006
Title: Volcano
Rating: M
Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers
Pairings: Spain/Romano [Antonio/Lovino]
Word Count: 4645
Warnings: First time writing above a PG-13 rating, borderline non-con/dub-con,
Notes: Written for the kink meme (original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=12045578#t12045578). Also this post will be locked in a week or so.
Summary: One glance, one touch was all he would allow himself, he decided, laughing softly.
The creaking open of the door caused a shift in the fine layer of dust that laminated the furniture in the room, preserving the time passed like a worn-out time capsule. Dust clouds took to the air, dancing in dreamlike whirlwinds that glittered and caught the light of the evening sun as it filtered in softly through the high-paned windows framing the back wall. The emerald velvet armchair in the corner, along with the matching sofa at its side, had wilted to a mossy green, faded after years of good use and hours in the sunlight. Knick-knacks and old books of sorts littered the mahogany desk might have once been treated with such care and shone with deep red hues against the dying Spanish sun, but the dust has bleached out its tones since then, and muted its brilliance. At some point, a good deal of warmth and love and affection might have been put into this room, but in the glow of the fading afternoon, he decided, everything just looked so old, so worn out. So unlike Antonio, for that matter.
Needless to say, Lovino had not remembered this corner of the Tomato freak's house looking so old. How long had that cheeky bastard taken care of him for, anyway? Long enough to get lost in all the rooms his villa had to offer while still knowing where everything was, he supposed. Granted, though years had passed since his formal release from the other's custody, the Spaniard had somehow managed to maintain an ever-looming presence in the Italian's life, and more than once it felt as though he was a fish swimming aimlessly against the pull of the fisherman's net, constantly being dragged back to the other's quaint villa (completely and utterly against his will, mind you), and, well, if the bastard just happened to have freshly prepared agnolotti waiting for him, still steaming, its fresh aromas hanging heavy in the air, then who was he to turn a blind eye, or nose or mouth for that matter. No doubt he would go down in a fit of obscene cursing muttered in between mouthfuls of (somehow always) perfectly seasoned pot roast sprinkled with nutmeg and sage and all sorts of other irresistible Italian flavors all wrapped and packaged in homemade ravioli pasta, but dammit, he'd hate every neverending second of it.
He chortled grimly as he stumbled forward, knees giving out and leaving him to collapse in a heap onto the emerald sofa. A cloud of dust engulfed him and sent him into a coughing fit. Lazy bastard, he wheezed, nuzzling his face into the plush velvet, never cleaning his things. Even so, as he basked in the warm glow of the dying sun, his eyes began to drift closed against his will, egged on by the warm breeze, bringing him deeper into his siesta.
If there was one thing that Lovino could not stand, it was poorly made gelato. The only thing worse than that, in the Italian's eyes, was store bought gelato ("what kind of tasteless shit for brains can buy that poorly processed cow shit and have the balls to call it gelato?"), but still, presenting the boy with poorly processed gelato was nothing short of a death wish. And so, once he had been sure that Lovino had been adequately satiated with his ravioli, he'd ducked back into the kitchen to tackle the next project. He had been sure Lovi would appreciate all of the hard work he had put into preparing, upon his request, Frutti di Bosco gelato for him. Maybe this time, he'd hoped, it would be good enough that the Italian wouldn't feel the need to toss the dessert cup back at his face like he had done last time. He could laugh at how much energy that boy seemed to have.
He'd brought out the dessert cup as per usual, beaming like a proud father at his creation, but the room had been empty, save for the occasional cry of the seagulls hovering outside the window.
The house hadn't been this quiet since the years prior to the Normandy Conquest.
"Lovi? Lovino? Are we playing hide and seek?"
Reluctantly abandoning the cup on the table, Antonio started down the halls, calling Lovino's name and peeping his head into each room he passed. No cheeky remarks, no excited cursing--Italian, Spanish, or whatever other languages the youth had picked up over the years; not surprising, knowing some of the company he had had over time. Not even a simple "idiot" was audible throughout the house, and frankly, this worried him. Had Lovino left already? It was unlike the Italian to leave without dessert, or more importantly, a few crude remarks thrown his way, whether they be about his cooking, his hospitality, or just him in general.
Honestly, that Lovino could be quite a handful sometimes, a ticking time bomb of mixed emotions and confusing actions.
His eyebrows furrowed as he poked his head into another room, an abandoned guest room that looked as if it hadn't been used since his Golden Age, the portrait of Las Meninas staring at him gloomily from the opposite wall. Infanta's dark eyes bore into him mockingly, and he shuddered to think he'd seen that expression several time before on the face of the young man who smelled like fresh tomatoes and pizza dough and the ocean.
With a long, heavy sigh, Antonio drew himself out of the room and continued down the hall. It wasn't that he did not enjoy the other's company, quite the opposite, on most occasions at least. The boy, more like young man at this point, was spunk and youthful vigor, and not always in the most positive light, but he was something that Antonio had not seen in one of his fellow countries in centuries. The unabashed, rude spark the Italian gave off was exciting, yet still he had to admit that his own constant, thinly veiled pleas for attention and acceptance from the youth fatigued him. How many centuries would it take for the young Romano to see him as something other than his captor? Maybe forever, he supposed, but he'd lasted several centuries thus far, and he could stand to keep trying for a few more.
As he neared the end of the hallway, he almost had to laugh at himself. He'd not thought this abstrusely in a while, and he was almost drowning himself in his sea of thoughts. His hand gripped the handle of the last door and flung it open. The other's name was already dancing on the tip of his tongue, and he had to quickly silence himself at the sight before him.
