Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia
Sometimes Prussia hated him. That little Italian slut. How coyly he played with him. Teased him, toyed with him, leaving him and flitting back to Germany as Prussia growled in frustration, achingly hard, and punched a hole through the wall. He hated him because he was a tease. He hated him because he was a cheating whore. He slept with Prussia, touching him behind carefully closed doors only when he knew Germany was away or asleep in that heavy way only he can manage. He hated that he was doing this to Germany. That he was fooling around with his own brother behind his back. He hated that the Italian didn't seem to care in the slightest which Germanic cock he had sliding down his throat, or what he was doing to either of them. He hated how clueless he was. How immune he was to Prussia's feelings. Or to Germany's. Or to anything else around him. He hated his ghosting fingers and evanescent kisses. He hated his coy little smile, and how he would disappear in the blink of an eye.
Yet sometimes Prussia loved him. He loved how all the brilliance of the sun shone through in his smile. He loved the warmth of his skin and all the times they were flush against each other, albino white and golden tan, flesh seeming to melt together in perfect moment of stillness. He loved how he would play with Gilbird, tying little bows into the chick's feathers and declaring it "molto bello." He loved the soft sensual strings of sweet Italian nothings he would whisper in between kisses, the words Prussia barely understood and didn't have to. He loved his lips, how they fit so perfectly against his own, and how the bottom one was just a bit fuller than its counterpart. He loved to watch him sing to himself in his warm tenor, sweet folk songs or dramatic Italian operas, while he cooked his favorite types of pasta and messed up Germany's perfectly clean kitchen. He loved to watch him undress, as sure hands undid buttons and languidly tore at fabric to reveal his soft, lithe body, leaving Prussia aching with desire.
Most of all, Prussia wanted him. More than the hate, which was fleeting. And more than the love, which was bittersweet. He craved him, desired him, and longed for him with every fiber of his being. His eyes hardly left him and his thoughts less frequently. On the nights he spent all alone in his room he would lie in his bed and relive every moment spent with the Italian writhing underneath him, his hands gripping the bed sheets as Prussia would claim him, pushing himself inside as the Italian screamed and begged for more. He could vividly recall the sound he made as he came, gasping Prussia's name before his muscles relaxed and he melted into the sheets. Then he would grab onto Prussia, moaning grazie, grazie, grazie. As Prussia replayed this scene in the secret safety of his thoughts he would stroke down his length, wishing it was a smaller, tanner, hand and come unfulfilled, still wanting, with that beautiful man's name on his lips. Feliciano.
I haven't written anything in a while, but I just can't seem to get this paring out of my head! This little drabble-esque oneshot was written on an extremely long road trip. I wasn't sure about the rating so I went with M just to be safe. Many thanks to ComradeKait, my awesome little sister and unofficial beta reader. Please review if you feel so inclined :)