Wednesday, October 1, 2014

A North Italy Lemon -- Sing, Sweet Hummingbird

Character:  North Italy

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: Julianne Bonnefoy, represents Paris, flirty

Inspiration: I wanted to experiment with the other side of Feliciano in this one.  It’s long, so pull up a seat and don’t plan on moving for a while :> 


From her window, Julianne can see the world.  It is not the world, just her world.  And it is a bright and scintillating and breathing mass, and her people are very colorful indeed.
It is a cold night, for the middle of summer.  The air is chilly and the moon is full as it hangs in the pale evening sky.  Julianne leans against her balcony railing and peers out over the sprawling city of Paris, at the tenements and buildings and skyscrapers, at the dwindling side roads and crisp street signs.  The scent of food wafts up to her from several floors below, where a restaurant is in the middle of their evening rush.  Several kilometers away sits the Eiffel Tower, which just barely peeks up over the cityscape, as if shyly saluting her.
It's a pretty sight, but something is missing.  She's not sure what it is, and after a few minutes Julianne ventures back into her apartment.  She'd been busy cleaning all afternoon, and so everything looks clean and refreshed.  She looks over her hard work with a lazy smile and goes to pour herself a glass of wine.  She takes it back outside and sits down, enjoying the atmosphere and the wine and the tired-but-energetic day she's had.  And that's the exact moment in which everything falls into place, and that missing something becomes known to her.
It is music.  The lightest drift of guitar coupled with the soft lilt of a man's voice.  It weaves over her ears so delicately that Julianne barely registers it, at first.  But then her eyes are snapping open in surprise because it's all very familiar, that voice, like she's heard it thousands of times, and she suddenly knows that she has to make sure she's not hallucinating.  She stands up, puts her wine down, and heads to her door.
She's not exactly dressed to go out.  She's been working and cleaning all day and is a bit dirty, and her clothes are a little wrinkled.  But Julianne is related to France, after all, and anything she wears is almost always regarded as high fashion.  Even if it is a pair of slightly torn jeans, canvas shoes, and a shirt that's got several dirt stains edging over the hem.  She can pull it off, this off-kilter look, and she strides into the streets with her head high and her back straight.
It's still relatively busy on the streets, even at this time.  Couples rush around going to dinner or to other places.  Tourists huddle together snapping photos off every other second.  And the crowd that gently surrounds that lilting Italian voice is larger than she'd expected.  She pushes through it, calmly trying to peer over the tops of heads, but is unable to get a good glimpse of the man.  All she can see is the gray fedora tipped back on his head.
Then suddenly the person in front of her shifts away, puts a little money into the open guitar case, and all at once Julianne's eyes are crashing against a gaze she happens to know very well.  And Italy's raising his eyebrows just a little as he sings, and shoots her a quick, easy wink that says, 'Just a moment more and this will all be explained.'
She finds herself chuckling at the entirety of it.  The fact that his voice alone had been enough to drag her from her apartment.  And also the fact that he is here now, in Paris on a summer night with the moon full and her heart fuller.  She watches him with eyes that speak of that brimming heart, eyes that glow and shift and flush with those tiny shards of desire.  And whether Feliciano can see them or is simply too involved in his song, he will discover them before the night is through.
His song ends with a soft flourish, and his fingers dance very briefly up the guitar's neck, following the trail of his voice.  When it all crashes to a halt, the small crowd begins to clap and people step forward to deposit money into the case.  He nods and thanks them, his lighthearted voice still lilting with his native tongue.  And Julianne waits, letting the sounds of hurried, "Grazie's" echo over her.  And then they are alone.
It's a little baffling, really, to suddenly watch the crowd dissipate.  To suddenly be standing five feet away from him, an open space gaping where before there'd been people to fill it.  Julianne steps forward and sends him an appraising glance, smiling even though she's a tiny bit intimidated about the situation.  She can't really say why.  This is only Feliciano, after all, who couldn't hurt a fly.
But it is for that reason that she is having trouble breathing properly, and has apparently lost all the courage that she's been instinctually born with, being France's younger sibling.  It is because he is Feliciano, sweet innocent boyish Feliciano, that makes everything different.  And she can't lie to herself: she's been interested in him for a very, very long time.
Being in love makes a person stumble.  It makes her stumble, too, though she won't ever admit to it.  And while she isn't entirely sure that she is in love with Feliciano, she is not the type to ignore her heart, which is at this moment beating ever faster, whispering, 'love him, love him, love him' against her eardrum.
She is France's younger sister.  She is the city of love.  And yet Julianne does not recall a time where she'd ever been in love.  Infatuation and flirting pale in comparison to the brightness that she feels now, and it abounds over her and fills her with hopeful foolishness and a hardy desire to change her fortune.  She has tried so very hard not to be like her older brother, who has frequented so many beds in the hope of becoming the perfect lover.  But she does not want perfect.  She wants flawed, troubled, frightened, graceless.  The rawness of her heart demands it.  Still, she paints on her flirtatious smile because it is all she knows, and steps forward with a swing to her hips and a cheeky sparkle in her eye.
"Feli," she says, glancing at his guitar.  It is strung around his form with a maroon strap and hangs low against his hips.  For a frightened, graceless man he is impeccably dressed, as always.  His trousers are nicely tailored and match his olive dress shirt perfectly.  When she lifts her eyes up to his, he is watching her, almost carefully.  She makes a note of that, tilts her head, and curiously muses, "You didn't tell me you were coming.  Did you not want to see me?"  She asks the last question with that cheeky resolve, like she's outwardly testing him but inwardly afraid of the truth.
But he jumps up at the question, his eyes for once like fire, all intense and suddenly burning like ashy coals.  "No!" he exclaims, then realizes how strange his reaction had been and backs up with a soft chuckle and a softer gaze.  He peers over at Julianne quietly, sort of hesitant, and says a bit more delicately, "It isn't that.  I was planning on coming to see you tomorrow."  He was planning on working up the courage to come and see her, that is, but she doesn't need to know that. 
It doesn't matter anyway.  Julianne only smiles and nods graciously, stepping forward and peering at the money in his guitar.  "You made quite a lot.  Were you here all evening?"  And Feliciano, glad that the subject has changed, says, "An hour."  He crouches down and starts gathering the bills, and after a moment Julianne bends to help because she feels awkward, standing over him like that.
He sends her a smile that makes her heart flutter wildly.  She returns it, hands him her stack of bills, and watches him carefully tip his guitar back into the case.  Then she blurts out a sudden, hastily thought, "Will you have some wine with me?  I was drinking some before…"  The last part is added on quickly, because Feliciano is looking up at her in surprise and she wonders if she perhaps overstepped some boundary that she hadn't known existed.  It is not often that she feels so hesitant, but tonight is special.  Tonight she is not Paris, femme fatale and younger sister of France.  Tonight she is merely a girl who happens to like a boy, and they are both flustered and unsure about their feelings.
To her relief, Feliciano's surprise melts into happiness.  He nods and says, "Let's go!"  Then he stands, holds out his elbow without thinking, and waits for Julianne to grasp it.  She stares at it for a moment, her own surprise coming out to play against her expression.  Feliciano realizes his slip and chuckles, starting to withdraw.  His action had been one of those thoughtless ideas that comes from being comfortable around another person.  Before his arm falls completely, though, Julianne hurries to grasp the fabric, clenching his sleeve in her fingers and giving him a reassuring, pleased smile.  He returns it slowly, his eyes warming easily back to their original happiness.  And then they are off, back through the heady streets of Paris, back to the apartment that waits only a few floors up.
