take him, beg to be fucked in the dirtiest ways possible.
His amber eyes would be wide, imploring, and his mouth would be parted, little tongue darting out to lick his lips. That odd hair curl that stood up on his head would droop, and he'd twiddle his fingers. But, as he was Romano, appearances were deceiving. "Fuck me hard, Boss Spain, Antonio," Romano would demand after that lie. "Fuck me like the powerful Empire you claim you are."
Spain slid one of his hands under his shirt and tweaked his nipples, holding back a loud groan. (How wonderful it would be wonderful if Romano could do this for him. Romano, with his tiny hands, would grab and twist Spain's nipples until they were hard.)
Spain's fingers around his cock were hot, being gentle and being rough and rubbing at a fast pace. He was getting lost in the fantasy.
They'd both need to be lubricated enough, of course, so he'd grab Romano by the hair and pull him to a sitting position, setting that tiny mouth in front of his cock. Romano's expression would show his disbelief, slight anger twisting his face because of lack of confidence, and he'd open his mouth a little and wet his lips.
"It's so big, Antonio," Romano would say. But he'd take in as much of Spain as possible, eager to please his Boss. Romano's mouth would be hot, his tongue swirling around the head of Spain's cock. Romano would moan more than Spain (like a male nymphomaniac), lapping up the precome and sucking hard on his Boss.
Spain groaned loudly, arching his back as he twisted one of his nipples and pumped his cock. His fingers were a little cold as he squeezed his balls and tilted his head back.
He'd position himself properly in front of Romano's ass, leaking enough precome to make the process easier, if Romano's saliva wasn't enough. "Shove it in there, dammit!" Romano would yell, and Spain would be thrilled to comply. The tightness and heat of Romano's ass clenching around his cock would make it difficult to set a steady pace, but he'd find a way. . .
"You okay?" Romano turned to face him, the noise startling. "Spain?"
The walls of his imagination crashed around him, leaving cracked openings for reality to grow and settle in. Cheeks tinted a light pink, he smiled awkwardly at his henchman. His hands did not leave his cock, remained buried in his pants.
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Romano stared at him, eyes wide as he scrambled as far from him on the bed as he could. Spain's mouth went dry; his heart pounded.
"What're you doing?" Romano's face was bright red compared to Spain's.
It was the expression on Romano's face, the fact that Spain had gotten caught for the first time (along with the intoxicating mental image of Romano coming with Spain's first thrust) that made Spain come hard into his hand. "My Romano," he breathed, and he collapsed into the sheets, panting. Romano stared at him, not quite understanding what had just happened.
"Idiot."
possession
He had small, twig-like arms. Spain wasn't surprised to see that Romano couldn't do chores with them (or maybe he was just looking for an excuse), but he couldn't help but keep assigning chores. He'd watch from the sides, watch as his incompetent lackey knocked down shelves and broke precious memories and spread dust and dirt everywhere.
Spain sighed.
Romano screeched, spinning around and glaring at Spain. "Stop looking at me, dammit!" The broom in his hands had somehow become a weapon, and Spain was half expecting to be whacked on the head with it. (Or at least lose another vase.)
"Can't a Boss watch his cute little henchman 'cleaning' the house?" Spain smiled, reaching forward and patting Romano on the head. Silky brown hair slid through his fingers, and oh how he would love to touch more, even though it would be wrong, wrong, wrong. Romano was so warm. "Romano?"
Face a cherry red, Romano puffed his cheeks and scowled. "Don't watch me!" His broom swung, and Spain was sure Romano was aiming for him, but his aim was terrible. The swing missed Spain and hit a small figurine instead. It shattered to pieces on the floor. The sound was petrifying, and while Romano looked sad for making the mistake of breaking something else, he glared at Spain. "Look what you made me do, you stupid, perverted bastard!"
Spain stared at the ground. "Do you need help cleaning it up?"
"I can do it myself," he snapped, rolling his eyes and bending down.
Under the bulging skirts that swished and swayed with every step Romano took were two, pale (from lack of exposure), delectable legs. Spain licked his lips, trying to resist the urge to lift those skirts higher, to see more beautiful baby skin. He wanted to see the white panties he'd forced Romano to wear; he wanted to see Romano's quivering knees when he lifted the dress.
