Hetalia: Band!AU; Prussia+Germany(/Italy) 2445 Words (NSFW)
"Hey Ludwig," Gilbert says one day, casually draping across his brother's back, "Ever heard of Elizabeta Héderváry?"
Ludwig would be surprised at the gesture were it anyone but Gilbert, but in the years growing up with his brother he has come to be quite acquainted with the latter's utter disregard for anything even remotely resembling personal space. Despite his numerous protests, or perhaps because of them, Gilbert never seems to have broken his habit of greeting his brother with arms casually slung over his shoulders, leaning against his back, and in general speaking much too close to his face for common comfort. It has gotten to the point where sometimes Ludwig worries for the implications this holds for the future of his modesty. Being on good terms with siblings is one thing, and he does appreciate the relationship he shares with his brother. But to admit defeat against Gilbert's influence in this area means that he may once be forced to face defeat at the continual onslaught of some of Gilbert's more unsavory habits that he attempts to coerce his younger brother into succumbing to. The thought alone makes a cold sense of dread run down Ludwig's spine. He shakes it off, for now.
"She's released an album hasn't she? Although her profession is in acting, correct?" he asks, purposefully not turning to meet Gilbert's eyes and see his brother's ever-constant smirk.
"Come on, Ludwig," Gilbert groans, once again bemoaning his brother's lack of interest in anything pop culture that isn't music, "Take your headphones off and watch a movie once in a while! She's only the fucking hottest piece of ass in all of Hollywood."
"Ah, I see," Ludwig replies easily, wondering just why Gilbert has seen fit to share this information with him today.
"That's it? Just 'ah, I see'" Gilbert prods him, jabbing a fist against Ludwig's side, "Oh man, Ludwig you're worse off than I thought."
"Should I have said more?" Ludwig asks turning to look as Gilbert removes himself to root through the bag that he's brought with himself into Ludwig's room.
"How about, 'I'm sorry I'm such an ignorant little nerd, brother, please tell me all the awesome stuff you know about this sexy hot lady that you've just introduced me to because sometimes I like to pretend that I'm straight when I'm not having orgasms over drum beats, lyrics, and guitar chords,'" Gilbert suggests, snickering to himself as he roots through the bag.
"I--" Ludwig sputters at the accusation, he can feel his cheeks turning red, "I do not elicit sexual satisfaction from music, Gilbert!"
"Psh, yeah right," Gilbert scoffs, something in hand now as he turns back to flop onto Ludwig's bed, "I've seen the way you get with your headphones on with your eyes closed and your hand on your--"
"Gilbert!" Ludwig interjects, the tone of his voice pitching in a way he's not entirely comfortable with, "Did you have something you wished to say today?"
"I've always got something to say, bro," Gilbert waves his concerns off with a cocky grin, "But this time it's serious."
"Exactly how is it serious this time?" Ludwig asks, carefully trying to control the color of his face and the growing twitch near his eyebrow.
"This is about you, Ludwig," Gilbert says, sitting up and leaning forward, resting one hand on his knee as his legs dangle over the side of Ludwig's bed, "And about your future."
"Just what do you have to say about my future?" Ludwig asks, keeping the incredulous tone from his voice. Despite all the ill that Gilbert seems capable of, he is nothing if not the embodiment of the adage that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Throughout it all, Gilbert's intentions have, and always will be, good. At least as far as Ludwig is concerned.
"Look, Ludwig, music's great and the band's going to be awesome and all, but the fact of the matter is with kickass skills comes fame, and with great fame comes great opportunities."
"Such as . . .” Ludwig prompts, a sneaking suspicion growing in the back of his mind that he knows exactly what direction his brother is headed in."
"Chicks," Gilbert replies with a smirk, tossing the items he retrieved from his bag rather unceremoniously into Ludwig's lap.