The glow from the sunset seemed to frame the scene in golden light, and gave the room a worn, ancient glow. Muted colors blended into earthy, warm tones and made the room look like a picture itself. And there, in the center of the masterpiece, standing in stark contrast to the green surrounding him, was the resting form of Lovino, arms splayed above his head and dangling across the armrest, shirt rising ever so slightly with his every intake and exhale of breath to expose the smooth, tawny skin underneath, and eyelashes fluttering with the subtle twitches of his eyelids.
It took a moment for Antonio to realize his breathing had grown significantly shallower and his eyes had hooded dangerously. His hand still gripped the doorknob dumbly, at this point just helping him to stay standing. He leaned back against the door and bit the inside of his cheek, lips pursed together in growing frustration. It was times like this that he wondered if God was taunting him, presenting him with the silver platter, only to pull it back just inches from his grasp. Tempting him and daring him to move forward and take the first step.
And fuck if it wasn't working so well. The taste of copper stained his mouth as he bit into the inside of his cheek.
One glance, one touch was all he would allow himself, he decided, laughing softly. He really was desperate. Somewhere, Francis was probably laughing at him and sipping his chardonnay jovially at the other's suffering. L'amour was never your strong suit, my friend he could just imagine the Frenchman chuckling over the lip of his glass.
Antonio pushed himself up off of the doorframe and slowly crossed to the couch. Just one touch. He towered over Romano, casting a shadow across his face, causing the youth's eyelids to twitch and eyelashes to flutter against his cheeks. He knelt down so that he was face to face with the boy. His hand snaked shakily up Lovino's neck, tracing his defined cheekbone up towards his forehead, where he softly brushed the hair away from his eyes. One touch only. He'd promised himself, so Antonio threaded his fingers in the other's chestnut hair in one last, lingering touch, before he began to withdraw his fingers, combing them carefully through the other's hair. The last threads of hair fell from his fingertips, and as he pulled his hand away, his fingers brushed against the lone curl that bobbed back and forth with the wind, eliciting a long, guttural moan from Lovino's lips.
The spaniard froze.
Testing the waters, he gulped and brushed his fingers across that strand of hair once again. His eyes trained in on Lovino's every movement, and sure enough, he watched as Lovi's eyebrows furrowed and twitched, his mouth seemingly caught in a fight for control before another low moan spilled from those lips.
Well then.
Antonio blinked, once again caught in a "do or do not" game with his emotions and his rationality. After a moment of thought, his finger snuck around the strand of hair, twirling it around the tip of his index finger, and he lazily pulled it away, letting it drag along the calloused pads of his fingers and curl away. A soft whine escaped Lovino's lips and a healthy pink blush had spread across the bridge of his nose and was working its way slowly down his neck as Antonio continued to toy with the piece of hair. The Spaniard's eyes hooded over and his breathing increased again. Oh God, he wanted this, but still, his rational side screamed at him. He's still asleep. He's centuries younger than you. You've known him since he was a child. This is wrong. He doesn't want it like you do. He doesn't want you.
But what if he does?
He breathed out a ragged sigh, hand shaking as it crept down the side of the boy's face, alighting itself on the younger nation's cheek. His thumb traced the Italian's lips absently--God how many times had he laughed at Romano's bad table manners and messy eating habits, all the while suppressing the urge to lick away the splattered sauce that had speckled the nation's lips. Distracted by his thoughts, he almost didn't notice when Lovino's pink tongue darted out to timidly lick at the digit until the youth had moved his head just slightly to take the finger fully into his mouth. Antonio jumped as if he'd been electrocuted. He frantically looked back into Lovino's face, but just as before, his lids were still closed, eyes twitching beneath them in what he assumed was a deep state of REM. Romano continued to wantonly suckle at his thumb until it was wet and shining with saliva, cheeks hollowed and soft moans rumbling in his throat. Antonio snapped.
The Spaniard toppled forward, only barely getting his hand out of the way before his lips collided with young Romano's. God, was he going to get such shit from the Italian later for this, but at this point he almost didn't care; he was too busy scattering soft, frantic kisses across his face, leaving wet marks along his lips, then his cheeks, trailing down to the junction of his neck before his teeth nipped at the soft skin there. He relished the sounds that spilled from the other's lips, letting his tongue lap messily at the red marks that were starting to form. With a last open mouthed kiss to the underside of Lovino's jaw, he dragged himself up and allowed himself another glance at the other's still sleeping face (how he'd managed that, Antonio would never know), before slowly crawling up onto the couch to straddle him. He leaned down to kiss him again, softer this time, until Lovino's lips twitched beneath his, tentatively parting as Spain gently swiped his tongue across his bottom lip. As Romano drew him into the kiss, eyes dancing underneath his lids, Antonio had to wonder what kind of girl he was imagining. A pale skinned, honey haired foreign girl looking for some company in an unfamiliar country? A sun-kissed ragazza with brown waves that caress her shoulder-blades and bounce when she laughs? He chuckled into the kiss and the vibration caused Lovino to squirm underneath him.
Humming once more into Lovino's mouth and letting his teeth drag languidly across his lips as he pulled back, Antonio watched with avid fascination as the younger nation's face twisted and transitioned between several different emotions. Although he'd lived with him for centuries, the flickers of emotion that danced across Lovi's sleeping face were strangely unreadable. What looked like a scowl could be a last attempt to hold back soft whimpers, and vice versa, that allusion to a smile could just be lips straining into a harsh grimace. Antonio buried his face into the crook of his neck, avoiding having to look into the Italian's face.