Resist.
Spain was rooted to the spot, the sudden desire to raise Romano's skirts overtaking his body. Romano was so cute, so little. Spain wanted to touch touch touch. Tiny calves leading to knobby knees and trembling thighs and a little cock. . . He needed it.
That night, so many weeks ago, was etched in his mind.
"Let me help you," Spain found himself growling, and he kneeled to the ground and placed his hand on Romano's. Romano's hand was so small in his, so soft to his touch. He squeezed gently, a small breath escaping his lips because, yes, he had finally been able to touch.
Romano blushed and looked down (the perfect, beautiful image of the subservient henchman Spain had originally wanted-but that wouldn't be the Romano he was growing fond of), then glared at Spain. "You do it then." He stood up, and for another moment, Spain caught a glimpse of those luscious, barely covered calves. His mouth went dry, and he licked his lips to remedy it.
"Roma. . ." His fingers itched to grab hold of those fluffy skirts and drag his child down to the ground, down with him to the depths of Hell (because God condemned this love on so many levels), drag him down to Hell as he pressed his lips to places on Romano's skin that Romano would have never even thought of touching.
Oh, how disappointed God would be. But God never dealt with Romano, the beautiful child sent from a mix of Heaven and Hell, the beautiful boy who demanded attention with every deliberate action he dealt.
Romano's scowl was so pretty, and the words that left his lips, despite their ugliness, sounded gorgeous to Spain's ears.
It was the first night Spain took his henchman.
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control
"Vargas?" Romano made a face, crossing his arms and glaring at Spain. "That's stupid."
(Vargas wasn't an Italian name by any standards, and Romano probably knew it, just as he'd been catching on to the subtle hints that Spain had been dropping as of late. Still, Romano must have been hoping for a more. . . Italian name. He was Italy, or at least a part of it, after all.)
Spain patted his henchman on the head so the soft, light-brown hair slipped between his fingers. He fought down the urge to yank on Romano's hair. "It's not stupid; it's going to be your new name!" His voice was light, and he was smiling, but his eyes were purposely unreadable.
If he was going to keep Romano forever, he needed many ways to solidify their relationship. Romano was his his his, and this name change would prove that.
Romano took a step back. "Who says I want a new name?"
"All nations have human names," Spain continued, licking his lips. Romano had such a cute face. "As your Boss, I'm assigning you a really good one to show my authority."
The more authority Spain had, the less chances there were of Romano leaving. Romano had to stay with him forever, Romano was his. He couldn't risk anything, he had to make South Italy a part of Spain.
"Like you haven't influenced me enough, bastard," Romano grumbled. "You already fucking own my inheritance; isn't that enough for you?" He kicked at the ground, the pout on his face making Spain take his objections much less seriously than he was already taking them. "Besides, I already have a name from when I lived with that jerk Austria. And he'd changed it from when I-"
"I'm your Boss now, so I decide what to call you." Spain clapped his hands together. "It just shows how much you love and appreciate your Boss, right? How much control I really have?"
(Control. Control. Control. If Spain had his way, he'd hold Romano forever, he'd never let go. Those nightly rituals only proved how much he loved Romano. His sweet little Romano. . .)
"Like anyone would appreciate you, dumbass." Romano considered Spain's thoughts, a frown decorating his face instead of the usual scowl. "You reign over me enough as it is."
Spain's sight was crimson for a moment, and visions of the New World-and the land and the wealth and the power and the glory that had come with conquering it-controlled him. More more more. He needed more. "Not enough," he pushed it all aside, "because you never listen to me."
"You're a terrible boss," Romano said, as if it was explanation enough.
Spain wondered if he should be offended before deciding, at last, that he wasn't. "And as your Boss, I have complete power over you. You're supposed to do as I say, when I say it, but I've been lenient because you're a child." (Though he didn't treat Romano as a child, especially not at night, he couldn't deny it.)
They both stared at each other, and there was a brief moment of understanding between the two that they would never again share, at least until Romano was older.
". . . I still don't think I need a new name." Romano stared at the ground before looking up at Spain.
"You don't have a choice."