"Gilbert, you should really refrain from referring to women in that--" Ludwig begins, knowing full well that his protests will fall on deaf ears until he realizes exactly what manner of magazine Gilbert has seen fit to bequeath upon him.
Staring up at him from the cover, clothed in nothing more than a strategically placed sheet is the voluptuous figure of a woman with short blonde hair that curls almost coquettishly about her face, framing her cheeks in a way that is nearly artistic in its elegance. It could almost be considered art, Ludwig thinks in a flushed and confused daze, were it not for the animated rabbit's head that adorns the upper corner of the magazine and the flagrantly lascivious headlines that read down either side of the page. [note to self: look at a Playboy cover to figure out what shit they put on there]
"G-Gilbert!" he sputters once he finds his voice has returned to him, realizing somewhat belatedly that he is speaking over Gilbert's crowing laughter, "What is the meaning of this!"
"Oh come on Ludwig," Gilbert snickers, pounding his fist against Ludwig's mattress in his fit of laughter, "You can't honestly tell me you've never seen a chick naked before!"
"I--that is not the case!" Ludwig objects adamantly, finally tearing his eyes away from the magazine, to stare at a very interesting and determinately un-naked spot on the wall, "I have seen demonstrations of the nude female figure in art history courses before and--in biology class as well. Furthermore, there were also the health classes that they taught in high school . . . " his voice trails off as he finds himself tempted to look back down at the magazine. He resists the temptation, after a moment, and turns to look at his brother.
"Jesus Christ you sound like a girl," Gilbert says, regarding his brother with what is possibly the flattest stare that Ludwig has ever seen on his face.
"I am not," Ludwig protests again, clearing his throat in an effort to conceal his blush, "I simply believe that there is such a thing as proper courtship and that such rituals, albeit they are not necessarily commonplace among our generation, should not be forgotten."
"Yeah, whatever, girl," Gilbert waves his concerns off with one hand, hopping off the bed to move back next to his brother, snatching one of the magazines and opening it up for him as he does, "Look, you're a man now. You've been a man now for fuck, what, two years? It's time you start acting like a man."
"I feel I act perfectly . . . masculine . . . " the words seem to be leaving Ludwig's mind on their own volition as he stares wide eyed at the decidedly erotic--they're erotic--poses that the woman from the cover has placed herself in on the inside pages.
"Yeah, sure," Gilbert says with a small, haughty hum under his voice, slowly and easily flipping the pages in front of Ludwig's eyes. Were Ludwig more aware of his surroundings, he would notice the snicker that starts when his brother realizes just how hot and red his flush has become. Unfortunately, his mind seems to have left him for the moment. Or, if it is still with him at all, it seems to have taken up residence in a much different head. There is an awkward and unfortunate pressure building in the front of his pants, the kind that is generally remedied with a cold shower or, in desperate situations, a few quick strokes of his hand but with Gilbert here, and furthermore in such close proximity, the implementation of either solution is more than somewhat difficult.
As it stands, Gilbert is nearly full out laughing by the time that he flips to the next page and Ludwig's hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist and stopping him from moving on to the next one.
"Oh?" Gilbert asks, amusement thick in his voice, "See something you like?"
The picture in question is of a woman--they are all woman, he reminds himself, why would it be otherwise?--stretched out over a black leather sofa. She is nude, as they all are, save for a pair of tall, black leather boots that lace up to her knees. Given the tall heel on the boots, Ludwig can only imagine that they must be terribly uncomfortable in their practical application but something about the way that her lips and teeth are closing on the leather [word] of an expensive-looking riding crop tells him that she is not entirely abhorrent to the idea of the strategic application of discomfort in the bedroom.
"Hot, ain't it?" Gilbert leans back, leaving the magazine in Ludwig's hands, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, "I never would've pegged you for being into that kind of stuff, Ludwig. But I guess we've all got our little secrets."