Feliciano had never been inside before.  He is feeling all manner of things by the time they reach her door.  Some of his feelings are mere eagerness, lighthearted innocence that comes from the prospect of getting to know another person.  Most of his feelings have more to do with his own nervousness than anything, though.  He steps inside slowly, looks around, gently eases his guitar case against the wall.  Julianne disappears into the kitchen, which he can just see from his place near the door.  She comes back with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a cheeky smile.  He swallows, smiles back, and tries his best to look more confident than he actually is.
But it isn't all that hard, especially after they have started drinking.  They are nowhere near drunk, but alcohol has this tendency to loosen one up and make them more comfortable.  By his fifth sip, Feliciano is happily telling her about the other cities he's recently visited, and how he's been traveling around with just his guitar and a small backpack stuffed with spare clothes and some other essentials.  (White flag and boxes of pasta, most likely.)  Julianne is sitting back, listening to him with a soft smile, her head leaning against the side of the couch as she soaks up his words. 
She thinks she likes the sight of him in her apartment, sitting so comfortably on her couch.  She thinks she'd like to see him here more often.  Then she starts thinking of other things, things that are less innocent, things that have to do with making him more comfortable, less talkative.  She'd like to drag out his native Italian, make him whisper it, chant it, moan it.  She'd like to see those eyes of his shine with eager pleasure, and to be the one to make that pleasure thrum over him. 
She is dragged back to the present when suddenly, outside in the streets, a car loudly honks and a man's voice angrily yells something.  Whatever Feliciano had been saying (she obviously isn't paying as much attention as she should be), his words are cut off and he stares at the balcony in front of them, whose doors are swung wide and let in all aspects of the night.  Julianne chuckles.  Feliciano gives her a warm smile, and the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little bit.
"You certainly live right in the middle of everything," he says offhandedly, and she shrugs.  Every city has its similarities and Paris is no different.  It's loud and overpopulated and dirty, but she loves the streets and the people and the colorful new slang words.  Living here reminds her of who she is, what she is.
She stands up and walks to the balcony doors, but she doesn't close them.  She just stares into the night, leaning against the threshold with her arms crossed.  After a moment of watching her, Feliciano walks forward and joins her, letting himself be immersed in whatever has taken a hold of her.  Several stories below, the cars whoosh by and people chatter away in lilting French.  The sound of glass shattering on pavement sounds some streets away.  Very lightly, the softness of violin music trembles up into her apartment from the restaurant below.  And beside her, she can feel Feliciano's presence like it's some unbreakable wall pushing against her psyche.
The room is dim.  The wine has made them unravel.  The clock behind them gently ticks into the early night.  And suddenly Julianne is aware of it all, and of many other things too, and she thinks her head will explode from all the desires that shift through it, demanding and relentless.
"Where are you going next?" she finds herself asking, softly, like she doesn't really want to break the silence.  But it's too loaded for her, this quiet stillness, and she's too far gone into this strange landscape of bright giddy passion. 
Feliciano looks sideways at her, his eyes drifting over her face and her eyes and the way they gleam in the dull light.  He is closer to her than he'd originally thought.  The inches between them sucker over his skin and it rather feels like a tsunami has fallen against him.  He is unsure if he wants to move closer, or pull away entirely.  For now, he just focuses on answering her question without completely stumbling over his words.  He does rather well, he thinks, when he responds with a gentle, "It depends." 
He expects her next question, and she doesn't disappoint him.  When she wonders, slightly breathless because of his proximity, "On what?", Feliciano softly smiles.  "On where the train is going," is his response, and it's so simple that Julianne raises her eyebrows and laughs. 
"You can't just get on a random train!" she exclaims, though somehow she is unsurprised that Feliciano would.  He is like a free spirit always out of reach, flying higher than she would ever have the courage to go.  Julianne shakes her head and sends him a half smile.  Then she asks reasonably, "What if you end up in Siberia?" 
It is his turn to raise his eyebrows.  He couldn't end up there even if he'd wanted to.  Trains out of Paris went as far as Moscow but there are no trains that delve any farther into that cold country.  He doesn't need to tell her this because she already knows.  The question had been merely a remark on the untrustworthy nature of his plan.  She comes up with another question that pushes from her lips before she can reign it in, and he stares.
"And…when are you leaving?" she asks.  Her voice is lighthearted, simple, and so so hesitant.  She thinks he should stay in Paris for as long as he can.  She thinks he should stay while she's got the courage to ask him.  While she's brave enough to be able to stand next to him in this dim, romantic setting.  Feliciano wants to, too.  But is answer is far simpler and he merely murmurs, "…Depends."  She stares.
His face seems to loom closer to hers.  The shadows of the room have driven over his skin and make his eyes gleam.  A piece of his hair has fallen into his face but neither move to brush it away, not yet.  After a moment, Julianne reaches forward, smoothes the rebel strand away, and whispers, "Depends on what?" 
Perhaps she already knows the answer.  Perhaps this doesn't surprise her.  She is the City of Love and she knows the signs of romance when they're staring her in the eye.  She almost doesn't believe her own diagnosis, but then Feliciano is breathing a very gentle, "…You," and she knows that it's all true.  Which is why she decides that it's really high time she does something about this ridiculous shyness, and so she kisses him.
He does not expect it, though he probably should have.  Julianne doesn't like to be afraid of anything, romance least of all.  She kisses him with the soft zeal that has been pressing up against her heart ever since he stepped into her apartment.  And even as he tries to pull away from the surprise of it all, Feliciano doesn't ever want it to stop.  So he decides not to let it.
He comes back in like a man trying to experience everything at once, but it's endearing.  Julianne smiles against his mouth and he chuckles back at her.  The passion is edged and broken with bits of their laughter, their amusement at the silly desire that moves them.  But it feels very right, the emotions that drive them, and after a moment they seem to settle down and the kiss turns a little more serious. 
Perhaps it is because Julianne has waited for this, but kissing him rather feels like all the little, shattered pieces of her life are drawing closed and being stitched together.  She feels the worn edges of her heart crinkle and explode.  Fire seems to draw over her flesh and she can barely breathe.  She doesn't try to, only focuses all her energy on moving her mouth against his.  Her fingers clench into his shirt and he presses her back into the edge of the doorway.  It's vaguely uncomfortable, but Julianne doesn't complain.  It's a small price for a kiss like this.
She is a firm believer that this kind of burning, feverish passion stumbles very rarely into a person's life, and that when it does you have to grab it.  That is why, when Feliciano begins slowing down and showing signs of pulling away, she only brings him closer and kisses him harder.  She is unwilling to let this stop, unwilling to come back into reality.  He doesn't appear to be very much against it, either, because he makes an appreciative noise and pushes her further into the threshold.
It isn't very comfortable, being pressed against the hard wooden doorway, but Julianne neither notices nor cares.  She is too focused on him, on the way he is kissing her, on the way he is holding her.  His grip is gentle but hot, and fierce, as though he feels that she is delicate but also strong.  His fingertips seem to burn right through the thin layer of her shirt.  She suddenly wishes they would, and that all their clothes would catch fire and crumble away likes ashes left to smolder in a windstorm.