"I didn't have the choice to move in with you, either!" he snapped. Spain observed him with practiced distance, a neutral, oblivious expression on his face. Romano's voice grew soft. "Let me keep my original name."
Romano's original name-the one his grandfather had given him before he'd taken Veneziano and left Romano behind, the one he'd had before Austria had given him something a little more German-had been so completely him, so completely Italian, Spain could understand not wanting to let the name go.
And he would have conceded to that, too, under other circumstances, when he wasn't blinded by the scoldings of his boss, the pseudo-peaceful discussions he'd had with other empires, the fact that Romano was a child and Spain was the Boss and if he didn't have control over something when he was already starting to lose control in the New World he was going to lose everything and goddammit he needed to keep Romano.
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Romano was his.
He bit his lip, considering for the last time, how this would affect Romano. He had to do it: "I don't think so, Lovino. Your name has to be Spanish because I'm your Boss."
Romano stared at him for a couple seconds as the name, hidden beneath the layers of his other words, processed through his mind. (Lovino. Lovino. Lovinare. Rovinare. Rovino. Rovino. Lovino.) Then it became very clear to him exactly what the name meant.
Spain wasn't exactly trying to hide anything.
"That's the name you chose?" Romano stomped his feet on the ground, fists clenched. His face was a light pink, slowly blossoming to a splotchy, darker shade.
Spain watched the expression on Romano's face shift from something close to tears to something else. He didn't bother trying to interpret it; he had more important things to look over, things to deal with that weren't as trivial as this. "Yes."
"Goddammit, you fucking bastard! Why would you even. . ." He clenched his fists, glaring at Spain with all his might. "Why would you fucking choose that?"
There was a short pause where Spain wondered whether it would or would not be the best time to voice his true opinions. Expressions flickered across Romano's face that Spain never had the ability to interpret.
"It's appropriate," Spain smiled, an innocent look falsely dancing in his eyes, despite the full knowledge that Romano was insulted and hurt and would despise the name and its connotation until the day when Spain would take it away and change it, "don't you think?"
Romano screeched. His eyes seemed teary, but Spain forced his mind away from the situation and refused to look into it. Didn't Romano see? The name would bring them closer, would show that Spain was the one with the greatest role in Romano's life.
"Appropriate, my ass! One day I'll be independent from you and your stupid house and you'll see! I'm not keeping a dumb name like this! You wait!"
(That day of Romano's supposed independence, of course, was a long time coming. Spain would be in charge of South Italy for a long time, and he would make his influence impossible to ignore.)
Spain clucked his tongue, ending the discussion. He had work to do. "You're so very cute, Lovino Vargas. So very cute indeed."
communication
Romano licked his lips, the usual frown adorning his features as Spain watched his little henchman interact with the guard. The words flowing from Romano's mouth were an odd combination of Spanish and Italian. The language was beautiful, yes, but it was still very odd.
"Lovino," Spain called, waiting until the guard had left to ask for Romano's attention. "Come here."
Fiddling with the collar of his shirt, he started toward his Boss. Romano's cute little lips were pouty, and Spain resisted the urge to kiss Romano again. Romano wasn't ready to reciprocate yet, Spain didn't think.
"What?" he snapped, his hands on his hips like a little girl.
Spain's grin slipped from his lips when he remembered he was supposed to be serious at the moment. Thinking of serious matters (the New World, his armada, gold), he pressed, "Speak to me in Italian."
Romano stared at Spain for a long time, an unreadable expression on his face. "Why?" he said finally.
Thinking of a quick excuse wasn't one of Spain's fortes, but he managed, somewhat. "I haven't heard you speak in Italian in a long time, Lovino. It's always Spanish."
"Because you said I couldn't speak Italian anymore, dumbass!" Romano's glare was fierce, but his voice shook a little toward the end of his exclamation. "You said. . ." His hands clenched into fists, and his voice became more desperate. "You said I'm never supposed to speak Italian around you!"
Spain was surprised that Romano had taken his threats so seriously. "For now, at least, let's talk Italian. I'll start, if you want."