He breathed out a ragged sigh, hand shaking as it crept down the side of the boy's face, alighting itself on the younger nation's cheek. His thumb traced the Italian's lips absently--God how many times had he laughed at Romano's bad table manners and messy eating habits, all the while suppressing the urge to lick away the splattered sauce that had speckled the nation's lips. Distracted by his thoughts, he almost didn't notice when Lovino's pink tongue darted out to timidly lick at the digit until the youth had moved his head just slightly to take the finger fully into his mouth. Antonio jumped as if he'd been electrocuted. He frantically looked back into Lovino's face, but just as before, his lids were still closed, eyes twitching beneath them in what he assumed was a deep state of REM. Romano continued to wantonly suckle at his thumb until it was wet and shining with saliva, cheeks hollowed and soft moans rumbling in his throat. Antonio snapped.
The Spaniard toppled forward, only barely getting his hand out of the way before his lips collided with young Romano's. God was he going to get such shit from the Italian later for this, but at this point he almost didn't care; he was too busy scattering soft, frantic kisses across his face, leaving wet marks along his lips, then his cheeks, trailing down to the junction of his neck before his teeth nipped at the soft skin there. He relished the sounds that spilled from the other's lips, letting his tongue lap messily at the red marks that were starting to form. With a last open mouthed kiss to the underside of Lovino's jaw, he dragged himself up and allowed himself another glance at the other's still sleeping face (how he'd managed that, Antonio would never know), before slowly crawling up onto the couch to straddle him. He leaned down to kiss him again, softer this time, until Lovino's lips twitched beneath his, tentatively parting as Spain gently swiped his tongue across his bottom lip. As Romano drew him into the kiss, eyes dancing underneath his lids, Antonio had to wonder what kind of girl he was imagining. A pale skinned, honey haired foreign girl looking for some company in an unfamiliar country? A sun-kissed ragazza with brown waves that caress her shoulder-blades and bounce when she laughs? He chuckled into the kiss and the vibration caused Lovino to squirm underneath him. He could play along with Lovino's dreams.
Humming once more into Lovino's mouth and letting his teeth drag languidly across his lips as he pulled back, Antonio watched with avid fascination as the younger nation's face twisted, dancing through emotions. What appeared to be a scowl could be a last attempt to hold back soft whimpers, and vice versa, that allusion to a smile could just be lips straining into a harsh grimace. Antonio buried his face into the crook of his neck, avoiding having to look into the Italian's face.
A bitter smile spread across his face and he trailed fingers down the side of his face, across the young man's collar bone, his fingers dancing up between them to quickly unbutton Lovino's shirt, admiring the newly exposed torso. He nuzzled every dip and curve the Italian's skin had to offer, only pausing as he finished with the last button to take one last deep inhale of Lovino's strangely addicting scent, before latching his lips around one of his exposed nipples, carefully nipping at the dusty flesh. Lovino arched up to the touch, chest straining away from the cushions beneath him, and another soft moan escaped his lips, fragments of indecipherable words lingering on his lips. Antonio, already too caught up in his own ministrations, continued to nip and suckle at the hardened nub, teasing it with the tip of his tongue every now and then. The more Lovino squirmed underneath his weight, the farther away from the situation he seemed to drift. Inhibitions lost, Antonio swirled his tongue once more around the Italian's nipple and gave it a chaste kiss before sinking farther down his torso.
One of Romano's hands that had previously been twitching against the armrest, suddenly latched onto Spain's shoulder, nails biting into the skin. The action startled him and he came to a halt at Lovino's hip. He let his head loll to the side, resting on Lovi's slightly protruding hip bone, as his own hand snaked it's way underneath his vice grip, sliding his own fingers up into the crevice and intertwining with the other's still fluttering fingers. Romano's breath began to even out, and Spain watched lazily, his head rising and falling with every intake and exhale, as the Italian's fingers relaxed and gently clasped his own. This was nice, he decided, smiling softly.
They stayed like that for a short while, both relaxing in the soft afternoon silence, save for the few soft whines spilling from Lovino's lips. From his position cradled between his legs, Spain allowed his free hand to trace slow circles on the others leg, experimental. Each slow spiral trailed lower and lower down the inside of his thigh, and with each ellipse, his breathing steadily began to grow faster, heartbeat climbing once again. He let his head sink to the other's crotch, where he nuzzled the now prominent bulge in the other's pants, another lecherous grin already staining his features. Without ceasing the slow, meticulous circles of his fingers, his tongue darted out and teased the skin just above the waistline. As he took the hem of his slacks between his teeth, he chanced another look at the Italian's face, and a soft sigh passed between his teeth. His eyes were still closed. He was still sleeping.
Without hesitation, Spain ceased spinning circles and he tongued the Italian's erection through the fabric of his slacks, savoring the surprised moan that echoed against the walls of the old study as Lovino bucked his hips up into the touch. It trailed off into a low growl as Antonio continued to hungrily lap at the fabric, strangely intoxicated by the sounds the younger nation was making. His tongue trailed up and down slowly, dropping soft kisses here and there as he worked his way back and forth, back and forth. The hand he still clutched tensed and writhed in his grip, fingernails tearing into the skin on the back of Spain's knuckles. Still drunk on the situation, Spain drew away and pushed himself up so his head once more nestled against Lovino's. Barely above a whisper, he let the ghost of his words brush against the shell of his ear.
"What do you want, Lovi?"
He could feel rather than see the other's mouth working to form coherent words. "Ah... bastard..."
"Hm?" His nose nuzzled against the side of Lovino's face.
Romano's upper lip twitched menacingly, but his flushed cheeks gave him away, "Shit, I w-want..."
Antonio nipped at the lobe of his ear, letting his finger dance across the hem of Romano's boxers. "You want wha~at, Lovi?"
Lovino ground out a long, torturous growl before spitting out, "F-Fuck."