It is nearly a full minute later before Ludwig thinks to nod mutely in reply. His eyes are devouring the picture, taking in the curve of her breasts, the shine of light on the well-polished leather of her boots, the vibrant color of her lipstick in contrast to the bright white of her teeth as they close on the supple material in her mouth. Nearly two minutes pass before he clears his throat and attempts to speak.
"Gilbert," the sound comes out far too low, betraying far too much of his current state of--
"Gilbert," he tries again, and it is gone. "Could you please . . . " he pauses, voice trailing off, the realization slowly dawning on him that there is no truly appropriate way to request that your brother return to you the privacy of your room after he has introduced you to pornographic materials such that you can engage in suitable . . . enjoyment . . . of such materials. Fortunately, Gilbert seems to catch the hint.
"Say no more," he raises his hands as if in surrender, still snickering as he makes his way to the door, beginning to pull it closed behind him, "I'll leave you two alone."
Ludwig lets out a slow breath when he hears the click of the door. Good intentions, he reminds himself, his brother has only the best intentions in mind. Regardless, the problem must be dealt with. Glancing down at the woman in the picture once more, he takes the magazine and rests it open on the keyboard of his computer at his desk, where he had been working prior to his brother's uninvited interruption. Slowly, his eyes follow her curves once more, tongue slowly darting out to brush across his lips, wetting them. She is quite attractive, he must admit. And surely she knows that these pictures were taken and would be used for this purpose. Therefore, he need not concern himself nor have any moral qualms regarding the feelings of the woman in the picture.
Taking this in mind, he closes his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply once more as he moves his hands to undo the button and zipper at the crotch of his pants. He wastes no time in pulling his pants down over his hips, letting them rest just low enough such that he can pull his now fully hardened erection from his pants, cradling it lightly in the palm of his hand. Keeping his eyes closed, he begins to stroke in slow, steady motions, gradually increasing his own tempo. In his mind, he sees the picture, he sees the woman standing from where she lays reclined on the couch, holding the riding crop up and slapping his purposefully against her own thigh. The blow leaves an angry red mark, the sound of leather against flesh making him jolt in his own chair, a deep shiver shaking him as this makes his cock press more firmly against the palm of his hand.
Her heels beating a slow, sharp tattoo against the floor, she moves closer to him, tilting his head up with the tip of the riding crop. Her lips curve in a predatory smile before she asks, "Well young man? Do you need to be punished?"
"Yes," he hears himself answer, voice low and breathless, "Please punish me."
The smile stretches wider across her face as she slaps him across the cheek with the crop. It stings so much he wonders if it really will leave a mark.
"Turn around," she commands, and, in his mind, he obeys, suddenly seeing a wall before him that he stands against, palms flat against the cold concrete, legs spread beneath him.
The woman wastes no time in getting to her work, the speed in her duty perhaps due in part to the mounting pleasure that Ludwig feels from his own ministrations in the real world. Her crop lands its second blow sharp and firmly against his buttocks. The third follows quickly after, lashing against the other cheek, then the fourth, and the fifth. He whimpers at the phantom pain, squeezing his hand tighter around his erection, stroking faster, more frantically. The blows come faster too, harder as well. He can feel the beginnings of his own orgasm beginning to take him.
"Hey, Ludwig, you like this, don't you?" the woman says, purring against his ear, except it is not her voice at all. Ludwig has no time to think before the final blow hits home against his balls, sending him over the edge as a hot, thrumming pleasure runs through him. His eyes snap open, mouth hanging agape as he stares at the ceiling, semen hitting against the palm of his free hand, the phantom image of what he could have sworn was Feliciano's face swiftly vanishing overhead.
He stares for a moment longer, horrified before, closing his mouth and his eyes, mentally cursing. Leaning forward, he cradles his head in his unsoiled hand, face still beet red. That was most certainly not the point of this exercise. Quickly, he gathers himself, zipping his pants back up and moving to the bathroom to clean up, only to find that Gilbert has left a note on the outside of his door. It reads simply "You can thank me later." At that moment, Ludwig wishes that he could simply die on the spot to end it all.