Julianne had heard that Italians make good lovers.  Slow, progressive types.  She can see those attributes now, paving through Feliciano's gentle touches as he strokes over her back and hips.  She can feel the potential of his love in the way his mouth presses over hers.  For a self-proclaimed coward, he is surprisingly bold in romance, or at least bolder than she'd expected.  Not that she is complaining of course.  She can’t find any fault whatsoever in the way he is kissing her.  His lips feel like every single gentle thought he’s ever had has come into contact with fire, and has turned them to melted honey.
Her fingers tumble over his shirt, creasing and uncreasing the folds of fabric.  The material is cool beneath her touch, but warms quickly.  It feels luxurious to be pressed against him.  The night air cascades over their skin and sounds of the city rush through the apartment: cars honking, people laughing, shouting.  It is almost as if the earth has decided to unload the meaning of life right upon her doorstep.  Well, if it has, she will not complain about that either.  If Feliciano is the meaning of her life, it would make her very happy indeed.
The kiss dissolves slowly and leaves her waiting, for what she couldn’t say.  Feliciano’s eyes are closed and she stares up at him, taking in the delicate way the soft moonlight and her apartment’s dim lighting prisms over his features.  He looks as if he’s trying to take in everything at once, like he’s trying to memorize as much of her as he possibly can.  Perhaps he thinks that their kiss is their downfall.  That it will be the first and last of its kind.  She furrows her brow at the thought, wondering if perhaps she should set him straight.  But then his eyes are drifting open and she forgets what she’d wanted to say.
Is there anything as beautiful as Feliciano’s eyes when the sight of them is accompanied with moonlight shards and kisses?  Julianne thinks not.  Nor does she stop to think about the terrifying ‘what-ifs’ of their union.  When her fingers reach up to touch the side of his face, to tumble down his cheekbone, to drag over his mouth, she doesn’t bother considering anything except how very badly she’d like to kiss him again. 
Feliciano rather thinks that his heart is about to rattle completely out of his chest.  Does she know that he can hardly take a breath?  That when she touches him with that reverent softness, he can’t help but think he is wholly unworthy of her?  But it is quite clear that she doesn’t share this belief.  Her eyes are full of life and wonder, and as he looks down at her, he thinks he’d like to share in that blind passion.  So he catches her hand with his, turns hers over, and presses a lingering kiss to her palm.  Then her wrist.  His tongue very gently flicks out to brush along her vein and her eyes flutter earnestly. 
She very much likes that.  He can see it in the way her body almost unconsciously gravitates towards his.  He slides the fingers of his free hand down her arm, to the crease of her elbow, and she watches with odd fascination, wondering at his touch.  But it feels wonderful, and she doesn’t draw away.  Rather, she pushes forward, and says in a low voice that makes his body explode into fragmented shivers, “You said your leaving depends on me.”  The statement is in fact a question, quietly wondered.  The words are a soft tremble of sound that makes Feliciano stare at her, awed for a multitude of reasons.  Mostly he is surprised because apparently the very sound of her voice has his body reacting to her, and the burning between his legs has only intensified. 
Is it supposed to be like this?  Love?  Because that is surely what he feels, what he has felt for what seems like decades, and perhaps even longer.  That he is in love with her doesn’t make him pause, though.  He has known that for quite some time.  No, what makes him stop and stare is the sudden possibility that she maybe feels the same for him.  The thought creeps up on him like a passing knave and pockets all his senses before he can turn around.  But her eyes tell him she loves him, and her fingers which grip at his shirt, and her voice which quivers with that delicate emotion.  And so he draws back, staring, thinking that it can’t be true, that he can’t be so lucky.  He never is.
“…Sì, l'amore [1],” he murmurs, and then promptly blushes, for he hadn’t meant to use those words, or for that matter use his native tongue.  But the answer had come without bidding, and had spilled from his lips feeling perfectly natural.  Julianne doesn’t appear to find fault in the words, at least.  In fact, her cheeks blush a very soft pink that can barely be seen through the darkness, and she smiles.  He smiles back, relieved that his blunder had been so easily brushed aside.
She steps closer, and he can feel the warmth of her body radiate over him.  She reaches for the hand hanging rather uselessly by his side, where it had dropped minutes before.  The sudden touch, the way her fingers boldly curl around his, has Feliciano glancing down at their hands for a brief moment.  Surprise coats his gaze, but it melts away as soon as he meets Julianne’s eyes again.  She squeezes his hand and, with her other, reaches out to splay her fingers over his chest.  Her flirty nature seems to have come out to move things along, because her next move makes him utterly crazy.
“I want you to stay,” she tells him.  Her voice is low, almost husky, riddled with all sorts of promises and delicious hints.  Her words are pebbled with those promises, and every syllable feels like a stone has been tied to his ankles and he’s being dragged down into the imperious nature of her love for him.  He wants to drown in it.
Her hand slides down his chest, as if following the unique crescendo of her voice.  If she knows what she is doing to his poor self control, she doesn’t show it.  Instead she merely looks up at him, almost innocently, as if she is utterly unaware that she is having such an effect on him.  It isn’t true, of course.  She is Paris, after all.  But she doesn’t think serious, solemn love is very fun at all, and avoids it when she can.
Her hand stops at his naval, just above the hem of his trousers, and pauses as she turns her eyes back to his.  There is an unreadable expression on his face, but the eyes tell her all she needs to know.  As if she hadn’t already known.  Dress trousers aren’t very good at hiding erections, but she will ignore that for now, if only because of the panic around his gaze.  She steps closer, curling her hand around his waist, instead.  Her thumb brushes circles against the fabric.  Her other hand, still entangled with his, squeezes his fingers comfortingly, and his eyes soften.
“You want me to stay?” he finds himself asking, hoping.  He doesn’t exactly know how she wants him to stay.  Will he stay in Paris, or in her bed?  But staying is better than leaving, at least, and he’ll take either, so long as it means he won’t have to go so soon. 
They are unconsciously moving forward, centimeter by centimeter, without even realizing it.  Or perhaps they do, in some hidden clandestine part of their minds.  Julianne hums, an agreeable sound, as if she’s not ready to answer him with words.  But moments later she does anyway, and she murmurs, “Stay with me.”  Her hand clenches down over his collar and her mouth is suddenly pushing over his, leaving him with little choice other than to kiss back.  Which, of course, would have been what he’d have chosen anyhow.
Her kiss is like spun sugar, just barely there.  Too-sweet.  Like it’s just the figment of a fantasy, the slide of wakefulness that tumbles so regrettably after a good dream.  Feliciano doesn’t want this to be a dream, though.  He has dreamt long enough of her, wasted too many nights thinking on her, feeling miserable even after the sweetness of his own release suckered his palms.  There had been no happiness in dreams, at least not compared to the simple grandness of this kiss.  And so he wraps his arms tight around her waist and pulls her rather forcefully against him.  His mouth is not hesitant or soft now.  Instead he kisses her with a fervency that makes her feel hot, clammy, and she suddenly knows that the night is far from over.
This time, there is little uncertainly in the way they hold each other.  Many things have been discovered since their first kiss.  Things that have them gravitating into each other in a way neither understands.  But it is not possible to stop it, not now.  Not when Julianne can feel the rigid erection pressing urgently against her.  Not when she can feel the desperate way he is clutching her, and the equally desperate way she clutches him. 
She shifts against him, dragging her body over his, sliding her arms around his neck and easing her hips just a little.  The slight movement is enough to make him sigh out, breathless and heady.  He kisses her harder, takes her down into the brilliant shades of his affection.  His fingers really do burn through her clothes now, tumbling beneath her shirt and splaying out over the curves of her waist.  His touch is innocent but not, just like the rest of him.  It makes her feel haphazard and crazed, like her mind and body has been split apart and cannot get back together.
