[Fanfiction] Delectatio Morosa
Title: Delectatio Morosa
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): PWP/Angst/AU
Character(s)|Pairing(s): Spain/Romano, brief presence of North Italy
Rating/Warning(s): R/M/NC-17, prostitution, language, sex, all that good stuff
Word Count: 3,487
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - Hooker AU. Just a usual night’s work for Lovino Vargas. The usual room, john, pimp and awkward call from his younger brother.
As far as a john went, “Spain” wasn’t too bad. Lovino called him that because the man was obviously Spanish (those damn green eyes and black hair and love of red and gold). These sorts of guys didn’t want to be identified, because dirty little things like this ruined lives and careers and all that shit. Not that the Italian cared.
“Spain” was obviously a Catholic too (gold crucifix around the neck). Probably not a good one but Lovino couldn’t cast stones. But then again… He rolled his eyes and crossed his legs and eyed “Spain” from across the room.
“What do you want, bastard?”
And that was all a lie, as much as Matthew in the next room calling the clients “Daddy” and pouting, as much as Alfred talking like an airhead and smacking bubble gum (not that it took much acting). But it didn’t mean that it wasn’t fun.
Spain smiled. It was a stupid, silly smile that lit up a room as soon as he stepped into it, a smile that made you want to smile back at him. But Lovino wasn’t fooled for a second. It was the smile of a damn liar, someone who could promise you the world and steal the shirt off your back. And you wouldn’t care because he looked so damn cheerful while doing it.
“It’s been a long day, Lovinito,” he said. “Can’t you just give me one little smile?”
Lovino idly wondered what kind of life Spain had that he’d hire out a whore to be this damn… bratty to him. He offered a deadpan expression by way of reply as Spain shrugged off his suit jacket. Good suit, dark gray wool, custom fitted to him. Lovino was wearing Armani but it wasn’t anything nearly as good. He resisted the urge to let his foot shake back and forth like a dog’s tail.
Spain chattered about idle things as he opened the bottle of wine that was always sent up to the room. It was a Cabernet Sauvignon for tonight; he loved reds. The man talked about food for the most part, food and wine. Restaurants that Lovino would never go to, chefs that he would never meet, dishes that he would never taste. Spain poured out two glasses and came over to give the other one.
“You’re fucking obsessed with tomatoes,” proclaimed Lovino after a pause.
Spain blinked, in the middle of examining the bouquet of his wine. “Why not? They’re versatile and quite delicious, don’t you think so?”
Lovino shrugged as he drank the wine without much thought or hesitation (which made a little part of him pang because it would have tasted better if he could have had been able to take in the bouquet properly). “Yeah. They’re fine. But you won’t bother shutting up about them. Tomato bastard.” He then grinned widely, sneering. “I guess I’ve found a new name for you.”
Spain laughed. The idiot laughed. By now, Lovino would have gotten a slap across the face for his troubles, or been thrown on the bed onto his stomach, ass up in the air. But the idiot only laughed as though it were the funniest thing in the world.
“And look, you’re smiling.”
Lovino fought the impulse to roll his eyes. How stupid could you get? But he grumbled and looked away and said, “I’m not.”
“And you’re turning red.”
Lovino had a very bad feeling about the turn of this conversation but he growled, “I am not!”
“You’re rather like a tomato yourself then.”
“Again with that obsession, you bastard!” This time, he didn’t have to fake anger. Who did this- this- asshole think he was?
But Spain only smiled. “You’re just as cute as one,” he fucking chirped. He reached out and pinched at Lovino’s cheek and his hand brushed past that stupid hair that refused to obey the laws of gravity… The Italian shuddered and he felt even more blood rush to his cheeks.
“D-don’t touch that, bastard,” gritted Lovino.
Then the smile sharpened, the lazy and good-natured green eyes narrowed very slightly He tilted his head, looking utterly innocent (yeah fucking right). “But it’s so odd, isn’t it?” He reached out and stroked that curl slowly and deliberately. Lovino gritted his teeth and wondered about God’s twisted sense of humor in giving him an erogenous zone in his hair.
And Spain’s fingers were pretty damn good at that curl. Soon Lovino was shifting in his seat, unable to jerk his head away because those fingers had a firm grip and it wasn’t worth thinking about what would happen if that hair got pulled out- Through the pounding of his own heartbeat, he could dimly hear the john’s voice.
“I’m surprised you have that much blood.” And it wasn’t salacious, that was the infuriating bit. It was genuinely amused and maybe a little surprised.
“Shut up, bastard,” gritted Lovino, lost between the heat on his face and between his legs.