Ludwig would be surprised at the gesture were it anyone but Gilbert, but in the years growing up with his brother he has come to be quite acquainted with the latter's utter disregard for anything even remotely resembling personal space. Despite his numerous protests, or perhaps because of them, Gilbert never seems to have broken his habit of greeting his brother with arms casually slung over his shoulders, leaning against his back, and in general speaking much too close to his face for common comfort. It has gotten to the point where sometimes Ludwig worries for the implications this holds for the future of his modesty. Being on good terms with siblings is one thing, and he does appreciate the relationship he shares with his brother. But to admit defeat against Gilbert's influence in this area means that he may once be forced to face defeat at the continual onslaught of some of Gilbert's more unsavory habits that he attempts to coerce his younger brother into succumbing to. The thought alone makes a cold sense of dread run down Ludwig's spine. He shakes it off, for now.
"She's released an album hasn't she? Although her profession is in acting, correct?" he asks, purposefully not turning to meet Gilbert's eyes and see his brother's ever-constant smirk.
"Come on, Ludwig," Gilbert groans, once again bemoaning his brother's lack of interest in anything pop culture that isn't music, "Take your headphones off and watch a movie once in a while! She's only the fucking hottest piece of ass in all of Hollywood."
"Ah, I see," Ludwig replies easily, wondering just why Gilbert has seen fit to share this information with him today.
"That's it? Just 'ah, I see'" Gilbert prods him, jabbing a fist against Ludwig's side, "Oh man, Ludwig you're worse off than I thought."
"Should I have said more?" Ludwig asks turning to look as Gilbert removes himself to root through the bag that he's brought with himself into Ludwig's room.
"How about, 'I'm sorry I'm such an ignorant little nerd, brother, please tell me all the awesome stuff you know about this sexy hot lady that you've just introduced me to because sometimes I like to pretend that I'm straight when I'm not having orgasms over drum beats, lyrics, and guitar chords,'" Gilbert suggests, snickering to himself as he roots through the bag.
"I--" Ludwig sputters at the accusation, he can feel his cheeks turning red, "I do not elicit sexual satisfaction from music, Gilbert!"
"Psh, yeah right," Gilbert scoffs, something in hand now as he turns back to flop onto Ludwig's bed, "I've seen the way you get with your headphones on with your eyes closed and your hand on your--"
"Gilbert!" Ludwig interjects, the tone of his voice pitching in a way he's not entirely comfortable with, "Did you have something you wished to say today?"
"I've always got something to say, bro," Gilbert waves his concerns off with a cocky grin, "But this time it's serious."
"Exactly how is it serious this time?" Ludwig asks, carefully trying to control the color of his face and the growing twitch near his eyebrow.
"This is about you, Ludwig," Gilbert says, sitting up and leaning forward, resting one hand on his knee as his legs dangle over the side of Ludwig's bed, "And about your future."
"Just what do you have to say about my future?" Ludwig asks, keeping the incredulous tone from his voice. Despite all the ill that Gilbert seems capable of, he is nothing if not the embodiment of the adage that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Throughout it all, Gilbert's intentions have, and always will be, good. At least as far as Ludwig is concerned.
"Look, Ludwig, music's great and the band's going to be awesome and all, but the fact of the matter is with kickass skills comes fame, and with great fame comes great opportunities."
"Such as . . .” Ludwig prompts, a sneaking suspicion growing in the back of his mind that he knows exactly what direction his brother is headed in."
"Chicks," Gilbert replies with a smirk, tossing the items he retrieved from his bag rather unceremoniously into Ludwig's lap.
"Gilbert, you should really refrain from referring to women in that--" Ludwig begins, knowing full well that his protests will fall on deaf ears until he realizes exactly what manner of magazine Gilbert has seen fit to bequeath upon him.