She doesn’t know how it happens.  One moment they are standing in the middle of the balcony doors and the next she is pressing Feliciano to the wall, furiously overtaking his halfhearted attempts at regaining some semblance of control.  His weak breathing is enough to make her pound.  And the way he breaks the kiss to whisper a reverent, “Julianne … bella donnacome fare il mio battere il cuore! [2]” 
The words leave her aching, aching because his native tongue inspires such wicked thoughts within her.  She leans forward, fisting her hands into his shirt and pushing her hips hard against his.  The grinding movement makes him sag, breathless, against the wall.  His forehead falls against hers and he gasps silently and heaves her hips as close to his hardened length as physically possible.  Still, it isn’t enough.
She pushes her lips over his again, hot and fierce and she forces him against the wall.  Her hands release their hold of his shirt so that they can pull the fabric out of his trousers and slip beneath.  And then suddenly Julianne doesn’t know where to touch him, only that she can’t possibly touch all of him at once like she wishes she could.  Her fingertips race over his skin, up his back, his sides, along the hem of his trousers.  And all the while, their mouths move with an almost animalistic rage, and their lower bodies gravitate and grind, and their breaths are gasping and shallow. 
“Mmm…” Julianne inhales, dragging her teeth over his bottom lip before attacking his mouth once more.  Against it, she pleads, “Tell me more.”  More of his delicious words, bathed in that lilting accent, battered with almost-familiar phrases that she instinctively understands.  The plea has his grasping her ever tighter, slowing the kiss down to a delightful crawl, rubbing his tongue over hers briefly before accepting the challenge.
“Cosa c'è da dire? [3]" he mumbles, taking a step away from the wall.  The movement pushes her back, gently, but he is quick to follow, and quicker to take advantage of the breathless way she stares at him, always wondering what he will do next.  Feliciano is not used to someone looking to him for direction, or hanging off his every word.  He takes great pleasure in bending her to him, in a manner he had not entirely expected of himself.  But how could he resist it, with this lovely creature so willing, so ready?
He steps back, she follows.  Her eyes are wild, like she’s about to pounce on him and have her way.  He thinks he wouldn’t mind if she did.  He also thinks that he’d rather she have her way with him somewhere a little more comfortable.  Which is why he is slowly backing up, backing up, in the direction of the bedroom.
“Dovrei dirti quanto ti voglio? [4]”  Her eyes flash and he gives a tiny smile, half amused but mostly aroused.  There is something ridiculously erotic about having someone want you so badly.  It is perhaps a little unexpected, but Feliciano takes it all into stride because he knows the feeling of wanting to possess someone, wanting to have their body, their mind, and every part in between.
He reaches for her hand.  Julianne holds it tightly.  By now she has guessed at this little game of his.  She thinks it’s all very clever, the way he leads her away, luring her.  She also thinks it’s amusing that Feliciano can be such a contradiction.  He is soft but bold.  Erratic but gentle.  She’d like to unravel more of his personality.  She’d like to unravel other things, too.  But she’s patient.  For now, she will let him have his way, so long as he keeps talking.
He does.  He seems to know the effect it has on her.  It makes him excited and hard.  In the back of his mind, he is a little surprised that he is quite so hard, so ready for her.  Perhaps it is just the emotions of the moment, but he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything quite so much as he does now, and it is making his body crazy and hot. 
They reach the hallway.  He’s got no idea where to go next, so he tries the first door he finds.  As he opens it, he murmurs lowly, “Non ho mai voluto qualcuno così tanto [5].”  It is a bathroom.  He catches sight of the amused smile on Julianne’s face and lets out a very quiet growl.  The next moment, he is dragging her against him roughly, his mouth demanding against hers, his hands shifting all over her body.  She’s only starting to get into it when suddenly he pulls back, nips at her chin, and gives her that small smile again.  The one that says that he’d like to have a little bit of control right about now, so she should stop trying to take it all away.
She humors him.  Or at least that’s what she tells herself.  But honestly, there is nothing she can do as he leads her on, tugging her forward.  She can’t be bothered to reassert her control and she doesn’t want to. 
“Ma voglio scoparti così male … Sono così difficile [6],” he mumbles, his voice almost breathless.  His cheeks turn a little pink, as though his words are somehow embarrassing.  Julianne is not as proficient in Italian as she used to be, but she has a feeling she knows what he’d said.  Still, she plays dumb, steps up to him and takes his shyness to her advantage as she presses him against the bedroom door.  For this is the bedroom door, unbeknownst to him, and she curls her hand around the doorknob, waiting.
“What did you say?” she whispers throatily, trailing her mouth very lightly over his neck.  Her tongue flickers over his sensitive skin and he almost cringes at the ultra responsive way he reacts to her.  He swallows thickly and takes a large breath, but doesn’t answer her.  How could he repeat those words in English?  He can hardly believe he’d said them in Italian at all…
His face is characteristically red, and it only gets worse when her hands drift over him, over his chest and hips, just missing the one part of his anatomy that he almost wants her to touch…  And yet a part of him doesn’t want her to at all, because he isn’t sure if he’s ready for it to get quite so real.  Call him old fashioned, but they’d only shared their first kiss mere minutes before, and he is shy by nature, and who said Italians are great lovers, anyways -- ?
“Feliciano…” Julianne mutters, preoccupied with the buttons of his shirt.  He’d hardly noticed that she’d been fiddling with them at all, but now she’s over halfway done.  He swallows again and watches as she pushes the shirt out of the way and glances appreciatively at his chest.  When she catches his eye again, she gives him a light, cheeky smile that somehow makes him feel much better.  “You’re thinking too hard,” is all she says, and then she’s suddenly turning the doorknob and the door he’s leaning against gives way. 
They stumble into the room, clutching each other tightly.  Feliciano is confused by the abrupt move, but Julianne has everything planned out.  She guides his stumble footsteps right to her bed, and when his knees in the mattress he falls over with a surprised, ‘oomph’!
Oh yes, he’s clearly thinking too hard.  He knows it’s true, especially when Julianne crawls over his body and kisses him again.  Her movements are confident and delicious.  His are just fumbling.  But she doesn’t complain.  Instead she just kisses him harder, takes his wrists and shoves them up over his head, edges her core over his erection until the friction makes them hot and out of breath.
Her fingers are certainly not idle throughout the kiss.  The fabric of his shirt is pushes aside and she shifts her hands over his skin, up and down as she explores the toned muscles.  After a brief moment of this, she decides that feeling isn’t enough.  She needs to look at him, needs to see what he has to offer with her own two eyes.  But as she pulls back and looks down at him, the darkness creates an upsetting curtain.  It takes her moments to rectify this: soon the room is awash with color as she flips on the bedside lamp.
She meets his gaze with a small smile, and leans back down to his level.  “I want to see you properly,” she whispers, kissing his cheek.  He looks rather divine, she thinks.  His cheeks are blushing and his eyes are blown.  His chest heaves with shallow breaths.  His trousers sit low on his hips, and in the light Julianne can quite clearly see the bulge tenting up the fabric.  She doesn’t look at it for too long, though, for which Feliciano is grateful.  He might be fairly confident with his clothes on, but perhaps not so much without their protection.
She drags her mouth from his cheek to his jaw, from his jaw to his neck, his neck to his chest.  He looks down at her progress, expecting her to keep going.  What he doesn’t expect is for her to stop at his heart.  She places a lingering kiss just above it, and smiles into the skin.  His heartbeat is fast like a bird’s, and seems to beat a million miles a second.  Is he really so nervous?  He is fairly good at hiding it anyway.