“Do you want me to make it feel better?” whispered Spain into Lovino’s ear. “Tell me what you want, bambino.” His finger continued to pinch and worry that single curl.
“F-fuck!”
“Where?” Spain’s voice had dropped an octave or so.
Lovino gasped, eyes shutting tightly. “I- Fuck- just suck me off already, you bastard!” he snarled. And that was something he’d never say to any of his clients. Because they’d beat the ever living shit out of him for that. But Spain wasn’t like any of his other clients; he wasn’t like anyone else in general. Because the response he had to that was just a laugh (not even a chuckle) and he got to the floor in front of Lovino and proceeded to do just that.
Of course there were rules. No fingers in the hair. No tugging. No thrusting. But be as loud as you want (now that was definitely encouraged, if demanded).
Not that it wasn’t hard to be loud. Spain knew how to go down on a guy too damn well (down to being able to put on a condom with his mouth). That always raised questions later, when what he could laughably call a “workday” was done- but for the moment, Lovino didn’t giving a shit. Not when that hot mouth surrounded his cock perfectly, tongue sweeping over every sensitive spot. His fingers dug into the arms of his chair and he gritted his teeth. Fingers that were surprisingly rough for a businessman’s, a man who shouldn’t be doing anything more strenuous than typing or golfing or professional shit like that, cupped his balls, wrapped around the base of his cock too. A hiss forced its way from between Lovino’s teeth and he could feel Spain’s chuckle vibrate along his shaft, infuriatingly hot, damnably annoying. He closed his eyes tightly, breathing in and out through his nostrils in an effort to keep his damn hips down.
“F-fuck- I’m going to come- Damn it-” Lovino choked. If that wasn’t enough, he started to raise his hips anyways, feeling his balls tighten.
But of course- Spain drew away, making the Italian hurl a string of rather creative curses (if he did say so himself). And that insufferable, that absolutely fucking stupid smile was still on that face, though those green eyes looked almost black now, from how much the pupils had dilated. Those eyes. Those damn eyes. They reminded him of a cat’s (and Lovino absolutely fucking hated cats, ever since he’d been made to go to Crazy Nonna’s house, her and her eight cats…).
And Spain didn’t do much past getting up, patting Lovino on the cheek and saying, “Could you get on the bed?”
Of course, it was as good as an order; it probably just pleased him to phrase it as a request. Lovino growled under his breath; he knew what was next on the schedule (Spain was nothing if not predictable). He sat up abruptly, staggering a little as blood flow came sluggishly to his tensed legs. His hand reached out and he balanced on the table next to his chair as he tried to pull down his pants and underwear properly, forgetting about his belt.
“Let me help,” whispered that accented voice into Lovino’s ear. Hands deftly undid all of the Armani, sending it to the floor. All the while, Spain’s lips and tongue teased all those spots they could reach, nipping at Lovino’s earlobe and kissing the nape of his neck. Teeth grazed and teased, latching onto one spot in particular until the spot flushed red and hot.
He hated a lot about Spain in particular, more than the mindless, dull rancor that his other johns inspired. He hated the bright, happy, blissfully ignorant smile. He hated the prattling chatter and those lies that never could be quite hidden in those glittering eyes. He hated how the idiot never got- mad or showed much in the way of reaction except for a light-hearted laugh and a shake of the head. Maybe a slight frown, in the worst possible case.
What he hated most was just how- good Spain made his body feel. Yeah, body. Not mind, not heart or any bullshit like that. Because the damn bastard was good at it. Sex, of course. And he seemed to like seeing his partner get off (or nearly get off, if you had to be honest).
Lovino panted and whined like the little bitch that Spain wanted him to be once they got onto that bed, hating that he didn’t have to act that much. Not when lube-coated, calloused fingers (did the man play guitar?) slipped into him and stretched him with almost agonizing slowness. They curled and twisted, knowing just where to brush past but never really touching.
“Fuck- fuck-” Lovino snarled, a moan fraying the edges of his voice. “Quit taking your fucking time, tomato bastard!”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Spain murmured almost soothingly.
“Do I look like I give a shit?”
Spain laughed, three fingers twisting around now but they were withdrawn obediently. Lovino fixed his eyes on the ceiling even as he heard the sound of the lube bottle being squeezed, a condom being opened.
“Look at me.”
And Lovino obeyed, meeting those stupid eyes. Those lying eyes, now hooded slightly but still bright enough to glint in the light of the room.
Spain murmured hoarsely, “I want you to keep looking at me, bambino. Just do that for me, sí?” His voice reminded Lovino of- of coffee, perhaps. Something sweet and sharp and comforting and biting all at once. Something hot as hell. Something dark as sin.
