Title: You're So Stupid And Perfect
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Character/Pairing: Romano, Spain
Rating: R
Summary: Spain wins the World Cup, Romano shows how much he hates him for it.
Note: The fuck did I even write. NOTE I DO NOT USUALLY WRITE... THIS. Also there are a lot of very lame match references. Yeah, I don't know. Title is I don't know either.

If there was anything Romano wanted more in the world right now, it was to wipe that stupid ass grin off of Spain's face.

Spain shouldn't look that happy with a stupid ball and a stupid gold trophy - even if Romano had probably had the same stupid look when he won the last time, but that was irrelevant. Spain was being absolutely ridiculous, absolutely too full of himself, too fucking happy. Maybe Spain was just glowing since it was his first time, maybe he was just too happy to finally stop being the butt of football jokes for once, maybe he was just simply happy in the win. Romano didn't know, didn't care - he just wanted to shut him up and get him to stop grinning like a fool.

Romano was still sore from losing so early on. He'd been booted out of the tournament so early, so disgracefully almost - at least none of them were as bad as France though - and yet he had a stupid, happy, grinning idiot all over his hands. A stupid idiot who had asked him to cheer for him and smiled at him like he was the sun incarnate. Didn't the idiot know how much that was grating on his nerves? How much he wanted to go home and throw things and curse his own stupid football team for goofing up so soon? How tired he was of hearing about octopuses and other nonsense?

Romano was pissed to all hell. But, clearly Spain didn't know or didn't fully register the need to care, and clearly his stupid little brother didn't know either. Hearing Veneziano blowing one of those annoying horns for Germany just enraged him even more. Fuck cheering for anyone! He wanted to go home! Fuck the rest of the world's football bullshit! He had lost, why the fuck should he care! Why the fuck should he be happy for the stupid tomato bastard!

Maybe that was why he pushed him aside after all of the celebrations, after all of the stupid parties and the stupid laughing and cheering and far too much red and gold for his liking. (And a bit too much alcohol for the both of them.) Maybe that's why they were slammed up against some wall in their hotel, tongues down each other's throats, hands everywhere but where they should be.

Because Romano was just trying to get that stupid fucking smile off of his face and out of his mind. Because he was angry. And totally not riding on some sort of ridiculous energetic high from watching the match. And not because Spain was totally grabbing at him in ways that let him know just how much that bastard wanted him. And wanted him now.

Spain was still plastered into his team's jersey, still full of sweat and the smell of grass and blood. Romano was still covered in red and yellow face paint and a shirt he claimed he was forced into. (Which was at least half true - Veneziano had stolen his other clothes, and only produced them after Romano had been shoved into the red and yellow mess.) They were both dirty, tired, and exhausted, but the way Spain was slamming him into the wall did nothing to note how drained either of them were.

And god, he didn't want that bastard - that bastard with his dark curly hair plastered all over his forehead and green eyes still flashing with excitement. Definitely didn't want him at all. If anything, he wanted Spain being the one to call his name, he wanted to be the one with that name on that goddamn trophy. He wanted the gold, the glory. He should have been the one grinning and rubbing it in Spain's face again, just like last time, just like he had been hoping for. He was still angry, and so not turned on and not enjoying the way their mouths were fitting together just so and-

Oh fuck it. He did.

Romano was still making sure he kept that smile off of his face, making sure that Spain was not getting his way in this stupid rough fuck they were surely getting themselves into. Spain was normally slow passion and gentle touches here and there (or was all for letting Romano usually ride him into bliss instead), and these shoves and pushes and rough everything was almost a rarity.

Not that Romano was taking advantage of it or anything. Or teasing him for it.

"What," he breathed, still trying to get the upper hand, even with Spain being all hands and tongue and very obviously into being dominant right now for once in his stupid life. "Trying to use the Netherlands' tactics?"

Spain just smirked at him and pinched his ass, effectively shutting him up with another kiss and pulling his shirt off.

Once they were out of the clothing - the disgusting sweat drenched clothing that Romano almost wanted to throw into a washer himself - Spain took the final stand, pulling his legs apart and making it quite obvious who was going to get it tonight. Romano almost wanted to shove him off and tell him he'd scored once for the night already, but the way Spain had his hands on him just so - well, he wasn't one to complain.

As Spain lifted him up against the wall and they awkwardly positioned themselves, Romano could feel Spain's legs buckle and nearly give. Growling and pushing himself up further and balancing for the both of them, he snapped in Spain's ear, "The fuck! Do you want me to crash into the floor instead?"

"Sorry, legs are still numb from the game," Spain laughed in response, breathless. Romano just flushed and grumbled, tightening his hold around the idiot's neck as he slid in. This was only because he was being nice, only because the idiot finally figured out just how much lube really made him feel good, only because sometimes the idiot knew just where to hit that spot and-

God, god, god he should not feel that good.

His mind was a mess of obscenities and blessings and curses, and god how did he ever focus when they did this the other way around.

Spain was definitely showing just how precise he could be, pulling into him with just the right amount of pressure and in just the right spot again and again. Maybe Spain just knew him too well, or maybe the bastard was being just as lucky as he was in that final long minute on the field, but he was definitely getting into just the right rhythm to drive the both of them wild.

As they got into it, as the passion built and as the heat turned into something a little more fierce, a little more than he was used to, Romano had one stupid, traitorous thought in his mind:

Okay, maybe Spain did know how to score.

It was rough and sweet and short - which was much better than that shit of a final - and after they both finally released, they stayed in their heap at the base of the wall. They were sated and finally free of the mess of frustration the games always put on the both of them, and Romano finally felt a little less like throwing a building and more like his usual desire to punch the idiot in the face. Spain was probably feeling the beat of feet on his spine as his people partied and cheered all the way back on Iberian soil, feeling the happiness even here far away from both their homes.

"So," Spain breathed, still full of light and victory and that bubble of joy that Romano knew he wasn't going to knock out of him anytime soon, "Are you finally happy for me?"

"Don't push it," was all Romano grumbled, giving him one more kiss, if only to get that stupid smile off Spain's damn face for the last time.

And as he heard France catcalling from the other side of the door, Romano thanked God that Spain had for once remembered to lock his door.