Work Text:
CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
ITALY — Feliciano Vargas
FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi
ROMANO — Lovino Vargas
ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland
SPAIN — Antonio Fernández Carriedo
GERMANY — Ludwig Beilschmidt
CANADA — Matthew Williams
PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt
Have a good weekend!” Feliciano called cheerfully, waving to his coworkers. He swung a huge, black art case over his shoulder and bowed sideways, pulled down by gravity, while hugging a bulging portfolio to his chest. He caught his heel in the doorframe, squeaked and hopped, then clumsily caught his balance and laughed off the others’ concern.
“I’m fine!” he chirped, readjusting his grip.
Francis looked dubious. “Are you sure you don’t need help?” he offered, shoving design sketches into his own portfolio for transport. “You’re parked at the back of the lot, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve got Ludwig’s car today. But it’s okay, I’ll just—Oops!”
“Text me when you get home,” said Lovino, only half-joking. “I want to know if you actually make it there in one piece.”
“Sure, sure,” Feliciano dismissed, pushing the door with his hip and executing a graceless twirl as it swung back and closed behind him.
Leaving the air-conditioned studio, he stepped out into the hot sun, pausing to redistribute the case’s weight beside a sign that read: Vargas Design.
Roma Vargas had been a respected tailor once-upon-a-time. Now, thanks to his son’s business prowess and his daughter-in-law’s artistic eye, the former shop had been transformed into an haute couture design company, and now employed the third generation of Vargas talent, Lovino and Feliciano (thanks, nepotism!). Francis had joined them two years ago as an artist and seamster, and was the only employee they had ever officially hired. Lovino liked to joke that Francis had a lot to live up to, whereas Feliciano considered him an honourary family-member. They had all attended the same elite art school, and Francis had been Antonio’s best friend since high school; in fact, it was only because of Francis that Antonio and Lovino were together now. Feliciano usually carpooled to work with Antonio and Lovino from Monday to Thursday, but today was Friday, when Antonio scheduled his sales meetings. (He worked for a vineyard and sold wine to hotels, clubs, and restaurants, using every skill at his handsome, charming disposal to do so.) Feliciano didn’t like driving himself, and especially didn’t like driving Ludwig’s car, not because it was different from any other car on the road, but because it was Ludwig’s, and one did not borrow any of Ludwig’s things without feeling a sufficient amount of pressure and trepidation.
But it was a moot fear today, because Feliciano couldn’t wait to get home. Ludwig—his boyfriend—had been putting in a lot of long hours lately, hoping to acquire a wealthy but difficult client for his father’s accounting firm (thanks, nepotism!). He and the others—his older brother and cousin—had all been working like mad to impress their father/uncle, who had intentionally stepped back in order to test his successors, and Ludwig, at least, was feeling the pressure. He abided by the firm’s strict confidentiality rules and never talked about work at home, but Feliciano didn’t need verbal confirmation to know that Ludwig was running on fumes. He needs a night off, he decided, taking it upon himself to enforce it. He had planned an evening that his boyfriend couldn’t refuse. First, Feliciano would make his favourite supper; he had already called ahead to the butcher to ensure the necessary ingredients were available. Second, they would drink too much wine—courtesy of Antonio—by candlelight. And third, Feliciano would strip down into the black lingerie that he had designed himself—with Francis’ input—for this specific romantic occasion, and they would have sex until both of them collapsed in exhaustion. No five-minute shower sex before work; no distracted business calls during blowjobs. This time, for the first time in weeks, it would be proper earth-shattering, furniture-breaking, weak-in-the-knees sex. And he couldn’t wait.
He was smiling—and panting, his arms straining—when he reached the car, having hiked to the back of the parking lot. He gratefully dumped his art case and portfolio into the backseat, then crawled into the front.
“Keys, keys…” he sang, patting his pockets.
(“I can’t decide if it’s practical or impractical to have that many pockets,” said Francis’ husband, Arthur, who had dropped him off that morning. Feliciano was happy to explain his outfit, but Lovino arrived then and immediately pounced upon the prey that was Arthur’s attire, as per usual. “Just because you teach English Literature doesn’t mean you have to dress like Dickens, you know.” Arthur had left in a huff, as per usual.)
Feliciano slotted the key into the ignition and turned it, already reaching for the radio dial, but the car didn’t start. Instead, a red warning light appeared on the dashboard.