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Romano looked at the ground before letting out a huffy breath. "Stupid bastard. Fine." He bit his lip before speaking, and the words that left his tongue were neither Spanish nor Italian, a peculiar blend of the languages becoming a dialect of the language Romano once called his own.
"Lovino?" Spain was a little annoyed. Whatever Romano had just said, it hadn't been the Italian he'd been so adamant about speaking when they'd first begun living together. "I told you that you can speak Italian now. So speak it for Boss, alright?"
"I just did!" Stomping his foot, Romano let out a barrage of curses, a mix of Spanish and the odd little not-Italian (dialect) thing he was now speaking. "There!" he snapped at the end of his tirade. "Are you fucking happy?"
Sighing, Spain let out an impatient breath. "Fine, Lovi, don't speak Italian for Boss. That was your last chance."
"I just fucking spoke it!" Romano growled, his glare even more powerful than before. "Fuck you!"
Spain had made it a rule-especially after how difficult it had been to teach Romano the language-that any part of the Spanish Empire had to speak Spanish, or he'd punish them. He'd never had the intention on punishing Romano. (Numerous times, though, he'd had to discipline the New World countries.) With light, pattering footsteps, Romano fled from the room.
"Lovino!" Spain called after him, following his lackey away.
"Don't call me that!" his voice carried to Spain's ears, and Spain was only a little relived to hear it was the Spanish Romano had been forced to speak.
--
Future warnings for shota and non-con/dub-con coming from an inexperienced writer.
Yes, I am aware that I don’t know how to write and this fic makes no sense and it kind of sucks. I’m pretty sure this is all plotless crap basically dragging this story on until there actually will be the promised smut the prompt is asking for. (It will be here, OP. Just. . . I suck and I’m pulling this story down with unnecessary stuff. *dies*)
But I have an unhealthy love for a kink regarding shota and this prompt. XD And I lovelovelove the art fill that has already been posted. I had already been writing this when that was posted, and it inspired me to keep going. If you don’t like this, I guess you can tell me. But it has to be for a legitimate reason rather than a general dislike for shota.
And I’m so sorry Spain is so ridiculously OOC. *fail* I hope you still enjoyed this; the next part should (hopefully) be coming soon.
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Also what language is romano speaking? Is it a dialect from south italy or has he just been speaking Spanish for so long that he forgot his own language?
Sorry confused!anon is so confused. But I really like it so far. Especially the beginning hehehe can't wait to see more.
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Not sure about the second part, but I'm tempted to sayyyyyyy...Latin-ish something something? It's late and I am tired and not in a thinking frame of mind. oTL
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Don't worry author!anon! Every smut writer has to start somewhere~! And Spain is ridiculously hard to write anyways.
I love your writing style very much, and I like how you're easing Spain into it and getting into his head. Can't wait for more~!
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The sheets were tangled in his legs, twisting around him and sticking to his skin. It was hot, uncomfortable, oppressive. He could barely breathe, it was so stifling; he wanted to make it stop.
How could Romano sleep so comfortably when Spain couldn't manage to keep his eyes closed for more than a couple seconds? Romano's breathing was even, calm. Most times, it had enough of a melody to act as a lullaby and help him through the night. This time, though, it didn't seem to be working.
(Was God punishing him? Surely the love he felt for Romano wasn't as wrong as it was made out to be. Romano was his angel, his beautiful angel. Was it so wrong for Spain to love his little angel?)
He turned onto his side, tracing with his eyes the outline of his little lackey's body. Every curve was so clear and white in the moon's glow, and Spain licked his (dry, hungry, craving) lips. Romano's dark lashes fluttered, but his eyes remained closed, and his rose petal lips were slightly parted for air. A small moan escaped the boy, and Spain shivered in the heat.
Romano. Romano. Romano. Lovino. Lovino. Lovino.
Spain knew what he wanted. It was evident from the way his body had stiffened, from the way his cock had every so slightly stirred through his pants. He was tempted, oh so very tempted, to take Romano then and there-and what fun it would be, to have that usual sex with Romano while he was sleeping and oblivious-but he craved something different from his normal behavior.
He wanted reciprocation, this time.