Staring up at him from the cover, clothed in nothing more than a strategically placed sheet is the voluptuous figure of a woman with short blonde hair that curls almost coquettishly about her face, framing her cheeks in a way that is nearly artistic in its elegance. It could almost be considered art, Ludwig thinks in a flushed and confused daze, were it not for the animated rabbit's head that adorns the upper corner of the magazine and the flagrantly lascivious headlines that read down either side of the page. [note to self: look at a Playboy cover to figure out what shit they put on there]
"G-Gilbert!" he sputters once he finds his voice has returned to him, realizing somewhat belatedly that he is speaking over Gilbert's crowing laughter, "What is the meaning of this!"
"Oh come on Ludwig," Gilbert snickers, pounding his fist against Ludwig's mattress in his fit of laughter, "You can't honestly tell me you've never seen a chick naked before!"
"I--that is not the case!" Ludwig objects adamantly, finally tearing his eyes away from the magazine, to stare at a very interesting and determinately un-naked spot on the wall, "I have seen demonstrations of the nude female figure in art history courses before and--in biology class as well. Furthermore, there were also the health classes that they taught in high school . . . " his voice trails off as he finds himself tempted to look back down at the magazine. He resists the temptation, after a moment, and turns to look at his brother.
"Jesus Christ you sound like a girl," Gilbert says, regarding his brother with what is possibly the flattest stare that Ludwig has ever seen on his face.
"I am not," Ludwig protests again, clearing his throat in an effort to conceal his blush, "I simply believe that there is such a thing as proper courtship and that such rituals, albeit they are not necessarily commonplace among our generation, should not be forgotten."
"Yeah, whatever, girl," Gilbert waves his concerns off with one hand, hopping off the bed to move back next to his brother, snatching one of the magazines and opening it up for him as he does, "Look, you're a man now. You've been a man now for fuck, what, two years? It's time you start acting like a man."
"I feel I act perfectly . . . masculine . . . " the words seem to be leaving Ludwig's mind on their own volition as he stares wide eyed at the decidedly erotic--they're erotic--poses that the woman from the cover has placed herself in on the inside pages.
"Yeah, sure," Gilbert says with a small, haughty hum under his voice, slowly and easily flipping the pages in front of Ludwig's eyes. Were Ludwig more aware of his surroundings, he would notice the snicker that starts when his brother realizes just how hot and red his flush has become. Unfortunately, his mind seems to have left him for the moment. Or, if it is still with him at all, it seems to have taken up residence in a much different head. There is an awkward and unfortunate pressure building in the front of his pants, the kind that is generally remedied with a cold shower or, in desperate situations, a few quick strokes of his hand but with Gilbert here, and furthermore in such close proximity, the implementation of either solution is more than somewhat difficult.
As it stands, Gilbert is nearly full out laughing by the time that he flips to the next page and Ludwig's hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist and stopping him from moving on to the next one.
"Oh?" Gilbert asks, amusement thick in his voice, "See something you like?"
The picture in question is of a woman--they are all woman, he reminds himself, why would it be otherwise?--stretched out over a black leather sofa. She is nude, as they all are, save for a pair of tall, black leather boots that lace up to her knees. Given the tall heel on the boots, Ludwig can only imagine that they must be terribly uncomfortable in their practical application but something about the way that her lips and teeth are closing on the leather [word] of an expensive-looking riding crop tells him that she is not entirely abhorrent to the idea of the strategic application of discomfort in the bedroom.
"Hot, ain't it?" Gilbert leans back, leaving the magazine in Ludwig's hands, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, "I never would've pegged you for being into that kind of stuff, Ludwig. But I guess we've all got our little secrets."
It is nearly a full minute later before Ludwig thinks to nod mutely in reply. His eyes are devouring the picture, taking in the curve of her breasts, the shine of light on the well-polished leather of her boots, the vibrant color of her lipstick in contrast to the bright white of her teeth as they close on the supple material in her mouth. Nearly two minutes pass before he clears his throat and attempts to speak.