In a flash, Antonio's hand had delved under the waistline of his pants. Romano bucked wildly up into the feeling, grinding unabashedly into his hand. A wry smile played on his lips as his fingers stroked up the shaft, tracing the vein to the tip where his thumb smeared the precum around the head in the same slow circles. With his face nestled in the crook of his neck, Antonio could feel Lovino attempting to hold back any and all noises, but as Antonio increased the speed of his strokes, he could sense Lovi's resistance fading. As such, when he added a twist of his wrist as he stroked upwards, a sharp yelp escaped the young nation, trailing off into a low rumbling moan.
Deciding his hand was a bit cramped, Antonio roused himself from Lovino's neck and slunk back to Romano's hips, just in time to avoid the arm Lovino haphazardly flung across his mouth to stifle his moans. He continued his ministrations with his right hand as the other tugged down the zipper of his pants. His mouth dipped down to undo the button, a trick Francis had taught him years ago at one of his extravagant soirees, at a time when they'd both been heavily intoxicated. He resisted the urge to laugh as he freed Lovino's cock and gave it an experimental lick, eager to see the boy's reaction. He was rewarded when the Italian's hand, which had yet to leave his shoulder, gripped down tightly, causing his nails to dig even further into the skin. Spain was sure he felt blood trickle from the wound, but he was far too preoccupied with the task at hand. He started at the base of Lovino's cock and slowly kissed his way up the underside as his hand continued to ghost up and down the front side. As his lips drew to the tip, he could barely hear the low whining that drifted out from behind the Italian's arm. He gave the head one final kiss when Lovino's arm slipped.
"F-Fuck, fuck damn it, Antonio."
Antonio froze, his breath ghosting across the head of Lovino's cock in hot, sporadic puffs of hot air and a strand of saliva still tying his tongue to the tip. The haze clouding his mind suddenly began to dissipate and he looked up into Romano's still closed, still dangerously twitching, eyes. His lips, shiny and red, worked soundlessly, forming the silent syllables of his name. Antonio, Antonio, please.
And it clicked. He jerked away, his cheeks aflame and eyes wide in bewilderment. This was real; this was Lovi, and this was himself, and this was them together in a heap of limbs and sweat slicked skin, so real. This was not some fantasy, not one of those dreams that forced him awake at night with only his tangled bedsheets and painful erection, but otherwise alone.
And as much as he wanted it, it scared him, because this was his Lovi, his precious Romano. This was simply Lovi, taking his siesta a few hours early. God, when had he become so desperate for the Italian that he would sink so low as to molest the nation in his sleep? It scared him what a hypocrite he'd become--all his years of staving off Francis' many advancements on the young Italian, and now who was the one acting the predator? It scared him that he had almost done it.
His hand, still grasping the boy's exposed thigh with an iron grip, loosened its hold. It slowly dragged its way up across his jutting hip bone, up across his torso, caressing his neck as it traversed upwards, before it paused in the air beside his cheek. After a moment, Antonio let his hand fall softly onto the other's cheek, giving it one final pat. He leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to his forehead, savoring the feeling of the skin beneath his lips. "I'm sorry, lo siento sinceramente," he whispered into the skin, before pulling away and pushing off of the couch. He redressed the youth, careful not to wake him or, even worse, look back into that face.
As he fixed the last of the buttons on his shirt, Antonio stepped back towards the door. The sunlight had faded away completely, replaced by the cool black veil of night. He shivered as a breeze blew in from the window and tickled his still slick skin. Sighing, the spaniard exited the room and returned a moment later with a large, heavy blanket, an old embroidered piece from centuries ago he'd stolen from a room down the hall. As he draped it across Romano's body, he spared himself a glance at the youth's face. It was twisted in an unreadable expression, something akin to to the face he made when he cried. As Antonio went to tuck the blanket around him, Lovino's hand flopped down across his own, clenching around it. For a moment, he feared he'd waken him up, until he glanced back into the boy's still closed lids.
A noise burbled in Lovino's throat before he whispered, almost inaudible, "Don't... don't go, tomato bastard. Non lasciarmi...."
For a second, time stood still. Antonio slowly turned his hand over, intertwining their fingers. A soft, sad smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned down next to the boy's ear. "Nunca. Siempre estaré aquí contigo."
After a moment, Spain backed away, letting reality catch back up to him, and he fled down the hallway.
Lovino awoke to moonlight in his eyes and the strong scent of sweat staining the air around him. He blinked his eyes and blearily pushed the blanket off of his shoulders. Oddly enough, he didn't remember ever bringing in a blanket. His eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed in frustration, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of a damn thing.
As he sat up, his stomach rumbled loudly, seemingly disturbing the ambiance of the air around him. How many hours had he been napping for anyway? God forbid he'd missed desert. His hands clenched into fists at his sides; that bastard Spain had better not eaten all the fucking gelato.
Spain. At the mention of the nation's name, the world seemed to flip momentarily as flashes of his dream hit him like a ton of bricks. The green velvet couch, the afternoon sea breeze, a soft, sincere tug at that damn curl. Antonio resting his head against his thigh and tugging at the hem of his...
Lovino grabbed the pillow from behind him and let out a frustrated cry, shaking his head frantically all the while. When he pulled his face back moments later, his cheeks were stained rouge, and his eyes were brimming with tears. That fucking tomato bastard; as if he hadn't already been invading his life as it was, now he was haunting his dreams as well? Fuck it!
Lovino bit his lip fiercely and swung his legs over the side of the couch. Now he needed a fucking cold shower and it was all that bastard's fault. There had better be some fucking gelato left.
Notes:
1) Spanish lessons: "Lo siento sinceramente" = I'm truly sorry
"Nunca. Siempre estaré aqui contigo" = "Never. I'll always stay here with you
2) Italian lessons: "Non lasciarmi" = "Don't leave me" (I apologize if this tense is wrong, I asked a friend of mine who takes italian to help and this is what she gave me)
Rating: M
Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers
Pairings: Spain/Romano [Antonio/Lovino]
Word Count: 4645
Warnings: First time writing above a PG-13 rating, borderline non-con/dub-con,
Notes: Written for the kink meme (original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=12045578#t12045578). Also this post will be locked in a week or so.