“As long as you get on to fucking me, bastard.” And he hated that he meant every word of that.
Spain’s lips still kept that lazy smile, even as he guided the tip of his lubed cock to Lovino’s ass, as he easily hooked Lovino’s legs over his shoulders. Still, he groaned a little as he thrust forwards. This whole time, Lovino kept his eyes open, fixed on Spain’s face and that smile that kept sticking around like an unwanted guest or a mangy cat. He raised his hips to meet Spain’s thrusts because that was what he did, kept cursing but begging for more because that was what he was paid for.
Irrational anger tinted his vision red when that smiling mouth finally dropped to kiss Lovino’s lips almost lovingly (not tenderly though), swallowing curses and (only slightly) exaggerated moans. Those stupidly clever hands reached between them and stroked Lovino’s cock at just the right time, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. And even as he cursed, he came, just before Spain thrust into him one last time.
It wasn’t long until his legs started to ache and he drummed his heels into the john’s back. “Oi, tomato bastard,” he grunted, or tried to. It was hard to be taken seriously when your voice wasn’t too steady and half an octave higher.
“Oof- Un momento,” murmured Spain, shifting as he withdrew from Lovino. Once his legs were unhooked, Lovino sat up and reached over to dispose of the used condoms. Spain was near useless for a while after sex and besides… he was supposed to do this for a client.
He threw them away and returned to the bed because the idiot liked cuddling too (really, should he be surprised?). A tanned arm wrapped far too familiarly around Lovino’s waist and slightly chapped lips brushed kisses over the slope of his shoulder. It was almost nice, being spooned, though he could never get over the fact that he should be doing it to someone else, preferably a nice girl with a sweet smile and a nice ass- unbidden were the dual images of Spain’s lazily upturned mouth and very, very fine ass. He gritted his teeth.
“Bastard,” he whispered under his breath.
“Mm?”
“Nothing.”
Later, after few more rounds (because for all that Spain conked out, it didn’t mean that he stayed that way), they were in the same position again, tangled in the sheets. Then Lovino’s phone rang. Behind him, Spain started a little. Technically, he and his… “coworkers” weren’t allowed to have their phones on during working hours but it didn’t stop them from doing that (as long as the French bastard didn’t find out).
“Gotta answer that,” mumbled Lovino, having a horribly clear idea of the caller. He wasn’t the sort to get calls on a regular basis.
Surprisingly, Spain let him and Lovino walked over to the dresser where the plain and fairly cheap cell phone rested. Picking it up, he answered, only to have his eardrums nearly burst.
“Fratello, fratello! When are you coming over?” sang the far too familiar sound of his younger twin brother’s voice.
“When I can, idiot,” growled Lovino. “I’m working right now.”
Feliciano was one of those individuals who had mastered the art of an aural pout. “But fratello- that seems to be all that you do! Work, work, work! No siestas either, right? Maybe that’s why you’re so grumpy all the time!”
Lovino felt a tic in his eyebrow start to form slowly and he counted down from ten. In retrospect, maybe from one hundred would have been better. Then, Feliciano subsided and after a moment said, softly, “I miss you a lot.”
Lovino’s hand clutched at the edge of the dresser. “I’ll… see if I can come over Sunday,” he found himself saying.
“Really?!” It was a wonder that there wasn’t the swishing noise of a tail wagging in the background.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll make the pasta just the way you like it and oh, Lovino, you can meet my new friend Ludwig who I’ve been telling you about-”
The tic returned at the mention of that… “l-word.” “I’m not seeing the potato bastard”
“But- but-!”
“I have to go. Bye.” He closed the phone over his brother’s yelped protests and set it back down onto the dresser.
Spain was stirring now and the sheets rustled on the bed. “Who was that?” his voice asked just a little thickly.
“Someone I know.” Lovino retreated to the window of the room to have a cigarette. Luckily this was allowable as part of his “persona.” Not pushing the matter, Spain padded from the bed to the bathroom to shower in the meantime; for some reason, he didn’t care for having company when getting cleaned up. That suited Lovino just fine as he stared blankly out the window into the too-bright night.
Feliciano’s voice and quiet remonstration lingered and brought unbidden memories to the surface, like stirring a pot of undisturbed minestrone.
“Feli, get back in the room.”
“But fratello-” That was the only time he had ever slapped his twin. Feliciano’s expression made him feel lower than a worm but the slap had done the trick.
“I’m not letting any one of you fuckers touch my brother.”