"Gilbert," the sound comes out far too low, betraying far too much of his current state of--
"Gilbert," he tries again, and it is gone. "Could you please . . . " he pauses, voice trailing off, the realization slowly dawning on him that there is no truly appropriate way to request that your brother return to you the privacy of your room after he has introduced you to pornographic materials such that you can engage in suitable . . . enjoyment . . . of such materials. Fortunately, Gilbert seems to catch the hint.
"Say no more," he raises his hands as if in surrender, still snickering as he makes his way to the door, beginning to pull it closed behind him, "I'll leave you two alone."
Ludwig lets out a slow breath when he hears the click of the door. Good intentions, he reminds himself, his brother has only the best intentions in mind. Regardless, the problem must be dealt with. Glancing down at the woman in the picture once more, he takes the magazine and rests it open on the keyboard of his computer at his desk, where he had been working prior to his brother's uninvited interruption. Slowly, his eyes follow her curves once more, tongue slowly darting out to brush across his lips, wetting them. She is quite attractive, he must admit. And surely she knows that these pictures were taken and would be used for this purpose. Therefore, he need not concern himself nor have any moral qualms regarding the feelings of the woman in the picture.
Taking this in mind, he closes his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply once more as he moves his hands to undo the button and zipper at the crotch of his pants. He wastes no time in pulling his pants down over his hips, letting them rest just low enough such that he can pull his now fully hardened erection from his pants, cradling it lightly in the palm of his hand. Keeping his eyes closed, he begins to stroke in slow, steady motions, gradually increasing his own tempo. In his mind, he sees the picture, he sees the woman standing from where she lays reclined on the couch, holding the riding crop up and slapping his purposefully against her own thigh. The blow leaves an angry red mark, the sound of leather against flesh making him jolt in his own chair, a deep shiver shaking him as this makes his cock press more firmly against the palm of his hand.
Her heels beating a slow, sharp tattoo against the floor, she moves closer to him, tilting his head up with the tip of the riding crop. Her lips curve in a predatory smile before she asks, "Well young man? Do you need to be punished?"
"Yes," he hears himself answer, voice low and breathless, "Please punish me."
The smile stretches wider across her face as she slaps him across the cheek with the crop. It stings so much he wonders if it really will leave a mark.
"Turn around," she commands, and, in his mind, he obeys, suddenly seeing a wall before him that he stands against, palms flat against the cold concrete, legs spread beneath him.
The woman wastes no time in getting to her work, the speed in her duty perhaps due in part to the mounting pleasure that Ludwig feels from his own ministrations in the real world. Her crop lands its second blow sharp and firmly against his buttocks. The third follows quickly after, lashing against the other cheek, then the fourth, and the fifth. He whimpers at the phantom pain, squeezing his hand tighter around his erection, stroking faster, more frantically. The blows come faster too, harder as well. He can feel the beginnings of his own orgasm beginning to take him.
"Hey, Ludwig, you like this, don't you?" the woman says, purring against his ear, except it is not her voice at all. Ludwig has no time to think before the final blow hits home against his balls, sending him over the edge as a hot, thrumming pleasure runs through him. His eyes snap open, mouth hanging agape as he stares at the ceiling, semen hitting against the palm of his free hand, the phantom image of what he could have sworn was Feliciano's face swiftly vanishing overhead.
He stares for a moment longer, horrified before, closing his mouth and his eyes, mentally cursing. Leaning forward, he cradles his head in his unsoiled hand, face still beet red. That was most certainly not the point of this exercise. Quickly, he gathers himself, zipping his pants back up and moving to the bathroom to clean up, only to find that Gilbert has left a note on the outside of his door. It reads simply "You can thank me later." At that moment, Ludwig wishes that he could simply die on the spot to end it all.