Summary: One glance, one touch was all he would allow himself, he decided, laughing softly.
The creaking open of the door caused a shift in the fine layer of dust that laminated the furniture in the room, preserving the time passed like a worn-out time capsule. Dust clouds took to the air, dancing in dreamlike whirlwinds that glittered and caught the light of the evening sun as it filtered in softly through the high-paned windows framing the back wall. The emerald velvet armchair in the corner, along with the matching sofa at its side, had wilted to a mossy green, faded after years of good use and hours in the sunlight. Knick-knacks and old books of sorts littered the mahogany desk might have once been treated with such care and shone with deep red hues against the dying Spanish sun, but the dust has bleached out its tones since then, and muted its brilliance. At some point, a good deal of warmth and love and affection might have been put into this room, but in the glow of the fading afternoon, he decided, everything just looked so old, so worn out. So unlike Antonio, for that matter.
Needless to say, Lovino had not remembered this corner of the Tomato freak's house looking so old. How long had that cheeky bastard taken care of him for, anyway? Long enough to get lost in all the rooms his villa had to offer while still knowing where everything was, he supposed. Granted, though years had passed since his formal release from the other's custody, the Spaniard had somehow managed to maintain an ever-looming presence in the Italian's life, and more than once it felt as though he was a fish swimming aimlessly against the pull of the fisherman's net, constantly being dragged back to the other's quaint villa (completely and utterly against his will, mind you), and, well, if the bastard just happened to have freshly prepared agnolotti waiting for him, still steaming, its fresh aromas hanging heavy in the air, then who was he to turn a blind eye, or nose or mouth for that matter. No doubt he would go down in a fit of obscene cursing muttered in between mouthfuls of (somehow always) perfectly seasoned pot roast sprinkled with nutmeg and sage and all sorts of other irresistible Italian flavors all wrapped and packaged in homemade ravioli pasta, but dammit, he'd hate every neverending second of it.
He chortled grimly as he stumbled forward, knees giving out and leaving him to collapse in a heap onto the emerald sofa. A cloud of dust engulfed him and sent him into a coughing fit. Lazy bastard, he wheezed, nuzzling his face into the plush velvet, never cleaning his things. Even so, as he basked in the warm glow of the dying sun, his eyes began to drift closed against his will, egged on by the warm breeze, bringing him deeper into his siesta.
If there was one thing that Lovino could not stand, it was poorly made gelato. The only thing worse than that, in the Italian's eyes, was store bought gelato ("what kind of tasteless shit for brains can buy that poorly processed cow shit and have the balls to call it gelato?"), but still, presenting the boy with poorly processed gelato was nothing short of a death wish. And so, once he had been sure that Lovino had been adequately satiated with his ravioli, he'd ducked back into the kitchen to tackle the next project. He had been sure Lovi would appreciate all of the hard work he had put into preparing, upon his request, Frutti di Bosco gelato for him. Maybe this time, he'd hoped, it would be good enough that the Italian wouldn't feel the need to toss the dessert cup back at his face like he had done last time. He could laugh at how much energy that boy seemed to have.
He'd brought out the dessert cup as per usual, beaming like a proud father at his creation, but the room had been empty, save for the occasional cry of the seagulls hovering outside the window.
The house hadn't been this quiet since the years prior to the Normandy Conquest.
"Lovi? Lovino? Are we playing hide and seek?"
Reluctantly abandoning the cup on the table, Antonio started down the halls, calling Lovino's name and peeping his head into each room he passed. No cheeky remarks, no excited cursing--Italian, Spanish, or whatever other languages the youth had picked up over the years; not surprising, knowing some of the company he had had over time. Not even a simple "idiot" was audible throughout the house, and frankly, this worried him. Had Lovino left already? It was unlike the Italian to leave without dessert, or more importantly, a few crude remarks thrown his way, whether they be about his cooking, his hospitality, or just him in general.
Honestly, that Lovino could be quite a handful sometimes, a ticking time bomb of mixed emotions and confusing actions.
His eyebrows furrowed as he poked his head into another room, an abandoned guest room that looked as if it hadn't been used since his Golden Age, the portrait of Las Meninas staring at him gloomily from the opposite wall. Infanta's dark eyes bore into him mockingly, and he shuddered to think he'd seen that expression several time before on the face of the young man who smelled like fresh tomatoes and pizza dough and the ocean.
With a long, heavy sigh, Antonio drew himself out of the room and continued down the hall. It wasn't that he did not enjoy the other's company, quite the opposite, on most occasions at least. The boy, more like young man at this point, was spunk and youthful vigor, and not always in the most positive light, but he was something that Antonio had not seen in one of his fellow countries in centuries. The unabashed, rude spark the Italian gave off was exciting, yet still he had to admit that his own constant, thinly veiled pleas for attention and acceptance from the youth fatigued him. How many centuries would it take for the young Romano to see him as something other than his captor? Maybe forever, he supposed, but he'd lasted several centuries thus far, and he could stand to keep trying for a few more.
As he neared the end of the hallway, he almost had to laugh at himself. He'd not thought this abstrusely in a while, and he was almost drowning himself in his sea of thoughts. His hand gripped the handle of the last door and flung it open. The other's name was already dancing on the tip of his tongue, and he had to quickly silence himself at the sight before him.