She suddenly feels his hands at her shoulders, and looks up at him.  His eyes are closed and he looks relaxed as he lays his head back.  Immediately, she knows that something has changed somehow.  The air around them has transformed, the nervousness diffused.  Something that feels almost like acceptance drifts over them, wraps them up in warm, easy rays.  She stares down at him, and his eyes flutter open.  His eyes are light amber, like honeyed tea.  She thinks they look lovely in the dim light.
Slowly, he sits up, leaning his weight on his arms.  She is surprised to find that he is exactly her height.  His eyes are level with hers and so is his mouth, which she leans into.  The kiss they share is light, gentle, secure.  And Feliciano’s voice, when he next speaks, is very similar.  “I want you, Julianne.”  She stares.
She is unsure if she’s ever heard anyone say those words before, out loud, for her to hear.  Hearing him say that is perhaps even more erotic than listening to the lilt of his Italian.  The raw honesty of his words make her overwhelmingly breathless.  “…I want you too,” she whispers back, after she’s found her voice again.  His eyes flash delightfully and before she really knows what’s happening, Feliciano is pushing forward and kissing her. 
It doesn’t take her long to find her senses though.  Soon she is kissing him back just as wildly.  Her hands smooth his shirt from his shoulders, and it drops away to the side.  As soon as it is gone, she presses him down, hovering above him and tumbling his hands over the new expanse of his chest.  He drags her closer, one hand around her waist and the other pressing her hips against his.  He needs friction or else he will explode.  He needs it so badly that he can hardly see.
She does not disappoint, but her movements are as surprising as they are arousing.  Feliciano has to bite back a moan when she suddenly breaks the kiss and furiously starts to pull at the zipper of his trousers.  It takes three tries and one hastily muttered curse before the fly is down and the button is dealt with.  By then Feliciano has braced himself against the mattress, his body as hard as the erection Julianne pulls free.  But he utterly dissolves at the sight and feel of her pumping his cock in and out of her palm.
He shatters into broken melodic Italian, peppered with erotic moans and mumbles as he feels all his self control give way.  “Aahhh…sì!  Non si fermano,  non smettere mai di…! [7]”  His head falls back and he can’t breathe properly, only gasp and hope to God that he won’t come as quickly as he think he might.
His hips buck upward before he can stop it and his cheeks flush with color.  The sight of him is almost too much for Julianne, who has only ever dreamt of him like this.  But the way he reacts to her every touch is enough to put her completely at his mercy.  She drags her hand once more over him before suddenly stopping, her hands quickly reaching up to deal with her shirt without preamble.
Feliciano watches her from below, panting heavily.  When he sees what she’s doing, he scrambles back into a sitting position and hurries to help, feeling more confident with every passing second.  The shirt comes off and his mouth crashes into hers.  Her arms fly around his neck and they kiss in a frenzied sort of way, as if everything -- common sense, judgment, patience – has forsaken them.
His fingers fly to her pants and he jerks the zipper down, stuffing his hands into the fabric and wrestling them off of her.  She lifts herself off his lap to help, and soon she’s left in only her underwear.  He takes a brief moment to admire the matching set (lavender, with lace accents) before unclipping her bra and throwing it aside.  Then suddenly Julianne is being rolled onto the mattress and Feliciano is hovering above her, pressing her down, scrabbling to get her panties off as he kisses her.  She quite likes this rough-around-the-edges side of him.  She likes it so much that she lets him have his way.
As soon as the panties are gone, Feliciano pulls her leg to the side and nestles against her core.  She sighs out at the arousing feeling of his hard cock pushed against her wet heat.  Her leg is soon curled around his slim waist and she’s jerking her hips forward to roll against his.  Into the kiss he lets loose an especially delicious moan.
“You’re so wet,” he gasps, then promptly blushes because he maybe hadn’t meant to say it.  Julianne just chuckles, amused and oddly excited about his shyer nature.  She likes that it feels so new and fresh with him.  Every other man she’s been with had been fairly experienced, but it’s clear that this time, that’s not the case.  She is eager to taint him, to dirty his innocence.
She tangles her fingers into his hair and, in doing so, brushes over his ahoge.  The contact is almost equivalent to the previous feeling of her hand on his member, and it makes Feliciano momentarily pause as he shudders and bites the edge of his mouth.  She does it again, because she likes his expression.
Her fingers brush over his ears and she pulls him back down for a kiss.  Against his mouth, she whispers, “I’m wet because I want you so much.”  The words have a silly effect on him.  He moans and grinds their lower bodies together.  When her tongue comes out to dance over his, she splays her hand over his shoulder blade and whispers, “Take me already, Feli.  I can’t wait another second.”  Her impatience is very clear in the tone of her voice.
He swallows back a harsh wave of desire, which seems to almost brutally crash against his skin.  He’s not sure he can wait another second, either, but he’s also never been so nervous before.  Yet another contradiction sidles between them: his hesitance, and his desire for her.  Julianne sees the conflicting emotions play out over his face, and reaches for him.  Her other hand reaches for his cock.
The intense shiver that captures his body has her shuddering, too.  He is so sensitive, so eager.  His member burns over her palm, so hot that it’s almost surreal.  The rigid stiffness of it makes it easy to grasp, and the slight wetness that leaks from his tip makes it easier to stroke.  She does exactly that as she whispers, “I’ll help you.  Just come over here.”  And he nods, bites his lip, and eases forward until he’s all but pressing her down with his weight.
She does most of the work, at first, but Julianne doesn’t have it in her to complain about it.  A part of her thinks it’s almost arousing, in a fascinating endearing sort of way.  So she merely gives him a soft smile tempered with passion, slides her legs tight around his waist, and drags his lower body against hers.  Then, she guides the tip of his length into her core and urges him forward with her legs.  The physical feelings that accompany the movement have them both gasping, roiling towards each other as the union seems to almost shatter them.  The emotional feelings, needless to say, are somehow even more frenzied.
Dio mio!  Sembra incredibile [8],” Feliciano cries, his eyes closed as he rocks back.  She’s is very tight around his girth, so much so that he can barely move inside of her, and yet it feels ridiculously good.  It’s been a long time since she’s been with a man, longer than perhaps she’d realized, and she is quick to share his reverent, awed exclamations.  Together, they pant, moan, whisper as their bodies fall into the instinctive dance that they somehow automatically know.
Julianne clutches him hard, her nails gently digging into his shoulders.  There is something so thrilling about having this shy creature taking her in such an emboldened way, that all she can do is melt against the mattress and let herself be immersed in him.  His touch, his eyes that rove her frame, his delicious moans, his delicate Italian murmurings. 
His head hangs beside hers, his hair framing his eyes in a messy, careless way.  She pulls him down to her mouth and kisses him, and he quickly responds.  His lips move with hers in a slowly passionate way, the same pace as their hips which explore the softly building pleasure.  It blossoms over their bodies like intricate meanderings of passion, and has them rushing forward, intent on tumbling directly into it.
“Feliciano!” she cries, her head dipping back.  He is quick to bury his face into the newly revealed skin, moaning against it as he grits his teeth.  His hips fly against Julianne’s in a strangely forceful way.  Strange, because this is Feliciano, who is always so calm and gentle.  But even this shy creature isn’t calm in the face of all this frenzied rapture.  His movements are still gentle, in a way she can’t describe, but with an undercurrent of hot ecstasy that has him slamming into her.
