AN: So it was Eurovision two days ago. Italy won, yay! They were my favourites. The thing is, you would not believe how horny Spanish Twitter was over the Italians. Seriously. Very horny. And of course my Spamano senses started tingling, and I had to write this. The title is a direct translation of "Zitti e buoni", the title of the winning song, which you should listen to because it's awesome. Hope you like it! n_n

BE QUIET AND BEHAVE

The back of his knees hit the bed and Spain fell backwards onto the mattress, a startled gasp leaving his lips before his mouth was occupied with another. There was a body on top of his, straddling his hips and pressing down; teeth biting his lip through the kiss, breaking it to attack his neck instead. He hissed when those teeth sank on his clavicle, then sighed when a soft tongue traced the bitemark, and he threw his head back to allow better access.

"Romano…" he whispered in absolute worship as he threaded his fingers through soft, auburn hair. He felt a grin against his skin, tracing up his jugular, and then those cursed lips were sucking at a sensitive spot below his ear. "Jesus."

The pinch to his side caught him by surprise and he flinched, startled. He blinked his eyes open, trying to resolidify his brain from the mash it had melted into, and looked up to meet a devilish grin.

"Don't call the Lord's name in vain," Romano teased, and pressed down with his hips.

Spain panted. "You don't get to say that when you look so sinful," he replied.

"Oh?" Romano straightened, very obviously delighted by the way he could look down at Spain from his position. "Sinful, you say?" He narrowed his eyes, a delicious challenge in his glare that had Spain shuddering. "And whose fault is that?" He was leaning again now, until his face was hovering over Spain's and his amber eyes were burning into him. "You debaucher."

"Not fair," Spain protested weakly, feeling himself melt under the fire in Romano's eyes. "I never taught you to wear platform boots—" a glance downwards confirmed that they were still on him, the huge heels standing proudly, "—o-or shiny leather trousers—" he gulped, his eyes trailing the garment and the way it wrapped around Romano's waist, "—and definitely not…"

Spain trailed off, forgetting how to speak as his fingers captured the laces on Romano's corset. It was black, like the rest of his outfit, with careful embroidered designs on the sides and delicate frills around the chest and biceps. Below it, Romano wore a long-sleeved mesh t-shirt that left very little to the imagination, and there was a collar around his neck that Spain couldn't look at without feeling dizzy.

"Untie it," Romano said, his voice quiet but his command loud, and Spain needn't be asked twice. "And remove them completely."

He worked quickly at the knot, his entire body burning in anticipation but his hands steadied by years of seafaring. There was movement above him — Romano was removing the collar, he noticed, but his eyes—big, golden, and enhanced by black eyeshadow—were fixed on him.

The thought made all the blood in his body boil.

The knot came undone and Spain pulled eagerly at the laces, removing them as Romano had asked—ordered—just as his partner leant closer and wrapped the collar around his neck. Something fluttered in his stomach and something pulsed in his temple and he gasped for air — the collar wasn't tight, but he felt breathless nonetheless.

He finished removing the laces and Romano took them without a word, no thanks offered beyond a kiss to his fingertips, and without wasting a second took an end of the string and skilfully tied it to the collar around Spain's neck.

Spain was about to burst.

He was used to Romano indulging him in bed, playing along to whatever game he started — for him to take control so blatantly, so unapologetically, was completely new. And Spain had never thought himself one to enjoy it—he craved being the one in control, a habit from an age long gone he had never shaken off, and he'd always been far from comfortable with the idea of yielding that power to someone else—but now he found himself following Romano's lead with eagerness.

Looking back, he should have known it'd end like that.

No one remembered why they'd started doing it in the first place, but for the last few years they'd created the tradition of dressing up as their representatives on Eurovision night. It always made for a good laugh and improved an already fantastic get-together, the one night of the year where they didn't let their feuds go beyond who gave points to whom.

Spain had thought he looked rather good in his black button-up and long trousers (which he had admittedly bought tighter than they should be), and France's shameless ogling had only confirmed it. His friend didn't look bad either, with that short top that bared his shoulders — and both of them definitely looked better than Prussia, who had been stuck with a hand-giving-the-middle-finger costume.

Meeting the rest of the continent before the contest started had been fun. Spain stole Portugal's ridiculous fedora, played Germany's sparkly ukulele, called out Norway on his terrible taste, and pretended not to notice everyone's eyes on his ass.

But then the Italians arrived.

Veneziano walked in with a wide smile, his electric red trousers claiming everyone's attention before their gazes could take in the suspenders, or the fact that there was nothing but bare skin beneath. It was a most revealing outfit that contrasted with the angelic look on his face — a devil in disguise he was, Spain knew by the way he trotted towards Germany and, batting his eyelashes, pointed out that thanks to his platform boots they were now very close in height "and kissing is easier," he finished with a wink.

Then came Romano.