“You little-”
“Family is important, isn’t it?” The head of the gang of thugs wasn’t the biggest one; if anything, he was too skinny to seem like a thug, dressed in a suit a little too big for him. But even Lovino could tell not to mess with someone like this; it was something in the eyes.
“Tell you what, kid,” the man had said almost kindly, lighting a cigarillo. “We want our money. You want your famiglia safe, yes?”
“…yes.”
“You just need work, right?”
“Yes.”
“It turns out, I think I have a job for you. Do we have a deal?” A gloved hand had extended.
Lovino hadn’t even hesitated. “Yeah.”
As if that meant anything. No one just “worked” their way out of a debt. No one ever could. Lovino stubbed out his cigarette angrily, pulling out another one and lighting it. It took several tries to get the match to light and then to put the flame to the cancer stick.
But what could you do? You played that stupid game that they had you play because there was no other way. They made you want to hope, laughed at how desperate you got because it was all a fucking game to the bastards too. Sometimes it wasn’t even about the money but just seeing how far they could make you fuck yourself over.
“Look, kid, I’m going to be honest with you. You’re a good kid. You’re not smart but you’ve got brains. The street kind. But you’re not going to get that break.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“How many chances of promotion do you think are there?”
“…”
“Yeah. Take my advice. Take up that offer that the local boss has been hinting at. You’re young, you’re not a bad looker either. Play your cards right and you can get out of the game.”
“Turn tricks? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“How many jobs have you gotten so far?”
“…twelve, thirteen, I guess.”
“Paying how much? Maybe a hundred Euros average? More like fifty. And how long is it before you get your ass shot? Take up the offer. Bonnefoy runs a good place. He won’t cheat you every chance you get.”
“Just most the time?”
“Look, I’m trying to help your ungrateful little ass out, kid!”
“Fine, I’ll think about it, you old bastard!”
Lovino was on his third cigarette when Spain came back out and got dressed again. The john came over to the window, pulling several bills from his wallet. Not payment; that would have been done up front. None of that kind of stuff here. Bonnefoy hated crassness in his place.
“Here. Get something nice for yourself.”
Lovino blew out a long stream of smoke in the other man’s direction. Unfortunately a vent overhead carried the smoke right back to his face, rather ruining the effect.
“I don’t need charity,” he said flatly.
“It isn’t.”
“No fucking thanks.” Because he could accept getting paid for sex but when it was up close like this, by the tomato bastard- He refused to let that thought continue.
Spain paused, shrugged. He reached out as if to touch Lovino, hesitated, and withdrew his hand. “Take care then,” he said with that same infuriating smile. Then he headed out, depositing the money on the dresser on the way. No more ceremony than that, the door closing quietly behind him. Lovino waited for about five minutes before he uncurled from his seat and headed over to the dresser.
He picked up the bills and blinked as he realized just how substantial the stack was. His eyes bulged as he counted them slowly and then he paused as he encountered something that was definitely not a bill. He pulled out a business card. It was a good one, complete with a personal watermark and a little gold emblem.
“Antonio Fernandez Carriedo” read neat black embossed print. The name sounded far too familiar and he squinted at the emblem, which was of a lion and a leopard. Wait a minute- Lovino’s jaw dropped and his fingers tightened on the card.
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo- current president of the Leon Group, easily among the biggest companies in Western Europe. “Merely” a president but de facto leader and official successor to Chairman of the board of directors (Lovino didn’t keep up with business and finance news in general but he’d been stuck at a doctor’s office with limited reading material a few times).
No wonder the bastard seemed so damn familiar. The smiling idiot made it on magazine covers regularly, often lauded as one of the most eligible bachelors in the world, much less Europe. How could he have not even recognized him? But then again… pictures were never the same, right? And the man never wore anything particularly distinctive, except for that crucifix, which was always kept tucked under his clothes.
A grim little smile finally crossed Lovino’s face as he made sure that the card was stored safely. After all, it just might be useful someday.
-
Delectatio Morosa - The title is means literally “morose delectation,” more colloquially translated to “peevish delight.” It refers to harboring ill thoughts and taking pleasure in them, whether considering sexual behavior or gloating over others’ ills (see: schadenfreude).
Ugh… I love writing Lovino, I really do. He’s such an… interesting perspective to write (and I mean it). He’s rather cathartic, actually, because he has such an interestingly aggressive approach to everything. His sort of anger isn’t the bitter heaviness that a lot of the other countries have, in my view. Not like England, who’s been on permanent PMS since Day 1, or any other country I’ve tried writing. This sort of anger is something more- relatable, I think.