"Lovino?" His hand shot out before he had time to think his plan through, and he was shaking Romano's shoulder with the signature roughness that he was beginning to associate with his henchman. Spain gathered himself and sat on his knees near his lackey's sleeping figure, peering over Romano. "Lovino?"
It took all of two seconds for Romano to shoot up from the bed. "What the hell?" Romano demanded, shooting a fierce glare despite his half-awoken state. "Spain?"
Spain swallowed, squeezed his thighs together. "You look lovely tonight, Lovino. . ."
"Are you mocking me?" He chucked a pillow at Spain's head, mouth set in a straight line. "Why'd you wake me up?" The windows let in enough moonlight so Spain could see everything.
The blankets were pooled at Romano's waist, but he could still see the outline of Romano's tiny penis. (And he both thanked and cursed God that Romano slept naked.) His gaze was centered there for a while, and he dragged his vision up, up, up, so it was settled on two cute candy nipples, perked up and demanding Spain to touch.
His breath caught-and, God, the room was sweltering-and his cock jerked when his vision honed in on Romano's cock again, imagining how it would fit in his mouth, how fun it would be to play, how Romano would cry out with wide eyes. . . Imagination wandering, he could imagine parting those lily white legs (only in this darkness was that the case, otherwise, Romano had tanned skin) and squeezing that ass and-
"Touch me, Lovino," Spain said, voice husky. (He felt as though he was damning himself more than he already had.) His fingers itched to yank aside the blanked and take Romano, unprepared, despite the blood and pain it would bring.
Romano sat up a little. "What?"
Spain grabbed Romano's hands-such soft, tiny hands-and pressed them to his chest. Romano's fingers were splayed out, his sweet baby skin clashing with Spain's tanned skin, and the heat radiating onto Spain's body from that touch was enough to make him go wild. "Here. Touch me."
Romano pulled his hands back with an immediate, "What the hell?"
"Lovino," Spain pleaded, scrambling closer to his lackey. He wrapped his hand around Romano's again, squeezing it gently. He led it back to his heart, dragging it down his chest, pausing a little at the nipple and leaving Romano's hand there. "I need you."
Romano was confused more than anything, and it was apparent when his hesitant fingers trailed over Spain's torso to echo the earlier movements. Spain groaned.
"Do this for Boss, please?" he begged. He ran one of his hands through Romano's hair, the silken strands sliding out of his grasp so easily.
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Romano perked up a little at that, though his hands (how dare they?) stopped moving. "Damn right I can do it best." He bit his lip and looked down in thought. Spain couldn't have that happen.
He reached for Romano's hands again, placing them on his body once more. "So you'll do this for Boss?" Spain asked, hope shining in his eyes.
"Why do you want me to touch you?" Romano's fingers tweaked Spain's nipple and circled around it. His other hand sort of just rested on Spain's abdomen. It felt wonderful. "It's weird."
Spain snarled-and it surprised him, because he never snarled before near Romano and it couldn't be healthy and what was Romano doing to him, dragging him to the depths of Hell in desperation (lust, love) for a child-clenching his hand around Romano's arm and yanking him closer.
Lovino, Lovino, how you ruin me.
"I'm not sitting on your lap, dumbass!" Romano shrieked, flailing so his little penis was innocuously (but not really) rubbing against Spain's skin.
Spain sighed but said nothing; Romano settled down. As expected.
Romano did, however, pull himself off Spain's lap to kneel on the bed. His and Spain's knees brushed against each other as Romano reached up to touch Spain's body. They were facing each other, so Spain could see everything he wanted.
Everything.
Romano's face was red, and he looked like he was concentrating hard. He bit his lip and ran his fingers down the center of Spain's chest, seemingly unaffected by Spain's gasps and slowed breathing. Spain's fingers tingled with the urge to grab the cock that seemed so intent on parading itself in front of him. He wanted to flip his henchman over and part those sweet little ass cheeks and shove his own cock straight into this writhing (crying, most likely, at that point) child.
Romano pinched the tips of Spain's nipples in curiosity more than anything, dragging his fingers over the sensitive skin before pulling back and considering what he was doing. Tilting his head, Romano started tracing his fingers over Spain's skin in a pattern, like he was drawing or writing.