He blinked, then frowned, then tried it again.
“Ah, I’m sorry!” he said when the red light began flashing. “Uh, err—okay.” He tapped the dashboard, which achieved nothing.
I’ll just leave it for a minute. Maybe it’ll go away.
(Please, please go away!)
A minute later, he exited the car, making sure to shut the door behind him. He counted to ten, then climbed back inside.
“Huh,” he said, confused that turning it off and on again didn’t reboot the vehicle. When he inserted the key again, the red light glowed just as bright and angry as before.
He sat for a while, nibbling his lip in nervous indecision. Of course it had to be Ludwig’s car this happened to. Of course it was.
Antonio wouldn’t have cared. It’s just a car, he would’ve said, shrugging and smiling.
Arthur might have cared, but he wouldn’t blame Feliciano; not to his face anyway. It’s my car, I’ll take care of it, he would say, apologizing to Feliciano for the trouble.
But Ludwig? Ludwig would care.
Reluctantly, Feliciano pulled out his cellphone, already imagining and dreading the conversation, but before he could muster the courage to call and confess to his boyfriend, a rap at the window made him flinch.
“Feli?” said Lovino, opening the door. “I thought you left.”
Feliciano pointed to the dashboard. “What does that light mean? Is it bad?”
Lovino leant down. “Is it yellow or red?”
“Um,” said Feliciano, considering, “it’s more like vermillion.”
“If it’s yellow, it’s fine. That’s what Toni says,” Lovino quoted his boyfriend, whose vehicle maintenance was dubious at best and dangerous at worst. “His Engine light has been on for, like, eight months and nothing bad has happened.” He shrugged, then pointed at the dashboard. “It’s probably nothing. Just get Ludwig to check it when you get home.”
“But I can’t get home,” Feliciano countered. “I can’t even turn it on.”
“Oh.” Lovino peered closer. “Okay, well… Maybe you just hit something you shouldn’t have. Here, let me—”
Before Feliciano could protest, Lovino began pressing every button and flicking every switch and dial within his reach.
“Did that do anything? Try it now,” he said.
Feliciano did, and two yellow lights appeared beside the red one.
“Ah! What did you just do?” he worried, hands hovering uncertainly. “See, this is why Lud won’t let you near his cars!”
“He what?”
“Oh no, what does that one mean?”
Feliciano was pointing to a yellow light that read: ESP.
“Uh… Spanish?” Lovino guessed.
Feliciano frowned. “Did you just turn Ludwig’s car Spanish? He’s not going to like that.”
“No, no—that can’t be right. I don’t think.” Lovino fidgeted for his cellphone. “But just in case, I’ll call Toni.”
“This is no time to be calling your boyfriend!” Feliciano chastised as Lovino stepped away.
It was then that Arthur’s car appeared, slowing to a loitering stop on the side of the road. “Everything okay?” he asked.
“My car won’t start,” Feliciano explained.
Arthur pulled into the lot. He sent Francis a text to let him know where he was parked, then joined Feliciano and Lovino.
“—can’t make a car Spanish, Lovi,” came Antonio’s amused voice from Lovino’s phone. “It’s not like turning on the closed captions.”
“Well, I don’t know!” Lovino blustered, going red in embarrassment. Seeing Arthur’s raised eyebrow, he put Antonio on speakerphone.
“Maybe it’s the battery,” he suggested. “It might need a jump-start.”
“It’s not the battery,” Arthur dismissed.
“It might be, if the car’s dead,” Antonio argued, recognizing Arthur’s voice.
“I know what the fucking Battery light looks like. It’s not the battery. It might be the engine,” said Arthur to Feliciano.
“That’s bad, if it’s the engine,” said Lovino unhelpfully. “You might explode Ludwig’s car if you turn it on.”
“Except, it won’t turn on,” Feliciano repeated, paling at the word explode.
“Just call Ludwig,” said Antonio in casual surrender.
“It’s probably the engine,” Arthur repeated. “Isn’t that what the exclamation point means?”
“I think that just means it’s bad,” said Lovino.
“What’s bad?” asked Francis, no longer wondering why his husband hadn’t pulled up to the door when he saw the trio: Feliciano, flittering nervously; Lovino, making offhand, unhelpful comments; and Arthur, perplexedly staring at the car in challenge.