The glow from the sunset seemed to frame the scene in golden light, and gave the room a worn, ancient glow. Muted colors blended into earthy, warm tones and made the room look like a picture itself. And there, in the center of the masterpiece, standing in stark contrast to the green surrounding him, was the resting form of Lovino, arms splayed above his head and dangling across the armrest, shirt rising ever so slightly with his every intake and exhale of breath to expose the smooth, tawny skin underneath, and eyelashes fluttering with the subtle twitches of his eyelids.
It took a moment for Antonio to realize his breathing had grown significantly shallower and his eyes had hooded dangerously. His hand still gripped the doorknob dumbly, at this point just helping him to stay standing. He leaned back against the door and bit the inside of his cheek, lips pursed together in growing frustration. It was times like this that he wondered if God was taunting him, presenting him with the silver platter, only to pull it back just inches from his grasp. Tempting him and daring him to move forward and take the first step.
And fuck if it wasn't working so well. The taste of copper stained his mouth as he bit into the inside of his cheek.
One glance, one touch was all he would allow himself, he decided, laughing softly. He really was desperate. Somewhere, Francis was probably laughing at him and sipping his chardonnay jovially at the other's suffering. L'amour was never your strong suit, my friend he could just imagine the Frenchman chuckling over the lip of his glass.
Antonio pushed himself up off of the doorframe and slowly crossed to the couch. Just one touch. He towered over Romano, casting a shadow across his face, causing the youth's eyelids to twitch and eyelashes to flutter against his cheeks. He knelt down so that he was face to face with the boy. His hand snaked shakily up Lovino's neck, tracing his defined cheekbone up towards his forehead, where he softly brushed the hair away from his eyes. One touch only. He'd promised himself, so Antonio threaded his fingers in the other's chestnut hair in one last, lingering touch, before he began to withdraw his fingers, combing them carefully through the other's hair. The last threads of hair fell from his fingertips, and as he pulled his hand away, his fingers brushed against the lone curl that bobbed back and forth with the wind, eliciting a long, guttural moan from Lovino's lips.
The spaniard froze.
Testing the waters, he gulped and brushed his fingers across that strand of hair once again. His eyes trained in on Lovino's every movement, and sure enough, he watched as Lovi's eyebrows furrowed and twitched, his mouth seemingly caught in a fight for control before another low moan spilled from those lips.
Well then.
Antonio blinked, once again caught in a "do or do not" game with his emotions and his rationality. After a moment of thought, his finger snuck around the strand of hair, twirling it around the tip of his index finger, and he lazily pulled it away, letting it drag along the calloused pads of his fingers and curl away. A soft whine escaped Lovino's lips and a healthy pink blush had spread across the bridge of his nose and was working its way slowly down his neck as Antonio continued to toy with the piece of hair. The Spaniard's eyes hooded over and his breathing increased again. Oh God, he wanted this, but still, his rational side screamed at him. He's still asleep. He's centuries younger than you. You've known him since he was a child. This is wrong. He doesn't want it like you do. He doesn't want you.
But what if he does?
He breathed out a ragged sigh, hand shaking as it crept down the side of the boy's face, alighting itself on the younger nation's cheek. His thumb traced the Italian's lips absently--God how many times had he laughed at Romano's bad table manners and messy eating habits, all the while suppressing the urge to lick away the splattered sauce that had speckled the nation's lips. Distracted by his thoughts, he almost didn't notice when Lovino's pink tongue darted out to timidly lick at the digit until the youth had moved his head just slightly to take the finger fully into his mouth. Antonio jumped as if he'd been electrocuted. He frantically looked back into Lovino's face, but just as before, his lids were still closed, eyes twitching beneath them in what he assumed was a deep state of REM. Romano continued to wantonly suckle at his thumb until it was wet and shining with saliva, cheeks hollowed and soft moans rumbling in his throat. Antonio snapped.
The Spaniard toppled forward, only barely getting his hand out of the way before his lips collided with young Romano's. God, was he going to get such shit from the Italian later for this, but at this point he almost didn't care; he was too busy scattering soft, frantic kisses across his face, leaving wet marks along his lips, then his cheeks, trailing down to the junction of his neck before his teeth nipped at the soft skin there. He relished the sounds that spilled from the other's lips, letting his tongue lap messily at the red marks that were starting to form. With a last open mouthed kiss to the underside of Lovino's jaw, he dragged himself up and allowed himself another glance at the other's still sleeping face (how he'd managed that, Antonio would never know), before slowly crawling up onto the couch to straddle him. He leaned down to kiss him again, softer this time, until Lovino's lips twitched beneath his, tentatively parting as Spain gently swiped his tongue across his bottom lip. As Romano drew him into the kiss, eyes dancing underneath his lids, Antonio had to wonder what kind of girl he was imagining. A pale skinned, honey haired foreign girl looking for some company in an unfamiliar country? A sun-kissed ragazza with brown waves that caress her shoulder-blades and bounce when she laughs? He chuckled into the kiss and the vibration caused Lovino to squirm underneath him.
Humming once more into Lovino's mouth and letting his teeth drag languidly across his lips as he pulled back, Antonio watched with avid fascination as the younger nation's face twisted and transitioned between several different emotions. Although he'd lived with him for centuries, the flickers of emotion that danced across Lovi's sleeping face were strangely unreadable. What looked like a scowl could be a last attempt to hold back soft whimpers, and vice versa, that allusion to a smile could just be lips straining into a harsh grimace. Antonio buried his face into the crook of his neck, avoiding having to look into the Italian's face.