(When Romano was older, perhaps, they would slide their tongues across each other's skin, tracing out words of love and declarations of affection.)
Spain let out a breathy moan, leaning toward Romano and pulling Romano's hands so they pressed harder against his skin. "More."
Both of Romano's hands lay flat on Spain's chest, and he looked up at Spain. His hazel-but weren't they brown-eyes shone with pride, and he smiled a little.
"More."
Romano sat still for a moment before letting his hands drop to Spain's waist, and then to Spain's abdomen. His fingers were light, breezy, at some points, but there were other moments where he would literally drag his palms across Spain's skin, teasing him.
With a growl, Spain pulled Romano's hands closer to the waistband of his pants. Romano's tiny fingers taunted him, unsure of whether or not to move. Spain was so very tempted to shove Romano's hands down there to rub and squeeze his cock. His warm hands would touch all the right places, pumping and brushing and-
"That good?" Romano asked, cutting into his thoughts.
Spain felt a lover's fondness and lusty desire battling for control of his body. The right thing for a Boss to do would be to coddle Romano and stop him there. The right thing for a Boss to do would be to kiss Romano's hair and tell him to sleep. The religious thing to do would be to leave Romano alone. Romano was a boy, a child. Spain felt like he was betraying someone, but at the same time, when he was with Romano, everything felt right.
He gulped, saliva somehow going down his throat when his mouth was so dry. "More than good," he managed.
Romano beamed, and Spain's heart twisted.
The petite body in front of him was spread out for him to take take take. He was a Boss, a Conquistador, he had to take. Take his henchman and fuck him so hard he passed out. Take his henchman and run his hands (and mouth) over every inch of that delectable body. Take his henchman and corrupt him. Spain was no longer innocent; Romano no longer needed to be.
"Like I said," Romano continued, "the best."
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Moving so quickly Romano barely had time to react, Spain pounced, shoving his lackey so Romano was lying against the mattress again. He climbed on top of Romano-so his knees were on both sides of Romano's thighs, keeping him down but not hurting him (he could never hurt this child)-towering over him, looking down on him. Spain's fingers dug into Romano's wrists, which were pressed near the child's head, and Romano squirmed, eyes wide.
"Bastard!" Romano kicked his legs and tried to pull out from under his Boss. His struggles made Spain chuckle a little. This was much more fun than his late night escapades. Much. More. Fun. "Get the hell off-"
Spain brought his mouth lower, to suck the sweet skin of Romano's baby chest. Delicious, he breathed in the smell. Delicious, he relished the taste. Delicious, he bit down, intending to mark the skin as his own. Romano gasped and tried harder to pull back.
"Spa-ain!" he whined, arching his back and crying out. Spain blew a gentle kiss against the nipple he'd just attacked. "What are you doing?"
"You did so well before," Spain explained, "I'm rewarding you, Lovino." Romano didn't look convinced, and Spain didn't want to have to hurt him. "Let me show you how you made me feel, okay?"
Romano stared at the ceiling behind Spain's head. (Of course he believed Spain. Spain was his Boss, his protector. Spain had never wronged him before-or so Romano thought-so Spain had no reason to hurt him now. Well. That was what Spain told himself.)
"Maybe. . . Another time. . ." Romano stared at him for a while, uneasy.
Another time? Did he get the option to choose when? Spain considered this, for a moment, before nodding vigorously and releasing his hold on Romano's arms. Romano jumped away from him.
Spain sighed, a pout adorning his features when he noticed Romano's suspicious expression. With a quiet voice, he said (whether to comfort himself or Romano, he didn't know), "I would never hurt you. Never."
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"Are you sure I can't have him?" France smiled cordially, tapping his fingers against his thigh. Spain stared at the sky, listening to Romano's shouts and footsteps against the ground.
"He's mine, Francis," he said, stretching a grin across his lips. Underneath his tone was an easygoing threat, and he chuckled, allowing his eyes to trace every movement Romano made. He clenched his fists, and clumps of grass disconnected from the ground and gathered in his hands. "Mine."
"Weren't you so eager to trade him for Veneziano, not too long ago?" France didn't look at Spain; Spain didn't look at France.