That said, this story drove me crazy while I was editing it. Not writing it, editing it. Argh. I’m not so pleased with his story any more. -goes to lie down-
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): PWP/Angst/AU
Character(s)|Pairing(s): Spain/Romano, brief presence of North Italy
Rating/Warning(s): R/M/NC-17, prostitution, language, sex, all that good stuff
Word Count: 3,487
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - Hooker AU. Just a usual night’s work for Lovino Vargas. The usual room, john, pimp and awkward call from his younger brother.
As far as a john went, “Spain” wasn’t too bad. Lovino called him that because the man was obviously Spanish (those damn green eyes and black hair and love of red and gold). These sorts of guys didn’t want to be identified, because dirty little things like this ruined lives and careers and all that shit. Not that the Italian cared.
“Spain” was obviously a Catholic too (gold crucifix around the neck). Probably not a good one but Lovino couldn’t cast stones. But then again… He rolled his eyes and crossed his legs and eyed “Spain” from across the room.
“What do you want, bastard?”
And that was all a lie, as much as Matthew in the next room calling the clients “Daddy” and pouting, as much as Alfred talking like an airhead and smacking bubble gum (not that it took much acting). But it didn’t mean that it wasn’t fun.
Spain smiled. It was a stupid, silly smile that lit up a room as soon as he stepped into it, a smile that made you want to smile back at him. But Lovino wasn’t fooled for a second. It was the smile of a damn liar, someone who could promise you the world and steal the shirt off your back. And you wouldn’t care because he looked so damn cheerful while doing it.
“It’s been a long day, Lovinito,” he said. “Can’t you just give me one little smile?”
Lovino idly wondered what kind of life Spain had that he’d hire out a whore to be this damn… bratty to him. He offered a deadpan expression by way of reply as Spain shrugged off his suit jacket. Good suit, dark gray wool, custom fitted to him. Lovino was wearing Armani but it wasn’t anything nearly as good. He resisted the urge to let his foot shake back and forth like a dog’s tail.
Spain chattered about idle things as he opened the bottle of wine that was always sent up to the room. It was a Cabernet Sauvignon for tonight; he loved reds. The man talked about food for the most part, food and wine. Restaurants that Lovino would never go to, chefs that he would never meet, dishes that he would never taste. Spain poured out two glasses and came over to give the other one.
“You’re fucking obsessed with tomatoes,” proclaimed Lovino after a pause.
Spain blinked, in the middle of examining the bouquet of his wine. “Why not? They’re versatile and quite delicious, don’t you think so?”
Lovino shrugged as he drank the wine without much thought or hesitation (which made a little part of him pang because it would have tasted better if he could have had been able to take in the bouquet properly). “Yeah. They’re fine. But you won’t bother shutting up about them. Tomato bastard.” He then grinned widely, sneering. “I guess I’ve found a new name for you.”
Spain laughed. The idiot laughed. By now, Lovino would have gotten a slap across the face for his troubles, or been thrown on the bed onto his stomach, ass up in the air. But the idiot only laughed as though it were the funniest thing in the world.
“And look, you’re smiling.”
Lovino fought the impulse to roll his eyes. How stupid could you get? But he grumbled and looked away and said, “I’m not.”
“And you’re turning red.”
Lovino had a very bad feeling about the turn of this conversation but he growled, “I am not!”
“You’re rather like a tomato yourself then.”
“Again with that obsession, you bastard!” This time, he didn’t have to fake anger. Who did this- this- asshole think he was?
But Spain only smiled. “You’re just as cute as one,” he fucking chirped. He reached out and pinched at Lovino’s cheek and his hand brushed past that stupid hair that refused to obey the laws of gravity… The Italian shuddered and he felt even more blood rush to his cheeks.
“D-don’t touch that, bastard,” gritted Lovino.
Then the smile sharpened, the lazy and good-natured green eyes narrowed very slightly He tilted his head, looking utterly innocent (yeah fucking right). “But it’s so odd, isn’t it?” He reached out and stroked that curl slowly and deliberately. Lovino gritted his teeth and wondered about God’s twisted sense of humor in giving him an erogenous zone in his hair.
And Spain’s fingers were pretty damn good at that curl. Soon Lovino was shifting in his seat, unable to jerk his head away because those fingers had a firm grip and it wasn’t worth thinking about what would happen if that hair got pulled out- Through the pounding of his own heartbeat, he could dimly hear the john’s voice.
“I’m surprised you have that much blood.” And it wasn’t salacious, that was the infuriating bit. It was genuinely amused and maybe a little surprised.
“Shut up, bastard,” gritted Lovino, lost between the heat on his face and between his legs.