“Is that Fran? Hi, Fran!”
“Hi, Toni,” said Francis, putting down his portfolio. To Feliciano, he said: “You shouldn’t drive when there’s a red light on.”
“Is it red or yellow?”
“I’d call it cinnabar.”
“Do you know what it means?” Feliciano asked hopefully, but Francis made a pft! sound and shook his head.
“Of course I don’t,” he said, unabashed. “But Gil says that if a red light comes on your dashboard you need to turn the car off as soon as possible.”
“Because it’s probably an engine problem,” urged Arthur, louder than necessary.
“What does ESP mean?” Lovino asked.
Arthur paused, then countered his ignorance by crossing his arms. “Electrical something, probably.”
“Are you just guessing, or is that actually what you think it stands for?”
“Fuck off, Toni.”
“Is it something bad, do you think? Lovi did it!” Feliciano was quick to point out.
Lovino rolled his eyes. “Just call Ludwig already. He’ll know what to do, because it’s clear none of us do.”
Arthur huffed at the same time Antonio said: “Yep!”
Feliciano bit his bottom lip. He knew how busy Ludwig was and really didn’t want to trouble him, especially since the trouble in question was of the motor vehicle variety, with which Feliciano didn’t exactly have a clean record. Of course, it would be much worse if Feliciano didn’t call and the car exploded…
Oh God, what if the engine explodes?
If Feliciano broke—or exploded—Ludwig’s relatively new and not inexpensive car, he would never hear the end of it. Gilbert would tell of it annually at family events, and Ludwig would never let him drive again. As much as he liked to be chauffeured by someone else, Feliciano didn’t want it to be necessary because of his own incompetence. It would be such an inconvenience to Ludwig, just like a phone call would be right now.
“I really do think that exclamation point is serious,” said Arthur again.
Feliciano took a deep breath and called.
Um, Mr. Beilschmidt?” asked Matthew, so softly that Ludwig barely heard him.
He was Francis’ cousin, a student who was temping at the Beilschmidt firm for the summer thanks to Francis, who had asked Feliciano to ask Ludwig if they hired university students on contract. Gilbert had been against it, at first. He had argued that, if they were going to hire a student then it ought to be a student studying business, or a related subject at least; not whatever it was that Matthew was studying (Ludwig couldn’t remember). Then Gilbert had met Matthew for an interview and returned an hour later, starry-eyed and with a signed contract in hand.
(“You just screwed yourself over, you know,” said Ludwig in amusement. “You can’t date an employee, Gil.” Gilbert’s face had gone from giddy to crestfallen in an instant. “Ah, fuck!” he cursed. Then he sighed and resolved to wait for the four-month contract to end. But he couldn’t be too upset, not when he got to spend six hours a day, four days a week with the shy but sweet boy. Ludwig and Lars had a running bet going on how long it would take Matthew to notice that he was being shamelessly flirted with, though both of them had lost twice already, because Matthew was as oblivious as Gilbert was eager. It made for entertaining luncheons.)
“There’s a call for you, Mr. Beilschmidt,” said Matthew to the tiled floor. (Am I scary? Ludwig wondered.) “It’s from Feliciano.”
“Okay, put it through,” he said, returning to his work.
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, the telephone rang. Ludwig put it on speakerphone and continued to type. “Yes?” he said, distracted.
“Hi, Lud. Sorry to bother you at work, sweetheart.”
“It’s fine,” said Ludwig. “What is it you need?”
“Well, um, it’s just… I’m just having a little trouble with… the car.”
Ludwig stiffened, his fingers ceased moving. “My car? What’s wrong with my car?”
“It, um… won’t turn on.”
“What? Oh, Feli,” he sighed, “did you not put petrol in it again?”
“No! I mean, yes, of course I did! That only happened one time, Lud!”
“Cars don’t run without petrol,” said Ludwig, resuming his typing. “Mine doesn’t, anyway.”
“I hate the fill stations.” Ludwig could imagine Feliciano’s crossed arms and petulant pout and he smiled in secret. “They’re dirty and petrol smells awful. It gets on my hands. And people stare at me like I don’t know what I’m doing!”
Well, you usually don’t, Ludwig thought but didn’t dare say. It’s why he always filled the tank, himself, every Thursday night.