She can understand where all that ecstasy is coming from.  Never has she felt so liberated during sex.  It’s an odd feeling, altogether, but then she also thinks it’s rather lovely.  Every thrust makes her feel both exhausted and rejuvenated, until she can no longer tell the difference between the two at all.  
He’s thrusting harder, faster, quaking against her like a tree in a tempest.  His Italian murmurings have slowed, replaced by an urgent moan that could almost be her name, had she the desire to unravel it.  But no, all she wants to do is unravel him, and so she pushes her hips up to meet his thrusts and proceeds to let herself fall into the tempting shifts of her orgasm. 
The moment Feliciano feels her muscles clench around him, he knows he is lost.  He stares at down Julianne with a sort of wondrous expression, as if he’d never felt anything as good.  He really can’t do anything about his own impending finish, which rises up within him far too suddenly for him to get a handle on.  And so he falls, hard, thrusting into her as his expression twists into utter pleasure, shuddering out a release that leaves them both gasping and wondering why on earth it took them so long to get this far.
His thrusts turn looser, dragging out the intense passion, letting it skitter over their bodies.  Julianne stares up at him with half-lidded eyes.  The emotions inside her gaze are enough to make Feliciano lean down to kiss her, because suddenly he only ever wants to kiss her for as long as he lives.  She sighs out a ragged sigh that scrapes over the lowest edges of her voice and kisses him back.  But this time, their mouths move at a luxurious pace, neither fast nor slow as they settle gently into the new rhythm of unexplored passion.
“You look tired, il mio amore [9],” he whispers against her lips.  He never wants this moment to end.  The warmth of her enslaves him, and he never wants to leave her embrace, never wants to be away from it.  Julianne gives him a tiny smile and says almost sluggishly, “I’m not.”  And, seeing right through her words to the truth at their center, he smiles and kisses her cheek, pulling out of her.  She gives a soft whining sound as he does, as though she can’t bear to be without him.  When he lies down beside her, she hurries to drag herself into his side and wrap herself around his form.  He thinks his heart will explode, the way it’s pattering so intently.
“Rest for a while,” he whispers into her hair, skimming his hand lightly over her back.  He is tired, too.  The emotions of the day have finally caught up with him, and as he closes his eyes, he feels fuller and more complete than he has in a very long time.  For now, they will rest.  Later, they will rise, and decide what to do about the silly way they seem to love each other.

~~~

Translations
[1] Sì, l'amore … Yes, love

[2] Bella donnacome fare il mio battere il cuore! … Beautiful woman … how you make my heart pound!

[3] Cosa c'è da dire? … What’s there to tell?

[4] Dovrei dirti quanto ti voglio? …  Should I tell you how much I want you?

[5] Non ho mai voluto qualcuno così tanto … I’ve never wanted someone so much.

[6] Ma voglio scoparti così male … Sono così difficile … I want to fuck you so badly … I’m so hard

[7] Aahhh…sì!  Non si fermano,  non smettere mai di…!  … Aahhh…yes!  Don’t stop, never stop…!

[8] Dio mio!  Sembra incredibile … My God!  It feels amazing
[9] il mio amore … my love

Thursday, September 25, 2014

A Germany Lemon -- Drift, Darling

Character: Germany

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: So...I didn't realize I found shaving so attractive until I wrote this.  But anyway.  YES, I've finally broken my almost 3 month silence!  Figures it'd be Germany's kinkiness that would do it.  :3


Before Ludwig entered your life, you hadn't imagined the number of everyday routines with the potential to turn into a kinky mess.  Or maybe you had, but you never would have imagined that they would.  But Ludwig's got this way about him that makes you want to surrender to every strange suggestion he makes.  This particular one is placed a bit lower on the bar than some of his more outlandish ideas.
It is the weekend, otherwise you wouldn't have the time for this.  The late morning sun pools against the bathroom tiles idly, almost consuming the entirety of the little room.  It is bright, vibrant, and oddly sultry.  You still haven't figured out why.  There shouldn't be anything attractive about dragging the edge of a knife over Ludwig's jaw.  But Lord help you, there is something about a man shaving that makes you weak in the knees.  Doing the shaving for him is somehow even more intense.
His eyes are closed and his blonde hair is messily strewn across his forehead.  Neither of you are properly dressed yet: the morning had been slow and sacred, full of gentle lovemaking and the easy banter of two familiar souls.  He is still wearing the soft white undershirt and boxer briefs that he'd pulled on before breakfast.  You are still wearing your short little nightgown and robe. 
Your initial reaction to this strange request had been a bewildered, 'Why?'.  It had seemed odd for him to willingly let you do something so normal, so utterly routine for him.  But now you understand the intimacy behind it.  As you sit in his lap and skim the old fashioned razor slowly up the crease of his throat and chin, you think you've finally realized what you hadn't before: this isn't about being kinky or erotic, it's about trust.  (Though there undoubtedly is a certain level of erotica going on.)
You smile quirkily and give a very light chuckle.  The sound makes Ludwig open his eyes to look at you curiously, and you lean in to kiss the high of his cheekbone where the skin is smooth and soft.  In a low voice, he wonders, “What is it?”  His accent is thick, tired, luxurious, and you suppress a shiver.
With an almost careless shrug, you shake your head and answer, “It’s nothing.  Just … I’m surprised that’s all.”  Surprised that you’re liking this as much as you are.  You wouldn’t have supposed that something as mundane as shaving would rile you up as much as it has.  But you’re aching softly, your body hyper aware of Ludwig and the way he is making you feel.  And you’re surprised at your own willingness to tumble headfirst into another one of his little schemes.  You’re glad you said yes to this one, even though at first you’d been rather skeptical.
You’re sure he’s already aware of what, exactly, you’re surprised at.  (You’re quite verbal with your thoughts of some of his kinkier ideas.)  But for the sake of humoring you, Ludwig murmurs, “Surprised about what?”  His eyes twinkle in amusement and they give him away, but you pretend not to notice.  Instead, you silently admire how he seems to have mastered the art of speaking while shaving, because his jaw barely moves at all.  It makes things a bit easier for you, at least.
You push his chin to the side and drag the blade over the left underside of his jaw, by his ear.  As you focus on keeping your movements gentle and precise, you answer his question in a lazy, idle tone.  “That shaving you is making me ridiculously aroused.” 
He does expect your words, but he doesn’t expect his own reaction to them.  Neither do you, it seems.  But when you catch sight of the soft pink blush spreading over his cheeks, you can’t help but giggle.  He chuckles too, probably because he knows he is being silly, knows that by now, there is no reason whatsoever to be embarrassed about such a thing.  Not when it comes to you.
You snicker and look down at his body, at the gentle bulge in his boxers.  That hasn’t gone unnoticed by you, but this is the first time you openly stare at it.  Ludwig watches you watch him, feeling more resigned than shy, though his cheeks still retain that slight pink.  When your eyes clash with his a moment later, you smirk and say, “Looks like I’m not the only one having that reaction.”  And he smiles, lets out a tiny laugh, and hauls your lower body against his.  Your chest is pressed right to his now, and you’re practically sitting right on top of his erection.  The heat of it scorches through you like wildfire and you have to close your eyes briefly while it momentarily consumes you.