“Do you want me to make it feel better?” whispered Spain into Lovino’s ear. “Tell me what you want, bambino.” His finger continued to pinch and worry that single curl.
“F-fuck!”
“Where?” Spain’s voice had dropped an octave or so.
Lovino gasped, eyes shutting tightly. “I- Fuck- just suck me off already, you bastard!” he snarled. And that was something he’d never say to any of his clients. Because they’d beat the ever living shit out of him for that. But Spain wasn’t like any of his other clients; he wasn’t like anyone else in general. Because the response he had to that was just a laugh (not even a chuckle) and he got to the floor in front of Lovino and proceeded to do just that.
Of course there were rules. No fingers in the hair. No tugging. No thrusting. But be as loud as you want (now that was definitely encouraged, if demanded).
Not that it wasn’t hard to be loud. Spain knew how to go down on a guy too damn well (down to being able to put on a condom with his mouth). That always raised questions later, when what he could laughably call a “workday” was done- but for the moment, Lovino didn’t giving a shit. Not when that hot mouth surrounded his cock perfectly, tongue sweeping over every sensitive spot. His fingers dug into the arms of his chair and he gritted his teeth. Fingers that were surprisingly rough for a businessman’s, a man who shouldn’t be doing anything more strenuous than typing or golfing or professional shit like that, cupped his balls, wrapped around the base of his cock too. A hiss forced its way from between Lovino’s teeth and he could feel Spain’s chuckle vibrate along his shaft, infuriatingly hot, damnably annoying. He closed his eyes tightly, breathing in and out through his nostrils in an effort to keep his damn hips down.
“F-fuck- I’m going to come- Damn it-” Lovino choked. If that wasn’t enough, he started to raise his hips anyways, feeling his balls tighten.
But of course- Spain drew away, making the Italian hurl a string of rather creative curses (if he did say so himself). And that insufferable, that absolutely fucking stupid smile was still on that face, though those green eyes looked almost black now, from how much the pupils had dilated. Those eyes. Those damn eyes. They reminded him of a cat’s (and Lovino absolutely fucking hated cats, ever since he’d been made to go to Crazy Nonna’s house, her and her eight cats…).
And Spain didn’t do much past getting up, patting Lovino on the cheek and saying, “Could you get on the bed?”
Of course, it was as good as an order; it probably just pleased him to phrase it as a request. Lovino growled under his breath; he knew what was next on the schedule (Spain was nothing if not predictable). He sat up abruptly, staggering a little as blood flow came sluggishly to his tensed legs. His hand reached out and he balanced on the table next to his chair as he tried to pull down his pants and underwear properly, forgetting about his belt.
“Let me help,” whispered that accented voice into Lovino’s ear. Hands deftly undid all of the Armani, sending it to the floor. All the while, Spain’s lips and tongue teased all those spots they could reach, nipping at Lovino’s earlobe and kissing the nape of his neck. Teeth grazed and teased, latching onto one spot in particular until the spot flushed red and hot.
He hated a lot about Spain in particular, more than the mindless, dull rancor that his other johns inspired. He hated the bright, happy, blissfully ignorant smile. He hated the prattling chatter and those lies that never could be quite hidden in those glittering eyes. He hated how the idiot never got- mad or showed much in the way of reaction except for a light-hearted laugh and a shake of the head. Maybe a slight frown, in the worst possible case.
What he hated most was just how- good Spain made his body feel. Yeah, body. Not mind, not heart or any bullshit like that. Because the damn bastard was good at it. Sex, of course. And he seemed to like seeing his partner get off (or nearly get off, if you had to be honest).
Lovino panted and whined like the little bitch that Spain wanted him to be once they got onto that bed, hating that he didn’t have to act that much. Not when lube-coated, calloused fingers (did the man play guitar?) slipped into him and stretched him with almost agonizing slowness. They curled and twisted, knowing just where to brush past but never really touching.
“Fuck- fuck-” Lovino snarled, a moan fraying the edges of his voice. “Quit taking your fucking time, tomato bastard!”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Spain murmured almost soothingly.
“Do I look like I give a shit?”
Spain laughed, three fingers twisting around now but they were withdrawn obediently. Lovino fixed his eyes on the ceiling even as he heard the sound of the lube bottle being squeezed, a condom being opened.
“Look at me.”
And Lovino obeyed, meeting those stupid eyes. Those lying eyes, now hooded slightly but still bright enough to glint in the light of the room.
Spain murmured hoarsely, “I want you to keep looking at me, bambino. Just do that for me, sí?” His voice reminded Lovino of- of coffee, perhaps. Something sweet and sharp and comforting and biting all at once. Something hot as hell. Something dark as sin.