"I didn't understand Lovino before." But Spain wondered whether he understood his henchman now or if he just pretended, lied. (Romano's skirt fluttered in the wind, his curl bobbing. A pretty scowl danced across Romano's face, and Spain licked his lips.) He would love to understand every part of Romano, and, in turn, have Romano understand everything about himself.
That was what love was.
"Why would you name him Lovino, then," France pouted, leaning back so he was supporting his weight on his hands, "if you were planning on keeping him for so long?"
Spain frowned, not saying anything, trying to think. What was there to say, besides?
"Why would South Italy want to remain a part of your Empire, in the future, if you would name him something so cruel now?"
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"Tie this for me, dumbass," Romano demanded, tugging at the ribbon at the collar of his shirt.
Spain swallowed. When had Romano grown to be so big? Since when had Romano been tall enough, filled out enough, to wear Spain's shirts? Romano still looked like a child, had to have been under thirteen. "Sure. Come here." His fingers itched to brush Romano's skin.
Romano stomped over-parading himself in front of Spain like the gorgeous little devil child he was-and let out a breath, tapping at the base of his neck, where the fabric lay wide like an open door. Perfectly tanned skin lay available for Spain to view and touch and lick and suck, and oh, he almost did.
"Don't make it too tight."
Spain nodded, taking the thread in both hands and trying to calm his frantic heart. He wet his lips, his gaze switching back and forth from Romano's chest to Romano's eyes, unable to decide which he preferred looking at. "You don't have to wear Boss's clothes if you don't want to, Lovino."
"I know." Romano slapped Spain's hands away, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. The touch of their skin made Spain's breathing catch.
"So. . . Why are you wearing my clothes? They're certainly large on you."
Yes, they were large, but Spain adored the way Romano looked. The thin fabric hung loose over Romano's hands, barely shielding his fingers (and delicious, supple skin) from view. The smallest movement Romano made would make the cloth ruffle around him (similar to how he'd looked so beautiful in the dress), and with those movements, Spain would try and catch the fabric clinging to the best places on Romano's body.
"Yeah, but. . ." Romano frowned. "I'm not gonna wear that fucking dress anymore. I look like I'm twelve now"-ah, so that's how old Romano was supposed to be-"and it's weird."
"I could have clothes made for you, if you want."
Romano centered his gaze on the floor, uncrossing his arms and twiddling with the bottom of his shirt. Then, he pouted his lip and scowled. "It's not that I want to wear your clothes. It's just that you're poor and stupid, and I know this'll make things easier for you. . . Not that I care if things are easy for you. Because I don't. You could die right now and it wouldn't even matter."
Spain patted his heart, oddly flattered by Romano's words. (And purposely ignoring the mean ones.) A light blush dusted his cheeks. "I'll remember that, Lovino."
"Don't!" Romano shrieked, stomping his foot. "You're over thinking it!"
With a shrug and a smile, Spain dropped the subject. "Well, you look very nice." He watched as Romano's face transitioned from pink to red within seconds. How cute. He stood up, clapping his hands together and preparing for different matters, like with his boss and with other nations. At the threshold of the kitchen and hallway, he smirked and glanced back at Romano. "You look like me."
Romano stared at Spain for a moment, dumbfounded, before managing to collect himself. "I wasn't aiming for that, bastard! Don't say that kind of shit!"
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Spain knew he was glaring at the child, impatience growing in a way it never had when he was with Romano. "México!" His words were harsh, his voice strong and angry. He didn't know what México had done to warrant this type of anger, but he couldn't help it.
All he could see was red.
There was fear present all over México's face. The figure emerging from darkness to become presentable in Spain's eyes was not ugly, but Spain did not see the same beauty he saw in Romano. There were similarities between the two children, naturally, and yet all Spain could see were the differences. He was taking out his anger and hatred on this child in the New World, when it was unwarranted.
It wasn't fair, but everyone knew that Spain did not treat the nations in his Empire the same way. He fondled Romano, gave him love and kisses (and in turn, Romano had an unhealthy, unknown hold on Spain), while hurting the children in the New World.
He couldn't remember a visit to the New World that didn't end with blood.
"Go away," Spain demanded, at last. He didn't know why he had called for México in the first place.
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