“No, you’re not,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly.  You stare at him for a long moment, overcome by the intensity of his eyes.  Your mouth hovers mere inches away, and it takes all your willpower to keep the distance tangible.  There’s still shaving cream patterned over his jaw, and so after a moment more, you break his stare and reach for the sink.  The razor is placed on the counter.
The chair Ludwig and you are sitting in had previously been pushed up against the bathroom wall, but you had dragged it beside the sink after he thoughtfully suggested the current turn of events.  So lucky for you (and him), you don’t have to stand up to reach the water.  All you have to do is stretch your arm out and reach for the washcloth.  Still, it’s a bit of a stretch, and in order to reach the water faucet, your upper body is pushed very close to Ludwig’s face.  He doesn’t seem to mind.  His hands squeeze your thighs as you snatch the washcloth, and the look he sends you when you meet his gaze makes you weak in the knees.  Good thing you’re not standing.
You don’t comment on his expression as you start to wipe the shaving cream from his face.  There’s not much left, but you take your time regardless, making sure you get every last spot.  When you’re finished, you toss the washcloth back into the sink and turn your attention back to him.  With an almost reverent air, you splay both hands over his cheeks and lean into him, smoothing your fingertips over his newly shaved features.
“I’ve done a good job.  You’re perfect,” you whisper, smiling softly.  He does look perfect.  The sunlight dazzles his skin, turns his eyes to diamonds and his hair to gold.  His looks more like an angel than your lover. 
Ludwig slips his large hands into your nightgown and maps out the length of your back, drifting his touch over every jolt of your spinal cord, every flex of muscle.  His idle rediscovery has you leaning closer, until your breaths are intermingled and unified.  The next course of action is thoughtless, brainless, and it makes your toes curl with pleasure.  You finally close the space between your mouths and kiss him.  He immediately lets out a sigh of relief and responds quickly, his mouth strong and firm beneath yours.
Kissing him makes you feel alive in ways you can’t explain.  Heat licks at your skin, churns through your lower body, has you yearning for an intimacy that has no room for clothing.  You lightly trace the contours of his face, enjoying the rare feeling of completely smooth skin beneath your touch.  It is different, which makes it exotic, which makes you feel as though you cannot get enough of him.  You want to feel every part of him, and so a moment later you’re breaking the kiss in favor of pressing your mouth over his cheekbone.  You skim your nose along his jaw.  You drag his earlobe between your teeth, lick the hollow beneath his ear, leave little bites along his jugular vein.
He’s breathing hard when you slip your hands beneath his undershirt and splay them out over his chest.  So are you.  He hadn’t been idle while you’d been kissing him.  Your robe has been spread open and is now drooping down your shoulders.  His hands haven’t just been exploring your back.  They now cup your breasts beneath your nightgown, which rides up around his arms.  In the back of your mind, you wonder why on earth you’d bothered putting clothes on at all.  You must have known that this situation would have such an ending. 
You hurry to get the robe off.  The fabric creates an entangled web around your upper body and you frown at the struggle.  Ludwig somehow finds it amusing, though, and he starts to chuckle at the petulant sight you make.  After a moment he helps you, forcing the robe onto the floor where it will stay.  You’re about to say something about said force (it hadn’t exactly been gentle, not that you’re complaining), when suddenly his hands are clenching around the hem of your nightshirt and he’s pulling it up and off of you.
You’re left in your panties and nothing else.  An unfair move on his part.  You narrow your eyes at him and slip your hands around his wrists, which are easing up your waist and trying to pull you closer.  He blinks at your rather innocently, but you don’t fall for it.  “Ludwig, that’s cheating!” unfortunately, your voice comes out as more of a childish whine than the sultry scold you’d been going for, and he grins. 
Something must have made him more confident and aggressive than usual this morning (no doubt a result of the things you’d said to him last night, damn it), because Ludwig has a response and then some.  Before you know what’s going on, you’re being pushed up against the bathroom wall and Ludwig is lowly murmuring, “You can’t cheat in love, Frau [1].” 
It really isn’t very fair of him, especially when he’s wearing all those clothes.  But you decide not to worry about it because you happen to like it when he acts all rough.  It’s a delightful little personality trait that he rarely shows in his lovemaking unless he’s feeling overly confident or angry.  You’ve learned to appreciate it when it appears, because it’s ridiculously addictive.
“Well you do it all the time,” you tell him, your mouth bumping against his.  His lower body is pressed firmly against yours and you can feel him, hard and hot.  His hands have tumbled down to squeeze at your rear, and your legs are all but plastered around his waist.  Ludwig gives you a jaunty smile and quickly rolls his hips against yours, making you gasp and toss your head back, unwittingly hitting it into the wall.  The pain that accompanies your reaction makes your cringe, and Ludwig’s smile turns to soft amusement. 
“Perhaps we should continue this somewhere else,” he suggests, reaching a hand up to smooth over the back of your scalp.  You lean forward and murmur, “Agreed.”  And then you’re kissing him, and Ludwig is momentarily lost while your tongue slips against his.  His thoughts turn to ash, cluster together then reemerge as he grapples with all his desires.  The most important one has to do with getting to the bedroom, as soon as possible.
It is with a stumbling incoherency that the two of you falter through the threshold of the bathroom.  The kiss is filled with teeth and bites and it goes right to your head, and Ludwig’s too.  As a result, it takes longer than normal to reach the bed, but you find yourself rather enjoying the challenge.  By the time you land on the mattress, you skin is flushed and all your thoughts bent on one delicious thing.
Ludwig doesn’t immediately follow you.  Instead, he stands by the side of the mattress and busies himself with removing first his shirt, then his boxer briefs.  The time for shyness has long passed, it seems, for he strips himself with a sort of confident zealousness that makes you smirk.  
You push yourself up to your knees and crawl to the edge of the bed, where you lover is standing.  It doesn’t take him very long to figure out what has brought you so quickly to his side.  As soon as your hands splay over his chest and begin to drop downwards, Ludwig closes his eyes and swallows, attempting to prepare himself for what he should already be used to.
But he will never get used to the feel of your hand on his cock, or of the immense pleasure that strikes him down when you begin to pump him through your fingers.  It’s a dry sort of touch, without the usual slickness of sex, but he finds himself enjoying your gentle movements nonetheless.  His eyes flutter open and he leans his head down to your level, wasting no time as his mouth swoops over yours.
You push against him, eager for more.  His fingers tangle into your hair and he tips your head back.  His lips are ferocious, molding against yours with an intensity that leaves you gasping.  You can barely keep up with his kisses, but then you’ve got your own tricks, too.  As he softly sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, you give him a jaunty squeeze and Ludwig immediately moans.  The sound slips from him before he can rein it in, and he closes his eyes tightly as you chuckle.
“Behave,” you tell him with an amused smirk.  He gives you a little glower and nudges his face into your hair, inhaling slowly.  He’s trying very hard not to react to that hand of yours.  He desperately wants to move his hips, push them forward and try to make you go faster, but doing so would mean that you would win.  Ludwig wouldn’t want you to get too over-confident.  Perhaps that is why, a moment later, he is suddenly grappling you up into his arms and throwing you back onto the mattress. 
You’re so shocked that you start to laugh before you’ve even hit the pillows.  Ludwig follows you down with a growled chuckle and rolls his weight on top of you, all but pressing you down beneath him.  You reach for him and, in the midst of all your laughter, he kisses you with a heady vengeance that makes you moan. 