“As long as you get on to fucking me, bastard.” And he hated that he meant every word of that.
Spain’s lips still kept that lazy smile, even as he guided the tip of his lubed cock to Lovino’s ass, as he easily hooked Lovino’s legs over his shoulders. Still, he groaned a little as he thrust forwards. This whole time, Lovino kept his eyes open, fixed on Spain’s face and that smile that kept sticking around like an unwanted guest or a mangy cat. He raised his hips to meet Spain’s thrusts because that was what he did, kept cursing but begging for more because that was what he was paid for.
Irrational anger tinted his vision red when that smiling mouth finally dropped to kiss Lovino’s lips almost lovingly (not tenderly though), swallowing curses and (only slightly) exaggerated moans. Those stupidly clever hands reached between them and stroked Lovino’s cock at just the right time, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. And even as he cursed, he came, just before Spain thrust into him one last time.
It wasn’t long until his legs started to ache and he drummed his heels into the john’s back. “Oi, tomato bastard,” he grunted, or tried to. It was hard to be taken seriously when your voice wasn’t too steady and half an octave higher.
“Oof- Un momento,” murmured Spain, shifting as he withdrew from Lovino. Once his legs were unhooked, Lovino sat up and reached over to dispose of the used condoms. Spain was near useless for a while after sex and besides… he was supposed to do this for a client.
He threw them away and returned to the bed because the idiot liked cuddling too (really, should he be surprised?). A tanned arm wrapped far too familiarly around Lovino’s waist and slightly chapped lips brushed kisses over the slope of his shoulder. It was almost nice, being spooned, though he could never get over the fact that he should be doing it to someone else, preferably a nice girl with a sweet smile and a nice ass- unbidden were the dual images of Spain’s lazily upturned mouth and very, very fine ass. He gritted his teeth.
“Bastard,” he whispered under his breath.
“Mm?”
“Nothing.”
Later, after few more rounds (because for all that Spain conked out, it didn’t mean that he stayed that way), they were in the same position again, tangled in the sheets. Then Lovino’s phone rang. Behind him, Spain started a little. Technically, he and his… “coworkers” weren’t allowed to have their phones on during working hours but it didn’t stop them from doing that (as long as the French bastard didn’t find out).
“Gotta answer that,” mumbled Lovino, having a horribly clear idea of the caller. He wasn’t the sort to get calls on a regular basis.
Surprisingly, Spain let him and Lovino walked over to the dresser where the plain and fairly cheap cell phone rested. Picking it up, he answered, only to have his eardrums nearly burst.
“Fratello, fratello! When are you coming over?” sang the far too familiar sound of his younger twin brother’s voice.
“When I can, idiot,” growled Lovino. “I’m working right now.”
Feliciano was one of those individuals who had mastered the art of an aural pout. “But fratello- that seems to be all that you do! Work, work, work! No siestas either, right? Maybe that’s why you’re so grumpy all the time!”
Lovino felt a tic in his eyebrow start to form slowly and he counted down from ten. In retrospect, maybe from one hundred would have been better. Then, Feliciano subsided and after a moment said, softly, “I miss you a lot.”
Lovino’s hand clutched at the edge of the dresser. “I’ll… see if I can come over Sunday,” he found himself saying.
“Really?!” It was a wonder that there wasn’t the swishing noise of a tail wagging in the background.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll make the pasta just the way you like it and oh, Lovino, you can meet my new friend Ludwig who I’ve been telling you about-”
The tic returned at the mention of that… “l-word.” “I’m not seeing the potato bastard”
“But- but-!”
“I have to go. Bye.” He closed the phone over his brother’s yelped protests and set it back down onto the dresser.
Spain was stirring now and the sheets rustled on the bed. “Who was that?” his voice asked just a little thickly.
“Someone I know.” Lovino retreated to the window of the room to have a cigarette. Luckily this was allowable as part of his “persona.” Not pushing the matter, Spain padded from the bed to the bathroom to shower in the meantime; for some reason, he didn’t care for having company when getting cleaned up. That suited Lovino just fine as he stared blankly out the window into the too-bright night.
Feliciano’s voice and quiet remonstration lingered and brought unbidden memories to the surface, like stirring a pot of undisturbed minestrone.
“Feli, get back in the room.”
“But fratello-” That was the only time he had ever slapped his twin. Feliciano’s expression made him feel lower than a worm but the slap had done the trick.
“I’m not letting any one of you fuckers touch my brother.”