“But that’s not the problem this time,” Feliciano insisted, his tone changing. “There’s a warning light on the dashboard.”
“What does it look like?”
“Well, actually there are three lights—”
Ludwig sat straighter. “Are they red or yellow lights?”
“One is like a vermillion, or maybe cinnabar? The other two are—Hey guys, what colour is this?” he asked. Ludwig waited while Feliciano’s companions had a brief discussion. “Francis says it’s saffron, Lovi says it looks more chartreuse.”
“Red or yellow, Feli,” Ludwig repeated.
“One red, two yellow!” called Arthur from the background. “I think it’s an engine warning!”
“That doesn’t mean it’s bad, though,” argued Lovino. “Toni’s Engine light has been on since—”
“Do not listen to Antonio!” Ludwig said, worried now. “Does the picture look like an engine?”
There was a moment of silence, then another discussion:
“What do engines look like?” — “I don’t know.” — “Pop the bonnet and take a look.” — “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“It’ll look like a box with the cylinder head and intake pipe on top, the intercooler on the side, and the motor mount at the bottom,” Ludwig described. “Do you see it? Feli—?”
“I have no idea what you just said. Does it look like a submarine?”
Ludwig sighed. “Sure, a submarine. Do you see it?”
“No. None of them look like that.”
“Okay, well…” Ludwig pinched the bridge of his nose, “what do they look like?”
“One is an exclamation point inside an upside-down triangle.”
“That’s fine, you can ignore that. That’s just telling you that there’s a problem. What else do you see?”
“One says ESP and it’s yellow, like the Spanish flag, but Toni says it probably doesn’t mean it’s Spanish.”
“What, Spanish? No, that’s not—Oh, never-mind. ESP stands for Electronic—”
“HA!” shouted Arthur triumphantly.
“—Stability Programme.”
“Ah,” said Arthur, followed by Lovino’s snort.
“Why is the ESP warning on? What did you do?” Ludwig asked, confused now.
“Lovi hit a bunch of buttons—”
“Feli, don’t tell him!”
There was a muffled, static sound and then a grunt. Then Ludwig was talking to Arthur:
“Are you sure it’s not the engine?”
“It’s not the engine. What does—”
“Maybe it’s a problem with the oil level then. I’ll check it.”
“It’s not the engine!” Ludwig snapped. “Put Feliciano back on the phone!”
“Lud, Lovi said it would be fine if—Lovi, yes you did! I told you not to—Arthur, don’t open the bonnet!”
“FELI!” Ludwig snapped. He heard a squeak. He took a deep breath and tried again, mustering his patience: “Honey, I can’t help you if you don’t focus.”
“Yes, I’m here. I am. Sorry, Lud!”
“It’s fine. Now, describe the red light.”
“But ESP is still on—”
“It’s fine, just ignore that for now. What does the red light look like? The RED one, Feli.”
“Red is so basic and uninspired. It really is cinnabar,” Francis mused.
“It looks like an eyeball,” said Feliciano.
Ludwig pursed his lips. “An eyeball.”
“Yes. Or, maybe a golf ball. Francis, does this look more like an eyeball or a golf ball to you?”
“It looks like that robot-thing from Star Trek. Arthur, what’s the rolling robot-thing from Star Trek called?”
“It’s Star Wars, love.”
“Hey, you’re right!” said Lovino, laughing. “It does kind of look like BB8!”
“It looks like BB8,” said Feliciano, “but only his bottom.”
“I have no idea what that means,” said Ludwig. He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Okay, just—Okay. What happens when you try to turn the car on?”
“I don’t want to try again!” Feliciano burst. “Please don’t make me! It gets angry at me! It won’t let me turn the key or the wheel or do anything, and all of the lights flash at me, and Arthur thinks it’s the engine, and Francis says that Gil says the red lights are bad, and Toni says it might need to be jump-started, but what if I jump-start it and it electrocutes something? Is that what ESP means?”
“No, that’s not—”
“What if it’s the oil level, like Arthur said? Or, what if it’s some other fluid, like, um… washer fluid—?”
“Coolant. You’re thinking of coolant, and it’s not—”
“Coolant, yes! What if there’s no coolant and everything overheats and catches on fire!” Feliciano panicked. What if I start driving it and then it catches on fire? I don’t want to be on fire, Lud!”