He should have been matching his brother, but Spain knew for a fact he'd never liked that, and this time he'd gotten away with wearing something else. A something else that made his brain short-circuit and his eyes unable to stop staring — because Romano had elected to wear not the outfit from the performance, but from the official video, and he looked simply stunning clad in black, all leather and mesh and frills. All eyes were on him the moment he walked through the door, conversations dying mid-sentence and mouths hanging open.

And he was enjoying it. Romano, who had always hated being the focus of attention, who felt anxious if there was more than two people staring at him, was revelling in the effect his entrance had had on the entire continent. There was arrogance in his every move, in his eyes, born from the unwavering knowledge that he was the hottest person in the room, and he challenged anyone to disagree.

He ignored everyone—like he always did, although it felt different this time—and only spared a moment for Spain, who was still trying to process what he was seeing when Romano stopped in front of him.

"Buona sera," he said, a confident smile on his face that made Spain feel weak at the knees.

Spain opened his mouth to reply, but realized he didn't trust his tongue not to word out an indecent proposition instead of the appropriate "Buenas tardes," so he closed it again. Romano's eyes gleamed in mischief, fully aware of the reason behind the lack of response, and only smiled wider.

"Good luck tonight."

And by the time Spain managed a "You too," he was long gone.

He hadn't been able to keep his eyes off him for the rest of the evening. He barely paid any attention to the performances, or anyone else around him who wasn't his former protegee; he didn't look at the screen when it was his turn to perform, didn't complain about Portugal getting way, way more points than him, forgot to mock England for his lousy result. The only thing in his head was Romano: Romano singing along to his performers, Romano clapping in delight when a country awarded them twelve points, Romano jumping to his feet and screaming in victory when the public vote catapulted them to a first place they didn't relinquish, Romano, Romano, Romano.

The contest had ended. Spain hadn't spared a single thought to his bad results—he was used to it anyway—and had gone straight to Romano only to be received with a predatory glare. Romano had grabbed his hand, stated that his brother could handle receiving the compliments by himself, and dragged him out.

And there he was now, trapped between his body and the mattress, a collar around his neck and an improvised leash in Romano's hand, completely surrendered to his will. His breath was ragged, he felt hot under his clothes, and he knew that if Romano asked something, anything, of him, he'd do it without a second thought.

As if on cue, Romano pulled at the string, forcing him off the mattress, and when Spain followed willingly he was rewarded with a deep kiss. His hands moved on their own, running up Romano's thighs, and Romano promptly broke the kiss to smack them away.

Spain whined in protest, then sucked a breath when Romano pulled harshly at the collar, bringing their mouths together again but denying the kiss.

"Now, now," Romano purred, breath hot over his lips. "Vi conviene stare zitti e buoni."

You'd better be quiet and behave.

His brain turned to goo again, and when Romano glanced behind him—at the headboard, he realized a moment later—and told him to give him his hands, he was fast to comply. He felt like in a dream as he watched Romano bound his wrists with the string tied to the collar; he was thankful to be pushed back onto the mattress, fearing he might pass out at any given moment, and his heartbeat spiked when he watched Romano tie the remaining string to the bedframe.

His cheek was burning when Romano pressed a kiss against it. "This okay?" the Italian asked softly.

Spain was quick to nod vigorously.

Another kiss, closer to his lips this time.

"What can I do?" Romano asked again.

Spain emptied his lungs at once, and:

"Whatever you want."

"I'll have to replace this," Romano hummed as he untied the lace. It hadn't snapped, but it had come close to, with the way Spain had pulled at his restraints.

Below him, Spain could only grumble in reply.

Romano still had trouble believing that night had been real. He had dressed to kill, yes, but he hadn't expected to completely outshine everyone else, to leave them speechless. That, together with the victory and the way he had felt Spain's gaze on him at all times, had emboldened him — and oh boy. Spain had surprised him by giving in completely, had let him do unspeakable things to him, and now laid on the bed completely spent. He had loved every second of it.

And now that they'd opened the door to this new dynamic, Romano thought with a devious grin, they were bound to fall into it again.

He removed the string from the headboard, then released Spain's hands, and ultimately untied the knot around the collar.

The collar, after considering it for a second, he left where it was.

Gently, he coaxed Spain into rolling so he could remove his shirt, the last piece of clothing on either of them. (It had been a miscalculation on his part, for he'd only realized there was no taking off the shirt after he'd finished tying Spain up, but he'd settled for unbuttoning it and make do.) Spain sighed heavily, hovering on the edge of unconsciousness, but moved the best he could, and soon Romano found himself in his favourite place: in Spain's arms, both of them naked under the covers, sated but still hungry for lazy touches and soft kisses.

Spain's lips found his temple and pressed a long kiss against it. "Congratulations on your victory," he mumbled.

Romano smiled. He hadn't expected to hear a full sentence from Spain until the next morning. "Thanks."

"Wear'em again?" Spain slurred.

Romano didn't know whether that was an inquiry or a request, but either way—

"Of course~"

AN: This is the second time I've written an adrogynus Romano looking hot in black and I think it's a new favourite thing of mine, haha. Do check out my fic Black Leather if you want more of that ;) Thanks for reading!