“See?” you ask into the kiss, sighing out and tangling your fingers into his blonde hair.  “You really do like to cheat.”  He looks down at you with a raised eyebrow and says lowly, “That’s not cheating.”  You give him an incredulous stare and laugh, curling your legs around his waist as you quip, “And what would you call it then?”  His eyes glitter down at you and he takes a short moment to think before responding with a smooth, “Enjoying myself.”  He leans down to kiss you and, at the same time, drops his free hand down to your hips and attempts to wrangle you out of your panties.  It’s harder than it looks, with only one hand, so you help him.
As your panties come away, you roll on top of him rather triumphantly and say, “Well then I get to enjoy myself too.”  Ludwig looks up at you, shifts his hands behind his head, and smirks.  When he next speaks, the tone of his voice is almost a purr, which slides across his vocal cords and makes him ridiculously sexy.  “By all means, Mein lieber [2],” he murmurs, and you narrow your eyes at him.
He looks rather nice, lying like that.  With his head in his arms, the muscles of his chest flex upwards.  You reach down to lay your hands over his skin, drifting it slowly over each pronounced ridge, down and down until you’ve reached his naval.  By now, Ludwig is looking at you with dark eyes, as if silently telling you to hurry up.  But his impatience doesn’t show on the rest of his face, and the firm way he sets his jaw makes you feel strangely giddy.  You proceed to ignore his hidden impatience and instead focus on yourself.  Moments later you’re shifting your hips right into his and his hard length is sliding against your wet core.
His self control is commendable.  Ludwig’s only major reaction to your little move is a fast, fluttery meltdown of his expression.  It lasts barely a second, but it is enough for you to see, and it makes you utterly ache as you watch him struggle to get a hold of himself.  He grunts, moves his arms from his head, and shoots you a soft glower as he reaches for you.  His large hands all but encompass your thighs.  He drags you into him, feeling luxurious as your naked skin tumbles over his.
“Now look who’s cheating,” he mumbles, kissing you.  You don’t respond, just grin a little and hum.  It suddenly occurs to you that this isn’t what you want.  Him beneath you, that is.  There is something about feeling dominated that makes you melt from excitement.  You’re left with the urge to see him towering above you, slamming you down into the mattress, and so you pull back.  He looks at you, confused.  His confusion is taken away upon your words, which are spoken sort of soft-like, as if you’re unsure how to say them aloud.
“I want you … on top of me,” you end your proclamation with a little smirk.  Ludwig himself looks rather smug about it all.  His eyes glitter softly up at you, and they seem to have caught afire.  His mouth quirks into a tiny smile that lights up his entire face. 
“Oh?” he wonders, but doesn’t question you further.  Instead, he gently shifts your body beneath his and rolls on top of you.  Once he’s settled between your legs, his hips molding to yours, Ludwig asks quietly, “Is this better?”
You look down at him, at the way he holds his weight up with his arms and the way they flex at the action.  You think there’s nothing better than this: the feeling of such comfortable intimacy, the naturalness of it, the way it’s as easy and as simple of breathing.  And so you nod at him, smooth your fingers over his cleanly shaven jaw and hook them around his neck.  You pull his face down to yours and kiss him, meeting his tongue and sighing out as pleasure hits you full on.
The kiss is slow at first, as if the two of you are exchanging greetings.  It slowly gets faster, deeper, until Ludwig is pulling back only to guide his hard member to your core.  As he starts pushing into you, his mouth comes back to yours and you moan, toss your head back, dig your nails into his shoulders.  God, it feels good after waiting for so long.
He seems to agree.  His voice is muffled when he speaks, but the broken lilt of textured German hints at his relieved, pleasured emotions.  You don’t bother keeping up with his words.  Instead, you just let them press against your skin, just like the rest of him as he pushes you down into the mattress with every firm, well placed thrust.
His hair tickles your cheek.  Your tangle one hand into the blonde strands and press the other to his rear, squeezing his flesh as if in doing so, it will make him go faster.  It doesn’t, but he doesn’t seem to mind the touch.  In fact it seems as though he barely even registers it.  His mind is awash with pleasure that cannot be tamed or categorized.  It is as if some sort of indescribable madness has overcome you both.  The madness is familiar and it wraps around the entirety of you.  You feel him in ways you can’t possibly understand.
He manages to find that one spot that makes you utterly delirious, and the tip of his cock brushes over it and makes you gasp out shallowly.  You clutch at him and he looks down at you, breaking away from the animalistic passion for a moment while he listens to you moan.  “Y-yes, right-right there, L-Ludwig!”  The words are almost indistinguishable, the syllables strewn together to a point of incoherency.  He wouldn’t have needed to understand them anyway though: the desperate tone of your voice give him plenty of insight into what you want.
Ludwig groans, shifts into a sitting position, and pulls your hips into his.  He tosses one leg haphazardly over his arm and then pushes forward again, deeply shoving himself back into you with a force to be reckoned with.  You watch him from below, your hair splayed out over the sheets, your breasts jostling from the movement of his thrusts.  It takes a few moments for him to find that spot again, but when he does you think you’re going to melt.  Your entire body screams for release, melting into a kind of delirium that has you moaning out his name and fisting your hands into the blankets.
Gott [3],” Ludwig mutters, staring down at you.  He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite as exquisite as you nearing your orgasm.  The delightful way your face scrunches up has got him rocking faster, intent on finding his own finish.  Hints of release lick at his skin, driving him harder and deeper and he knows he’s bruising you but he can’t stop to care –
You cry out, “Ludwig!” in a luxuriously low voice riddled with intense pleasure, and the sound of it makes him groan.  He feels you contracting around his girth, pulsing as your hips shove forward of their own accord.  Your orgasm rips through your rather furiously and you hear yourself mumbling your lover’s name over and over, as if it is your personal mantra. 
Perhaps it is the sounds you make that push Ludwig to go faster.  Perhaps it is everything, piled together that has him hurtling towards his end.  It doesn’t take him very long to follow you, though and mere seconds later he is letting out a particularly drawn out moan and spilling into you.  The warmth of his release is catastrophically divine.  It leaves you feeling full long after he stops thrusting and simply opts to fall down beside you on the mattress, chest heaving.
You turn to him, watch the way he sighs and blinks over at you.  For a moment, the two of you simply stare at each other.  The he smiles, and you start to chuckle, and then suddenly Ludwig is dragging you into his arms and heaving out a particularly pleased sigh. 
“That was fun,” you mumbled, closing your eyes and snuggling into his chest.  “D’you have any other kinky ideas you want to try?”  You know his answer before he gives it, but there’s something about hearing him say it out loud that makes you exuberantly happy. 
He laughs, real low, and drags you ever closer.  You bare body is pressed diligently against his.  His hands map out your back, drifting over your spine and down to squeeze playfully at your rear.  Then he murmurs, soft but hard, “I have so many ideas I don’t know what we should try first.”  You shiver, his words and his tone having a dizzying affect on your nerves. 
You can’t help but touch him, drag your fingertips over his arm, shoulder, the back of his neck.  There is something so beautiful about moments like these and you want to make the most of them.  So you gently hum and kiss his chest as you whisper, “We have plenty of time.”  Exhaustion plucks at the edges of your mind.  You feel Ludwig’s chest grumble a bit as he laughs and tightens his arms around you.  Against his body, you feel safer and warmer than you’ve ever felt, and it is of little surprise that you are soon falling into a light sleep. 
By the time the two of you get up for the day, the sun has drifted far from its morning perch and is beginning its descent down toward the horizon.

~~~

Translations
[1] Frau … woman

[2] Mein lieber … my dear / my love

[3] Gott … God