“Feli, you’re not—”
“The car won’t catch fire. The engine will just blow,” said Arthur calmly. “Probably.”
“Stop saying probably.” That was Lovino, annoyed. “You obviously don’t know anything so stop guessing.”
“Feliciano, chéri,” said Francis’ soothingly, “nothing is going to explode or catch fire.”
“You don’t know that,” muttered Arthur.
There was a polite knock on Ludwig’s office door then, and he turned to see Matthew. “Mr. Janssen is on the line for you,” he whispered.
Oh, shit. He had been waiting all afternoon for Janssen’s reply.
“Oh my God, Ludwig! I wrecked your car!” Feliciano’s voice wailed, filling the office.
“No, you didn’t. It’s fine,” said Ludwig while waving a hand at Matthew. “Tell him I’ll call him back.”
Matthew looked petrified at the mere idea of having to deny a client, but he nodded obediently and closed the door behind him.
“It’ll be fine, Feli, I—I’m texting Gil, okay?” Ludwig said, making a decision and grabbing his cellphone from his briefcase. “He’s working nearby today. He’ll come over and fix it, okay?”
Feliciano sniffed. “Okay.
“Sorry, Lud,” he said after a moment. “I know you’re really busy.”
“It’s fine.”
“I really don’t know what I did—”
“You probably didn’t do anything,” Ludwig lied. “But Gil will fix it.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No, I’m not mad at you.”
“Will you stay on the phone with me until Gil gets here?”
Ludwig could see Matthew through the glass wall of his office, nodding fervently with pursed lips and huge, frightened eyes. He held the telephone away from his head, presumably because Mr. Janssen was speaking—yelling—loud enough to be heard.
“Lud, are you there?”
Ludwig sighed and sat back in his chair.
“Yes, honey, I’ll stay on the phone.”
Oh, Gil’s here.”
Feliciano followed Francis’ gesture and saw Gilbert sauntering across the parking lot. He didn’t immediately look like a financial consultant, wearing dark sunglasses and a black jacket over his shirt and tie, the hood pulled up to protect his sensitive eyes and skin from the bright sun. If Feliciano didn’t know him, he would have dove into the car and locked the doors. Instead, he rushed to meet Gilbert, followed by the others.
The German only managed a: “Hey, guys—” before he was swarmed.
“The car won’t start! I tried the key, but it didn’t turn, and then the red light came on, and then Lovi made it worse—”
“I didn’t make it worse! I was just trying to help! Ludwig said to ignore—”
“I still think it’s the engine, because what else would prevent the car turning on? I think maybe the engine oil is low, but they won’t let me check—”
“It’s probably dead! Hey Gil, tell them it’s dead!”
“Ludwig seemed to think the problem was—”
“Okay, stop—STOP!” yelled Gilbert, holding up his hands. “Can I have the keys, please?
“Okay,” he repeated, slipping into the driver’s seat, “let’s take a look.”
Feliciano crowded in to watch. Behind him stood Arthur, Francis, and Lovino, who was still on with Antonio, whose disembodied voice was saying: “What’s happening now? Did anything explode?”
Gilbert turned the key, saw the red light, and retracted it. Suddenly, he slammed the steering-wheel with his fist, making his audience flinch, then inserted the key and jerked it.
The car purred to life, no dashboard lights to be seen.
Gilbert exited the car and stood with his hands in his pockets. “M’kay, it’s fine now.”
They started at him in disbelief.
“What?”
“What did you do?” Lovino blurted.
Gilbert shrugged. “Your Steering Lock was on. It’s a security precaution, an anti-theft device. You probably put pressure on the wheel without realizing it, just leant against it or something.”
“So, it’s fixed?”
“It wasn’t broken,” he said. “It was just—Oof!”
“Thank-you!” Feliciano cried, squeezing Gilbert tightly.
“Uh, yeah. No problem,” said Gilbert awkwardly, patting Feliciano’s back. He glanced over the Italian’s head at his awestruck audience. “So, uh—can I go home now?”
The butcher was half-an-hour closed by the time Feliciano reached it, which ruined his supper plans, which ruined the whole romantic evening, but in the end it didn’t matter, because Ludwig didn’t leave work until eleven o’clock. He had missed an important call while on with Feliciano and had had to wait for the client to get back to him, then spent over two hours on the telephone while the client yelled and his bookkeeper had an emotional breakdown. Ludwig called to say that he would be late—corporate tax deadlines, etc.—and Feliciano had changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants and made pizza. He was watching an old rom-com when Ludwig walked in, tired and hungry.
