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Feliciano smells sweet, and spicy, and musky all at once, and in the warmth between his legs – with his nose buried in his lover's lap, hands gently stroking his hair, Ludwig finds a kind of peace he had not known existed before now. He is floating once again; drifting further and further from the here and the now, and his own body, as if soaring heavenwards, and he would have panicked – but he cannot. He feels so calm, so serene...
He does not remember being manoeuvred to the floor, his hands re-joined at the base of his spine...he has forgotten the way Feliciano drew him up by the heartstrings; the way they danced, as one entity in a slow-motion swoop across miles and miles of bedding, and dipped low until his knees touched carpet. Feliciano's hands had remained at his shoulders, and his lips at his neck. The way he bowed his head before the smaller man, pressing one cheek against a smooth thigh, leaning forwards in surrender, baring his naked back, pressing his legs tightly together is not an occurrence in his mind. Nothing exists, but the warmth of Feliciano's body and soul, and the way he can kneel before him, submit and serve. He is flying away to a new plane of existence, leaving his body a half-inhabited shell; and yet he has never felt so alive.
He tries to whisper to his lover, to call Feliciano's name, but his lips feel stretched out and useless; thick flaps of rubber, and though he can feel words forming in his throat, the second they meet the hot air of the bedroom they vanish into nothingness, dying the second they are born. He hisses and sighs, entirely unable to say or do anything.
Fingers, shorter and slimmer and infinitely more artistic than his own long, strong ones drag slowly, gently across his scalp. Feliciano's nails do not scratch or pause to dig in, but Ludwig can feel their smooth, sharp edges against his skin. He shudders as a chilled bullet shoots down his spine, leaving his back and arms and stomach trembling.
"Ludi..." Feliciano breathes, and, as though drawn by a magnet, Ludwig's muscles soften, and he falls forward into his lover's lap. The little Italian's soft hands catch his shoulders and though the world in which he now exists is soundproofed, locked and bolted against everything that is not the glorious union between himself and Feliciano, everything inside his great universe is intensified and sharpened to almost painful extremes. He feels the slight shake of Feli's hands as they move across his body, leaving him to support himself by pressing even further forward into the bed, between Feliciano's legs...
That maid's dress flutters against his cheek, and he breathes in the scent of it.
Then the smaller man's fingers are at his wrists, unlocking the handcuffs – and though for one brief moment Ludwig, coming back to himself slightly, rejoices at being able to touch his lover properly again, and moves his arms, spreading his hands out across Feli's tighs, revelling in the feel of smooth, warm skin, so familiar, yet so delicious he cannot ever get enough – he also feels a strange sense of disappointment. Though he loves holding, caressing, touching Feliciano...adores it...that strange, half-waking state he had slipped into previously still calls to him. He can feel the outside world again, and he does not want that. He wants Feli, and only Feli...he wants to pleasure him, submit to him, serve him, mind and body and soul...
He breathes in, deeply, as Feliciano's hands skip back up his spine, easily crossing the plane of his shoulders, and as those fingers nestle in his hair, he presses his left cheek to the other man's inner thigh. Feliciano smells of sweat, and and pre-cum, and sin, and all that is Holy, and Ludwig, not for the first time, thinks that this is the only thing that is truly worth dying for. He stretches his neck out a little further as Feli's fingertips continue to stroke; just pulling at the softest hair at the nape of his neck very slightly – and his cheeks are so red when the very tip of his tongue presses experimentally against the bulge in his lover's stained panties he thinks he must be radiating more heat than the core of the sun.
"Ah!"
Feliciano's legs, resting either side of his body tighten and lift. Each and every one of his muscles tenses, and his fingers snap shut; strong, pinching clasps around the roots of his hair.
Ludwig shifts a little further forward, despite the slight increase in pain it causes in his scalp, and just about manages to wrap his whole mouth around the hot swell between Feli's slender thighs.
"Argh..."
