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tamingthemuseTitle: I Know That Song
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Prompt: Jet Lag
Warnings: Failtastic attempt at fanfiction. I don't write fanfiction for a reason.
Rating: PG 13 for cursing.
Summary: Kink prompt: Spain/S. Italy - Spain serenading Romano outside of his window, playing a guitar. The line "Come hither my sweet cherry tomato." is necessary in this story
Romano yawned and stumbled into his house, hand thrown out to search the wall for the light switch. The hall filled with light and he blinked in pain. Damn light.
He shuffled down the hall and glared at the small flight of stairs before leaning heavily on the rail and making his way to his bedroom. Damn stairs.
He dropped his overnight bag on the floor and dropped himself onto the bed, grateful for finally being home after the horrendously long day. He groaned as he remembered his shoes and toed them off as best he could without moving his face from the wonderfully soft bed. After yet another long meeting with the other nations, with his brother, for sure, and the jet lag inducing flight back home, Romano was dead tired.
Anything with too much Veneciano was exhausting. Settling into the down quit some more, Romano could finally relax, even it the thought that his brother was still with that potato-bastard still plagued the back of his mind.
He was nearly asleep when he heard the faint sound of a Spanish guitar drifting though his window. Turning his head to one side, reminded that he still had to breath, Romano shoved the sound out of his mind, wanting only sleep after the ruckus of the day. Drifting, his thoughts somehow turned to Spain and his youth with the tomato-bastard.
Before he knew it, a smile was playing on his lips and he was all but humming the tune. He knew this song.
His eyes snapped open and he glared at the bed. Wait.
He knew that song. It was some such love song from Spain, wasn’t it? The strands were too faint for him to catch it all, and it was grating on his nerves, the melody teasing him with sweet notes before the wind picked them out of the air and away from his ear. Growling, he rolled his eyes and decided that he was going to ignore the music. He clenched his eyes closed and tired to turn his thoughts to counting sheep and not trying to catch every note of that elusive song.
And, after a bit, the playing stopped. His shoulders relaxed and he ignored the small twinge of disappointment. He refused to admit that the guitar had brought back memories of a happy time with Spain.
Then there was a soft ping sound that was more annoying than the guitar playing. Worse yet, it repeated itself several times before he realized that it was the sound of pebbles hitting his window.
Romano sat up, glaring, hissing mad. He shoved himself off the soft, enticing, bed, and stormed to the window, sliding the glass plane up and should have looked at who was out there before he stuck his head out, but didn’t. He snarled, “Damn it, can’t you see I’m trying to sleep!?”
“Ah,” Spain said, grinning up at him, waving. “But you’re awake now. Listen, listen.” His hands settled back on the guitar’s strings and once again music flowed up to Romano.
The Italian closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remain calm. What was that bastard doing? Hadn’t he just seen Romano not eight hours ago at their world meeting?
Then Spain began to sing, his voice rising and dipping with the guitar. Startled, Romano looked down at him, thinking, Yeah, I know this song, and for a moment was quieted. He folded his hands on the sill and lowered his chin, listening to a song he hadn’t heard since his childhood in Spain’s house. Once again, a smile escaped.
Spain’s fingers flew over the stings, and his own eye were closed as he lost himself in the songs as much as Romano had. When he finished the song, his eyes opened and found that the window had been evacuated. He smiled and set aside the guitar and threw out his arms. “Come hither, my sweet cherry tomato,” he called with confidence. Surely this had won over Romano’s affections.
The next thing he knew there was wet splat against his cheek as a tomato, not a cherry tomato either, exploded in his face. He laughed around a gasp of surprise, blinking up at Romano.
“Damn it, you’re disturbing the neighbors! Now get in here so we can clean you up and send you back.”
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Prompt: Jet Lag
Warnings: Failtastic attempt at fanfiction. I don't write fanfiction for a reason.
Rating: PG 13 for cursing.
Summary: Kink prompt: Spain/S. Italy - Spain serenading Romano outside of his window, playing a guitar. The line "Come hither my sweet cherry tomato." is necessary in this story
Romano yawned and stumbled into his house, hand thrown out to search the wall for the light switch. The hall filled with light and he blinked in pain. Damn light.
He shuffled down the hall and glared at the small flight of stairs before leaning heavily on the rail and making his way to his bedroom. Damn stairs.
He dropped his overnight bag on the floor and dropped himself onto the bed, grateful for finally being home after the horrendously long day. He groaned as he remembered his shoes and toed them off as best he could without moving his face from the wonderfully soft bed. After yet another long meeting with the other nations, with his brother, for sure, and the jet lag inducing flight back home, Romano was dead tired.
Anything with too much Veneciano was exhausting. Settling into the down quit some more, Romano could finally relax, even it the thought that his brother was still with that potato-bastard still plagued the back of his mind.
He was nearly asleep when he heard the faint sound of a Spanish guitar drifting though his window. Turning his head to one side, reminded that he still had to breath, Romano shoved the sound out of his mind, wanting only sleep after the ruckus of the day. Drifting, his thoughts somehow turned to Spain and his youth with the tomato-bastard.
Before he knew it, a smile was playing on his lips and he was all but humming the tune. He knew this song.
His eyes snapped open and he glared at the bed. Wait.
He knew that song. It was some such love song from Spain, wasn’t it? The strands were too faint for him to catch it all, and it was grating on his nerves, the melody teasing him with sweet notes before the wind picked them out of the air and away from his ear. Growling, he rolled his eyes and decided that he was going to ignore the music. He clenched his eyes closed and tired to turn his thoughts to counting sheep and not trying to catch every note of that elusive song.
And, after a bit, the playing stopped. His shoulders relaxed and he ignored the small twinge of disappointment. He refused to admit that the guitar had brought back memories of a happy time with Spain.
Then there was a soft ping sound that was more annoying than the guitar playing. Worse yet, it repeated itself several times before he realized that it was the sound of pebbles hitting his window.
Romano sat up, glaring, hissing mad. He shoved himself off the soft, enticing, bed, and stormed to the window, sliding the glass plane up and should have looked at who was out there before he stuck his head out, but didn’t. He snarled, “Damn it, can’t you see I’m trying to sleep!?”
“Ah,” Spain said, grinning up at him, waving. “But you’re awake now. Listen, listen.” His hands settled back on the guitar’s strings and once again music flowed up to Romano.
The Italian closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remain calm. What was that bastard doing? Hadn’t he just seen Romano not eight hours ago at their world meeting?
Then Spain began to sing, his voice rising and dipping with the guitar. Startled, Romano looked down at him, thinking, Yeah, I know this song, and for a moment was quieted. He folded his hands on the sill and lowered his chin, listening to a song he hadn’t heard since his childhood in Spain’s house. Once again, a smile escaped.
Spain’s fingers flew over the stings, and his own eye were closed as he lost himself in the songs as much as Romano had. When he finished the song, his eyes opened and found that the window had been evacuated. He smiled and set aside the guitar and threw out his arms. “Come hither, my sweet cherry tomato,” he called with confidence. Surely this had won over Romano’s affections.
The next thing he knew there was wet splat against his cheek as a tomato, not a cherry tomato either, exploded in his face. He laughed around a gasp of surprise, blinking up at Romano.
“Damn it, you’re disturbing the neighbors! Now get in here so we can clean you up and send you back.”