He breathed out a ragged sigh, hand shaking as it crept down the side of the boy's face, alighting itself on the younger nation's cheek. His thumb traced the Italian's lips absently--God how many times had he laughed at Romano's bad table manners and messy eating habits, all the while suppressing the urge to lick away the splattered sauce that had speckled the nation's lips. Distracted by his thoughts, he almost didn't notice when Lovino's pink tongue darted out to timidly lick at the digit until the youth had moved his head just slightly to take the finger fully into his mouth. Antonio jumped as if he'd been electrocuted. He frantically looked back into Lovino's face, but just as before, his lids were still closed, eyes twitching beneath them in what he assumed was a deep state of REM. Romano continued to wantonly suckle at his thumb until it was wet and shining with saliva, cheeks hollowed and soft moans rumbling in his throat. Antonio snapped.
The Spaniard toppled forward, only barely getting his hand out of the way before his lips collided with young Romano's. God was he going to get such shit from the Italian later for this, but at this point he almost didn't care; he was too busy scattering soft, frantic kisses across his face, leaving wet marks along his lips, then his cheeks, trailing down to the junction of his neck before his teeth nipped at the soft skin there. He relished the sounds that spilled from the other's lips, letting his tongue lap messily at the red marks that were starting to form. With a last open mouthed kiss to the underside of Lovino's jaw, he dragged himself up and allowed himself another glance at the other's still sleeping face (how he'd managed that, Antonio would never know), before slowly crawling up onto the couch to straddle him. He leaned down to kiss him again, softer this time, until Lovino's lips twitched beneath his, tentatively parting as Spain gently swiped his tongue across his bottom lip. As Romano drew him into the kiss, eyes dancing underneath his lids, Antonio had to wonder what kind of girl he was imagining. A pale skinned, honey haired foreign girl looking for some company in an unfamiliar country? A sun-kissed ragazza with brown waves that caress her shoulder-blades and bounce when she laughs? He chuckled into the kiss and the vibration caused Lovino to squirm underneath him. He could play along with Lovino's dreams.
Humming once more into Lovino's mouth and letting his teeth drag languidly across his lips as he pulled back, Antonio watched with avid fascination as the younger nation's face twisted, dancing through emotions. What appeared to be a scowl could be a last attempt to hold back soft whimpers, and vice versa, that allusion to a smile could just be lips straining into a harsh grimace. Antonio buried his face into the crook of his neck, avoiding having to look into the Italian's face.
A bitter smile spread across his face and he trailed fingers down the side of his face, across the young man's collar bone, his fingers dancing up between them to quickly unbutton Lovino's shirt, admiring the newly exposed torso. He nuzzled every dip and curve the Italian's skin had to offer, only pausing as he finished with the last button to take one last deep inhale of Lovino's strangely addicting scent, before latching his lips around one of his exposed nipples, carefully nipping at the dusty flesh. Lovino arched up to the touch, chest straining away from the cushions beneath him, and another soft moan escaped his lips, fragments of indecipherable words lingering on his lips. Antonio, already too caught up in his own ministrations, continued to nip and suckle at the hardened nub, teasing it with the tip of his tongue every now and then. The more Lovino squirmed underneath his weight, the farther away from the situation he seemed to drift. Inhibitions lost, Antonio swirled his tongue once more around the Italian's nipple and gave it a chaste kiss before sinking farther down his torso.
One of Romano's hands that had previously been twitching against the armrest, suddenly latched onto Spain's shoulder, nails biting into the skin. The action startled him and he came to a halt at Lovino's hip. He let his head loll to the side, resting on Lovi's slightly protruding hip bone, as his own hand snaked it's way underneath his vice grip, sliding his own fingers up into the crevice and intertwining with the other's still fluttering fingers. Romano's breath began to even out, and Spain watched lazily, his head rising and falling with every intake and exhale, as the Italian's fingers relaxed and gently clasped his own. This was nice, he decided, smiling softly.
They stayed like that for a short while, both relaxing in the soft afternoon silence, save for the few soft whines spilling from Lovino's lips. From his position cradled between his legs, Spain allowed his free hand to trace slow circles on the others leg, experimental. Each slow spiral trailed lower and lower down the inside of his thigh, and with each ellipse, his breathing steadily began to grow faster, heartbeat climbing once again. He let his head sink to the other's crotch, where he nuzzled the now prominent bulge in the other's pants, another lecherous grin already staining his features. Without ceasing the slow, meticulous circles of his fingers, his tongue darted out and teased the skin just above the waistline. As he took the hem of his slacks between his teeth, he chanced another look at the Italian's face, and a soft sigh passed between his teeth. His eyes were still closed. He was still sleeping.
Without hesitation, Spain ceased spinning circles and he tongued the Italian's erection through the fabric of his slacks, savoring the surprised moan that echoed against the walls of the old study as Lovino bucked his hips up into the touch. It trailed off into a low growl as Antonio continued to hungrily lap at the fabric, strangely intoxicated by the sounds the younger nation was making. His tongue trailed up and down slowly, dropping soft kisses here and there as he worked his way back and forth, back and forth. The hand he still clutched tensed and writhed in his grip, fingernails tearing into the skin on the back of Spain's knuckles. Still drunk on the situation, Spain drew away and pushed himself up so his head once more nestled against Lovino's. Barely above a whisper, he let the ghost of his words brush against the shell of his ear.
"What do you want, Lovi?"
He could feel rather than see the other's mouth working to form coherent words. "Ah... bastard..."
"Hm?" His nose nuzzled against the side of Lovino's face.
Romano's upper lip twitched menacingly, but his flushed cheeks gave him away, "Shit, I w-want..."
Antonio nipped at the lobe of his ear, letting his finger dance across the hem of Romano's boxers. "You want wha~at, Lovi?"
Lovino ground out a long, torturous growl before spitting out, "F-Fuck."