The second moan is softer, lower; more guttural and feral. Feliciano's grip on his hair tightens tenfold, and suddenly Ludwig is jerked sharply backwards. His palms hit soft carpet, and the intoxicating heat from the Italian's body is gone. He is down on the floor, on his hands and knees, blind and naked.
For whatever reason – probably the fairly sizeable number of BDSM porn movies he's watched throughout his adult life – he expects a sharp smack; perhaps to the side of his face; and so he tenses, and drops his head, gritting his teeth as he waits impatiently for the blow to fall. His heart is pounding fit to burst, and he feels his cock begin to twitch and drip.
But the blow does not land.
He waits.
Through the thick haze which descended with the hard tug on his hair, Ludwig can dimly hear anxious, quick breathing, accompanied by nervous "Ve"'s. The cogs in his brain slowly begin to clank round, and he is just wondering whether or not it is all getting a bit much for poor Feli (though his very soul screams "No!") when he feels a shaking hand creep up to rest beneath his chin.
"Ve...L-Ludwig...?"
He looks up towards the source of the voice. Feliciano must have moved down to face him, but all he can see against the tight, black blindfold are the stars behind his own eyelids.
"L-Ludi?" Feliciano seems scared. "Lud...Ludwig...are – have I h-hurt you?"
Ludwig considers. He is hurt – a bit, just a bit – but not nearly enough. He shakes his head.
"Ve – you're not hurt?"
There is a soft thump – the sound of Feliciano landing before his lover on his knees – and, drawn towards him by some invisible red thread, Ludwig reaches out, unseeing, takes the smaller man's soft hands in his own, and drops forwards, until his face is once more pressed into Feliciano's lap.
The dress licks his hungry neck, and once more, Ludwig, desperately, hungrily, licks Feliciano.
The brunet gasps; thighs tensing all over again, and Ludwig reflects that of course his actions would merit such a reaction from Feli; during sex in the past, he has always – always – been the aggressor. Certainly, at times Feliciano would instigate things; but it was always, clearly, Ludwig who was dominant. He honestly cannot for the life of him think of the last time he'd got down on his knees and sucked his lover off – that was what Feliciano did. Feliciano sucked him, Ludwig allowing himself to inch closer and closer to the precipice every time, then, when he was barely able to hold back from oblivion any longer, he threw Feliciano down on the bed (or the couch, or the table, or the ground, or against the wall), and fucked him.
Above, he hears Feliciano cry out again, letting out his name as a gasp which morphs into a strained, drawn-out moan. With his lips, and his tongue, he can feel how Feliciano hardly fits into those small, tight panties...how his erection swells and hardens with every bump against Ludwig's hands and mouth.
He feels Feli raise his legs, laying himself open, and so he rears up, pressing further into his lover. Feliciano's feet are startlingly cold against his lower back, but as the ankles cross, one over the other, physically holding Ludwig within him again, the soft walls of the prison descend yet again, and it just doesn't matter anymore.
Almost without thinking about it, Ludwig squeezes Feliciano's right hand tightly in his own, and, pressing his cheek hard against the smaller man's warm thigh, guides it down to his chest. Feliciano's fingers twitch slightly – ever so slightly between his. The tips of his well-kept nails scrape over the red, hardened points of his nipples, and Ludwig tightens his hand over his lover's.
It stings.
He inhales sharply, and presses his face into Feliciano's stomach. The dress smells sweet and clean, and ever so faintly of pasta.
He lets go of Feli's hand. The little Italian's heart beats somewhere just above his ear; Feliciano is leaning down; towards him, over him, and he cannot prevent a strange, throaty whine from leaving his dry throat as it comes to him, as these things do, that he is surrounded, encompassed, possessed entirely by Feli. His toes curl in the carpet, and his knuckles turn slowly white as he grips the edge of the mattress and the hem of his lover's dress.