“What’s for supper?” he called, disappearing into the kitchen.
“Pizza,” Feliciano replied.
He heard the rattle of plates, then a curse. A minute later, Ludwig reappeared with a beer, a plate of pizza—a stack of slices—and no jacket or tie. He slumped onto the living-room couch beside Feliciano and proceeded to inhale his supper piece-by-piece in three bites or less. It was a bad sign, Feliciano knew. Ludwig usually insisted on eating in the dining-room and would never lounge in his work clothes, afraid of wrinkles. He felt bad about Ludwig’s bad day, and guilty because of his own part in it. But Ludwig was home now and Feliciano was glad. He had missed him and didn’t want to waste their time together, even if all they did was cuddle before going to sleep.
He shimmied closer and rested his head on Ludwig’s shoulder, breathing in the subtle scent of his cologne: apples and pinewood. His body was warm and solid beneath Feliciano’s touch, and his muscles flexed as he moved—shifted, lifted pizza to his mouth—his strong, square jaw chewing as he ate. Feliciano gently rubbed his bicep, loving how safe and secure he felt when Ludwig was with him; unafraid of any wrongs because he knew that Ludwig would take care of him. Inevitably, there were times when he wished he was more self-sufficient—like when motor vehicles were involved—but, at the end of the day, he liked knowing that he didn’t have to do things alone. He liked knowing that he wasn't alone.
Is that selfish? he wondered, staring surreptitiously up at his handsome boyfriend. Does he wish I was more independent?
Ludwig didn’t notice Feliciano’s stare. He ate in silence, absently watching the film as the day’s tension eased out of him.
“Do you want to change the channel?” Feliciano offered.
“No, it’s fine.”
“Do you want more to eat?”
“It’s all gone now,” Ludwig said, setting the empty plate aside. In explanation, he added: “I like your pizza.”
Feliciano pursed his lips. “It wasn’t supposed to be pizza tonight.”
“I know.”
“Lud, I’m sorry about—”
Ludwig interrupted Feliciano with a kiss. A hungry, unchaste kiss that tasted like basil and tomatoes.
“I’m sorry I was so late tonight,” he said, his voice deep and quiet.
“I’m sorry I broke your car.”
Ludwig chuckled. “I’m not. And you didn’t. I like when you call me at work.”
“It wasn’t important, though.”
“No, it wasn’t. But you are, liebling. You’re the most important,” Ludwig said, kissing Feliciano again. “I like that you need me.”
“You—do?” Feliciano’s relief was palpable. His boyfriend smiled. “Well, of course I need you, Lud!”
He looped his arms around Ludwig’s neck and pressed himself closer. Ludwig turned and wound his strong arms around his middle, slipping his hands beneath Feliciano’s t-shirt as he pushed him gently down.
“I’ll always need you,” Feliciano confessed. “And I’ll always want you, too.
“I love you,” he murmured, letting his eyes fall closed and his mouth fall open.
Ludwig’s warm weight pressed down on him, enveloping him. Feliciano felt the pulse of his desire, the heat of his tongue, the rumble of his voice.
“I love you, too,” he said, kissing Feliciano’s lips, then his rosy cheek. He whispered tenderly in his ear: “I’ll always be there for you, my love. Anywhere, anytime. I will always keep you safe.
“And that’s why—”
He pulled away and sat up.
Feliciano whined a little at the lost contact, and then a lot when he saw what Ludwig was proffering to him. A small, paperback automotive manual.
“Oh Lud, no!”
“Come on,” Ludwig chuckled, pulling Feliciano up into a reluctant sitting position. “You’re going to read this entire manual, and then I’m going to test you on every single warning light, and for each one you get wrong…”
He leant forward, a wicked gleam in his sky-blue eyes. His teeth grazed Feliciano’s neck.
“I’ll have to punish you,” he growled provocatively.
“Oh?” said Feliciano, leaning up to meet the challenge. He smiled into his boyfriends firm, warm lips. “Well, that’s not much incentive for me to learn at all, sweetheart. It might take more than one lesson.”
Ludwig kissed him. “We’ve got all night.”
ENDE
THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)