Title: Blackout
Rating: nsfw-ish
Pairings: Netherland/Romano
Characters: Romano, Netherlands, mentions of others
Variation: 2pTalia
Summary: Nothing had ever been so attractive about the smell of Oil paint, turpentine and the feel of paint on skin before as it was now.
He smells of paint. He always smells of paint and turpentine, it follows him from room to room, lingering on his clothes and skin and to the Italian it smells better than the Armani he normally wore himself. It goes through him and makes him shiver, makes the dreams more vivid and real more so when he finds himself in the others studio.
Romano has been here so many times before, though whether in real life or in his dreams it was always different how he left. In real life, he'd be sat on the stool in front of the easel, Netherlands in front of a canvas with his oil paints and turps, a slight frown as he concentrated, paint staining his fingers and the hair by his ear when he rested a paint brush there.
Then there were the times he wished where real, the times when he'd wake up still able to feel the paint on his skin from where the other had touched him, still feel the hands searching and exploring his flesh and the smell. His taste and smell filling him so that, when he woke up the next morning to messy sheets and an empty bed, he finds it hard to believe that it's just a dream.
He often finds the disappointment after knowing it's a dream to be excruciating.
But it's not one now, his once expensive jumper tarnished with paint as he was pushed down onto the paint splattered floor, mouths meeting in the middle as paint slickened hands rip away his scarf, sliding down his chest and abdomen before delving under and against his skin.
Clothes just seem to melt away almost, skin sliding against skin, the sweetest of kisses against the back of his neck and shoulder blades, a mumble of Dutch against painted skin that does nothing to calm the gasps, moans and other noises that escape his swollen mouth as they start to move together.
It's slow, rhythmic almost and he finds he can't complain, hands gripping the sheets of sodden newspaper that tears beneath his fingers as he continued to push into him. It's ecstasy, it's pleasure and pain all rolled into one, it's what he's wanted and craved for so long.
But what if it's all a dream, what if this is just a figment of his imagination, what if he just wakes up in the afterglow to a cold bed and the feel of paint and his hands still on his skin?
The ending is an explosion of noise and fluid, lips finding his again as he lay almost lifelessly on the dampened floor, his breath barely able to regulate. If this was a dream, if this was some twisted dream that he'd wake up from then he might cry, just lay amongst his tarnished sheets and sob.
Though, he shouldn't kid himself, if this was some dream of his he'd have woken up some time ago. Not have the others mouth biting into his neck.