Feliciano is still working his fingers slowly over his nipple. At first the movements were cautious; hesitant. He had touched, flicked the flesh gently with the very tips of his fingers, almost curiously, though after so long of sleeping naked beside the taller man, he knows every inch of his lover's body better than he knows his own. Ludwig waits, and waits, as the Italian's explorations grow steadily more confident and purposeful; he scissors the blood-filled points between the lengths of his tanned fingers, squeezing and poking; taking them in the soft pads at his fingertips; and now, unreservedly pinching and twisting, actually digging his nails in whilst in his lap, the once-great Deutschland moans and gasps like the whore he has always wanted to be, pressing his face into the folds of that dress, and the steadily leaking erection barely concealed beneath it.
"It feels good?" Feliciano whispers, and it takes almost a minute for Ludwig to answer.
"Ja...ja...Feli –"
"In Italiano!"
"S-si!" he quickly corrects himself. "Si, Fel-Feli..." A rattling groan is ripped from his chest as Feliciano's hands move faster, more roughly upon his chest. "I...ah! P-più, per favore..."
Feliciano's grip on him slackens off somewhat. He giggles musically. "Ve, Ludi...you still aren't very good."
Ludwig's cheeks are still scarlet, but buried in the soft material of his lover's dress, it doesn't matter. Feliciano's hand moves again; up from his now sore chest, over his collarbone, his neck, and rests for a moment against the side of the taller man's face.
"I...think I want to tie you up again...is that okay?" he adds, and Ludwig can only nod, his breath quickening.
"But, erm...uh, I don't like the handcuffs, or the rope. I keep knotting myself up, ve!" He laughs cheerfully.
Ludwig raises his head slowly, trying to regain control of his breathing.
"Ve, Ludi, where's that sticky tape stuff?"
Ludwig feels the little Italian shift against him, stand up, and move away. Involuntarily, he lets out a soft moan of regret.
"Be patient!" Feliciano exclaims, and giggles almost manically. "Ve, Ludi, Ludi, it's like we've switched places. Hey..."
There is a crashing sound, and Ludwig, still on his hands and knees, quickly recoils, snatching back his hand from where he'd been reaching out after his lover. With pain, he thinks of collapsed shelves in his closet; of all that mess littering his bedroom floor. Unsurprisingly, the thought of it (aided by Feliciano's presence, wearing that awful, wonderful maid's outfit) just turns him on even more.
"Ve...Ludi..." Feliciano's voice is a little muffled. "I recognize this..."
Footsteps, and Ludwig feels Feliciano stop no less than a foot away from his spot on the floor.
"Ve! Italy!" he shouts, in a very poor imitation of the other man's voice. "No more pasta for you! Give me ten laps! Behave yourself!" He giggles again, then his warm breath is ghosting over Ludwig's face. "It's your old panzer grenadier cap," he explains, mangling the pronunciation, and Ludwig feels a slight weight on the top of his head; presumably he is wearing the hat now.
"Oh!" says Feli, suddenly, and he is closer to Ludwig; much closer. "Here's that funny tape. I was sat on it earlier, ve. Hee hee, how silly of me!"
Ludwig is about to question just how it is possible to sit on such a thing without realizing it – but then the scratchy, squealing sound of the bondage tape being unrolled hits his ears, and Feliciano is firmly pulling his arms upwards and in front of him, causing his lover to almost collapse onto the floor, and taping his wrists together. His breath comes in gasps, and moans, and every moment spent being bound tighter and tighter, tighter than he ever thought possible – at his wrists, forearms, calves, ankles – is nothing short of pure heaven.
The tape nips and groans against him, tugging at the tiny, fine hairs on his arms and legs, and every time Feliciano bites the tape, breaking it, he is sure to catch Ludwig's red skin between his teeth, and by the time the blond man is tied and unmoving on the floor, he is quivering all over, gasping into the carpet, his eyes watering as he silently begs Feliciano for more.