“You little-”
“Family is important, isn’t it?” The head of the gang of thugs wasn’t the biggest one; if anything, he was too skinny to seem like a thug, dressed in a suit a little too big for him. But even Lovino could tell not to mess with someone like this; it was something in the eyes.
“Tell you what, kid,” the man had said almost kindly, lighting a cigarillo. “We want our money. You want your famiglia safe, yes?”
“…yes.”
“You just need work, right?”
“Yes.”
“It turns out, I think I have a job for you. Do we have a deal?” A gloved hand had extended.
Lovino hadn’t even hesitated. “Yeah.”
As if that meant anything. No one just “worked” their way out of a debt. No one ever could. Lovino stubbed out his cigarette angrily, pulling out another one and lighting it. It took several tries to get the match to light and then to put the flame to the cancer stick.
But what could you do? You played that stupid game that they had you play because there was no other way. They made you want to hope, laughed at how desperate you got because it was all a fucking game to the bastards too. Sometimes it wasn’t even about the money but just seeing how far they could make you fuck yourself over.
“Look, kid, I’m going to be honest with you. You’re a good kid. You’re not smart but you’ve got brains. The street kind. But you’re not going to get that break.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“How many chances of promotion do you think are there?”
“…”
“Yeah. Take my advice. Take up that offer that the local boss has been hinting at. You’re young, you’re not a bad looker either. Play your cards right and you can get out of the game.”
“Turn tricks? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“How many jobs have you gotten so far?”
“…twelve, thirteen, I guess.”
“Paying how much? Maybe a hundred Euros average? More like fifty. And how long is it before you get your ass shot? Take up the offer. Bonnefoy runs a good place. He won’t cheat you every chance you get.”
“Just most the time?”
“Look, I’m trying to help your ungrateful little ass out, kid!”
“Fine, I’ll think about it, you old bastard!”
Lovino was on his third cigarette when Spain came back out and got dressed again. The john came over to the window, pulling several bills from his wallet. Not payment; that would have been done up front. None of that kind of stuff here. Bonnefoy hated crassness in his place.
“Here. Get something nice for yourself.”
Lovino blew out a long stream of smoke in the other man’s direction. Unfortunately a vent overhead carried the smoke right back to his face, rather ruining the effect.
“I don’t need charity,” he said flatly.
“It isn’t.”
“No fucking thanks.” Because he could accept getting paid for sex but when it was up close like this, by the tomato bastard- He refused to let that thought continue.
Spain paused, shrugged. He reached out as if to touch Lovino, hesitated, and withdrew his hand. “Take care then,” he said with that same infuriating smile. Then he headed out, depositing the money on the dresser on the way. No more ceremony than that, the door closing quietly behind him. Lovino waited for about five minutes before he uncurled from his seat and headed over to the dresser.
He picked up the bills and blinked as he realized just how substantial the stack was. His eyes bulged as he counted them slowly and then he paused as he encountered something that was definitely not a bill. He pulled out a business card. It was a good one, complete with a personal watermark and a little gold emblem.
“Antonio Fernandez Carriedo” read neat black embossed print. The name sounded far too familiar and he squinted at the emblem, which was of a lion and a leopard. Wait a minute- Lovino’s jaw dropped and his fingers tightened on the card.
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo- current president of the Leon Group, easily among the biggest companies in Western Europe. “Merely” a president but de facto leader and official successor to Chairman of the board of directors (Lovino didn’t keep up with business and finance news in general but he’d been stuck at a doctor’s office with limited reading material a few times).
No wonder the bastard seemed so damn familiar. The smiling idiot made it on magazine covers regularly, often lauded as one of the most eligible bachelors in the world, much less Europe. How could he have not even recognized him? But then again… pictures were never the same, right? And the man never wore anything particularly distinctive, except for that crucifix, which was always kept tucked under his clothes.
A grim little smile finally crossed Lovino’s face as he made sure that the card was stored safely. After all, it just might be useful someday.
-
Delectatio Morosa - The title is means literally “morose delectation,” more colloquially translated to “peevish delight.” It refers to harboring ill thoughts and taking pleasure in them, whether considering sexual behavior or gloating over others’ ills (see: schadenfreude).
Ugh… I love writing Lovino, I really do. He’s such an… interesting perspective to write (and I mean it). He’s rather cathartic, actually, because he has such an interestingly aggressive approach to everything. His sort of anger isn’t the bitter heaviness that a lot of the other countries have, in my view. Not like England, who’s been on permanent PMS since Day 1, or any other country I’ve tried writing. This sort of anger is something more- relatable, I think.
That said, this story drove me crazy while I was editing it. Not writing it, editing it. Argh. I’m not so pleased with his story any more. -goes to lie down-