ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛɪɴᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ⁞×
[hard workers deserve rewards]
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I don't own Hetalia.
For Rainy, my hard-working France for whom I stay up and wait.
Warning: Solo-sex.
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Two hours past sunset, it was still hot enough in his room to condone wearing shorts and one of the loose shirts that Lovino had stolen from Antonio a few decades ago. He'd lost the string that tied the neckline together when Feliciano had grabbed it unintentionally and it had slipped out of his brother's clumsy fingers and fallen into a stream; as a result, the neckline came fairly low.
Pacing around the room twice, he checked the time again. Francis would not come home for another two or three hours.
Lovino frowned. That was a rather long time to wait...
The open window let in a welcomed breeze, causing his top to flutter as well as his hair. Biting his thumb absentmindedly, Lovino let himself fall onto his bed, on top of the covers. When he kicked out a leg, the sensation of the friction between his leg and the quilt brought up memories of the last time Francis had come over.
It was not particularly different from their other (sexual) encounters, but his body remembered it only because they usually spent the night at Francis', with his smooth silk sheets and the scent of cologne, roses, and lingering smoke. It was different at Lovino's, in his small home on the outskirts of Rome; his own sheets were rougher and the prevalent smells were generally that of his countryside and farms. Francis had been so taken with the charming atmosphere that Lovino lived in that the French nation immediately coaxed the other man into another round of languid, sweaty sex.
Despite the almost-stifling warmth, Lovino shivered.
"Francia...dove sei?"
He dragged his body up a few centimetres so that his head rested on his pillow. Propping both his legs up on the bed, he slipped his right hand under his shirt and traced a finger from his navel down to his waistline.
Lovino's eyes fluttered closed. In his mind, he conjured up the image of clear blue eyes, waves of blonde hair, stubble on a strong jaw, and a delicious, sexy smirk.
Lips parting, his left hand slid up and over his head to pull at the curl protruding to the right. Lovino's other hand unbuttoned his shorts and pushed down the zipper.
He'd thought it was too hot for underwear today.
He took his length into his hand and groaned. It was already standing at attention, encouraged by the image of Francis alone. Idly twirling his curl gently, he smoothed a thumb around the head and rubbed the precum down, spreading it around his member. When it was more or less lubricated, Lovino gripped his cock firmly and pulled.
Immediately, his body tensed; his back arched. Dizzy off his lust for his lover, he licked his dry lips and twitched his wrist, moving his hand again as his other hand worked his curl simultaneously. His fingers twisted the lock of hair and his toes curled—he tugged down its entire length and his hips bucked upwards into the hand pumping his cock.
Breathing Francis' name and something like a demand for more in three different languages, Lovino brought himself to the brink quickly, craving release. Nearly there, he grasped at a bigger handful of hair so that he wouldn't tear off the curl and pulled at it. He squirmed on his bed as his right hand moved steadily faster.
The pleasure made him shameless, and Lovino moaned openly. With a final rough jerk and a loud groan, he came, body completely tense and white spots dotting his vision. The semen mixed with sweat on his abdomen, a milky paint splatter on the tan canvas of his skin.
The spent nation let his limbs drop to the mattress limply and used one of his hands to draw random lines on his bedspread.
Lovino spoke hoarsely. "Bentornato," he grinned lazily, "Enjoy the show?"
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I'm aware that Rainy and I practically invented the FranceRomano pairing as a serious relationship but I'm rather disappointed in the lack of fan-stuff for it.
Translations:
Italian:
"Francia...dove sei?"—"France…where are you?"
"Bentornato."—"Welcome back."