In a flash, Antonio's hand had delved under the waistline of his pants. Romano bucked wildly up into the feeling, grinding unabashedly into his hand. A wry smile played on his lips as his fingers stroked up the shaft, tracing the vein to the tip where his thumb smeared the precum around the head in the same slow circles. With his face nestled in the crook of his neck, Antonio could feel Lovino attempting to hold back any and all noises, but as Antonio increased the speed of his strokes, he could sense Lovi's resistance fading. As such, when he added a twist of his wrist as he stroked upwards, a sharp yelp escaped the young nation, trailing off into a low rumbling moan.
Deciding his hand was a bit cramped, Antonio roused himself from Lovino's neck and slunk back to Romano's hips, just in time to avoid the arm Lovino haphazardly flung across his mouth to stifle his moans. He continued his ministrations with his right hand as the other tugged down the zipper of his pants. His mouth dipped down to undo the button, a trick Francis had taught him years ago at one of his extravagant soirees, at a time when they'd both been heavily intoxicated. He resisted the urge to laugh as he freed Lovino's cock and gave it an experimental lick, eager to see the boy's reaction. He was rewarded when the Italian's hand, which had yet to leave his shoulder, gripped down tightly, causing his nails to dig even further into the skin. Spain was sure he felt blood trickle from the wound, but he was far too preoccupied with the task at hand. He started at the base of Lovino's cock and slowly kissed his way up the underside as his hand continued to ghost up and down the front side. As his lips drew to the tip, he could barely hear the low whining that drifted out from behind the Italian's arm. He gave the head one final kiss when Lovino's arm slipped.
"F-Fuck, fuck damn it, Antonio."
Antonio froze, his breath ghosting across the head of Lovino's cock in hot, sporadic puffs of hot air and a strand of saliva still tying his tongue to the tip. The haze clouding his mind suddenly began to dissipate and he looked up into Romano's still closed, still dangerously twitching, eyes. His lips, shiny and red, worked soundlessly, forming the silent syllables of his name. Antonio, Antonio, please.
And it clicked. He jerked away, his cheeks aflame and eyes wide in bewilderment. This was real; this was Lovi, and this was himself, and this was them together in a heap of limbs and sweat slicked skin, so real. This was not some fantasy, not one of those dreams that forced him awake at night with only his tangled bedsheets and painful erection, but otherwise alone.
And as much as he wanted it, it scared him, because this was his Lovi, his precious Romano. This was simply Lovi, taking his siesta a few hours early. God, when had he become so desperate for the Italian that he would sink so low as to molest the nation in his sleep? It scared him what a hypocrite he'd become--all his years of staving off Francis' many advancements on the young Italian, and now who was the one acting the predator? It scared him that he had almost done it.
His hand, still grasping the boy's exposed thigh with an iron grip, loosened its hold. It slowly dragged its way up across his jutting hip bone, up across his torso, caressing his neck as it traversed upwards, before it paused in the air beside his cheek. After a moment, Antonio let his hand fall softly onto the other's cheek, giving it one final pat. He leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to his forehead, savoring the feeling of the skin beneath his lips. "I'm sorry, lo siento sinceramente," he whispered into the skin, before pulling away and pushing off of the couch. He redressed the youth, careful not to wake him or, even worse, look back into that face.
As he fixed the last of the buttons on his shirt, Antonio stepped back towards the door. The sunlight had faded away completely, replaced by the cool black veil of night. He shivered as a breeze blew in from the window and tickled his still slick skin. Sighing, the spaniard exited the room and returned a moment later with a large, heavy blanket, an old embroidered piece from centuries ago he'd stolen from a room down the hall. As he draped it across Romano's body, he spared himself a glance at the youth's face. It was twisted in an unreadable expression, something akin to to the face he made when he cried. As Antonio went to tuck the blanket around him, Lovino's hand flopped down across his own, clenching around it. For a moment, he feared he'd waken him up, until he glanced back into the boy's still closed lids.
A noise burbled in Lovino's throat before he whispered, almost inaudible, "Don't... don't go, tomato bastard. Non lasciarmi...."
For a second, time stood still. Antonio slowly turned his hand over, intertwining their fingers. A soft, sad smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned down next to the boy's ear. "Nunca. Siempre estaré aquí contigo."
After a moment, Spain backed away, letting reality catch back up to him, and he fled down the hallway.
Lovino awoke to moonlight in his eyes and the strong scent of sweat staining the air around him. He blinked his eyes and blearily pushed the blanket off of his shoulders. Oddly enough, he didn't remember ever bringing in a blanket. His eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed in frustration, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of a damn thing.
As he sat up, his stomach rumbled loudly, seemingly disturbing the ambiance of the air around him. How many hours had he been napping for anyway? God forbid he'd missed desert. His hands clenched into fists at his sides; that bastard Spain had better not eaten all the fucking gelato.
Spain. At the mention of the nation's name, the world seemed to flip momentarily as flashes of his dream hit him like a ton of bricks. The green velvet couch, the afternoon sea breeze, a soft, sincere tug at that damn curl. Antonio resting his head against his thigh and tugging at the hem of his...
Lovino grabbed the pillow from behind him and let out a frustrated cry, shaking his head frantically all the while. When he pulled his face back moments later, his cheeks were stained rouge, and his eyes were brimming with tears. That fucking tomato bastard; as if he hadn't already been invading his life as it was, now he was haunting his dreams as well? Fuck it!
Lovino bit his lip fiercely and swung his legs over the side of the couch. Now he needed a fucking cold shower and it was all that bastard's fault. There had better be some fucking gelato left.
Notes:
1) Spanish lessons: "Lo siento sinceramente" = I'm truly sorry
"Nunca. Siempre estaré aqui contigo" = "Never. I'll always stay here with you
2) Italian lessons: "Non lasciarmi" = "Don't leave me" (I apologize if this tense is wrong, I asked a friend of mine who takes italian to help and this is what she gave me)