Ave Maria -- [1/3]
anonymous
October 7 2011, 16:41:40 UTC
This is bizarrely similar to the first fill, what with the use of 'Ave Maria' (Hail Mary in Italian). The song Spain is singing at the beginning is an old Spanish folk song.
“De los álamos vengo, madre, de ver cómo los menea el aire...” Tap, tap, and Romano cracked one emerald eye open into the morning light.
“ De los álamos de Savilla, de ver ami linda amiga.” Tap, tap. Romano pressed his palm into his cheek and closed his one open eye, groaning from the back of his throat.
“You’re singing it wrong,” Romano half-grunted across the dimly-lit room. Tap, tap. Spain continued to tap his fingertips along the floorboards and stare out the window, his toes pressed up against the wrought-iron bars that made up what could have been a beautiful balcony. Spain slid a hand into his jean pocket and looked out into the sun. Romano had both eyes open as Spain shifted, his bare back smiling frustratingly at Romano, each muscle perking and moving and shifting beneath his sun-kissed skin. Romano swallowed thickly and closed his eyes.
“There’s no wrong way to sing it, Romano, you know that.” Romano’s eyes remained squeezed shut, and he buried his face into the pillow. Even though it was summertime in Marseilles, a shiver ran down his bare spine. He opened one eye again and glanced at the violet-crimson finger-shaped bruises along his slim waist, and he closed his eyes once more, holding onto the mattress like it was his lifeline.
Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te.
Spain shifted once more where he was sitting.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Tu sei benedetta fra le donne e benedetto è il frutto del tuo seno, Gesú.
“N-no,” Romano murmured. His toes curled into the mattress as the thought of the bruises entered his brain. Bruises he’d gotten before and would continue to get.
Spain turned to look at him, just as Romano re-opened his eyes. He was still curled up on his side, still shirtless, still bruised. His lips were swelling again.
Spain smiled, and Romano scowled back. Somewhere downstairs, there was some clinking of china and whistling of tea kettles. The sunlight caught the gold chain around Spain’s neck.
“France is having company today,” Spain said, turning back to the window. “I was surprised he let us come here. He-“
“-always spends summer with pretty ladies in Marseilles,” Romano finished in a stilted whisper. Spain chuckled, and then pushed himself to his feet, hands in his pockets, crouching at the low attic ceiling, still looking out the window. Romano squeezed his eyes shut at the sight.
Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori-
Spain sat down on the hardwood floor beside him, reached out, and curled his fingers against Romano’s cheek, pushing the dark hair away from his cheeks and rubbing against his fine skin.
-adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte, Amen.
Spain’s fingers were at his lips. Romano closed his eyes and kissed them.
...Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te.
“You’re thinking,” Spain said gently. His hair was mussed, tousled, from hands and cloth mattresses and old box springs and French summertime. “You’re not normally so quiet once awake.”
Ave Maria -- [2/3]
anonymous
October 7 2011, 16:42:29 UTC
“What time did I fall asleep?” Romano murmured through Spain’s fingers.
“Not sure. Late. Or, rather, early.” Romano’s eyes fell on the gold chain around Spain’s neck, the one that settled so nicely on his collarbone, the chain that fell at an impeccable height with his chest. The cross on the end was perfect, and always looked perfect against that dark pallor. Romano’s breathing increased as Spain hovered beside him; his cheeks grew hot and he threw his arm over his eyes to block the sight of Spain.
Tu sei benedetta fra le donne e benedetto è il frutto del tuo seno, Gesú.
“Roma-“ Spain reached out and pulled Romano’s arm down, successfully pinning it to his side, and the Spaniard was now a few mere centimeters away, hazel-green eyes staring straight into his own.
“...Romano, your lips are moving but you’re not saying anything,” Spain said. Romano bit his lower lip; he hadn’t realized he’d been doing it. “Are you praying?” Romano, eyes wide, shook his head. “You’re lying.” He shook his head again.
Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori, adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte.
Spain kissed him. Romano, as always, was stiff at first, eyes wide still, trying to ignore the lingering taste of tomatoes and wine and the soft familiarities of Spain’s beautiful lips. His stomach gurgled and he clenched his fists even tighter. Maybe this would be the taste that ended his fervor. Maybe this kiss would be the last; he’d push away from Spain, disgusted-
A-ave Maria, piena di grazia.
He closed his eyes as his chest felt light, and he parted his lips for Spain, clapping his hand to Spain’s neck, pinching the chain between his fingers. Spain happily grunted and then leaned closer to Romano, so close the other could feel the heat radiating from his body, and Spain was pushing his bare toes into Romano’s stomach but he didn’t care.
Romano pushed himself from the mattress and he sat up, leaning into Spain, his hands up by Spain’s neck, trying to fight the urge to push Spain to the floor and ravish him until he was no longer capable of rational thought. The fact that he was entertaining the idea made his stomach flip from arousal and his brain send fiery signals to his heart.
Il Signore è con te.
“Rom-“ Spain started when he was able to pull away, but Romano held onto his shoulders and pressed their faces together, Romano getting a bit of suction and holding Spain in place. Spain could feel Romano swallow apprehensively but the Italian continued to kiss him with as much fervor as Spain had originally offered. Romano let out a terse breath through his nose and then, much to Spain’s surprised, Romano had him pinned up against the dark wooded wall, Romano’s fingernails digging into his shoulders.
“Romano,” Spain said finally as he gently pushed the nation away from him, “Romano, what has gotten into you today?”
“What?” Romano said in a breathy whisper into Spain’s earlobe, “t-that’s the point of this, isn’t it?” One of Romano’s hands slid down Spain’s waist, down to the hem of his jeans, trying to gain access between the tight old denim of Spain’s flesh. “To have sex.”
Tu sei benedetta fra le donne e benedetto è il frutto del tuo seno, Gesú.
Somewhere beneath them, France let out a cheerful laugh. Romano’s stomach churned three times over.
“Roma,” Spain murmured into said nation’s crisp skin as Romano began kneading at his neck with his lips, “Roma, I asked France to leave the house today. So we could be alone together, not in this room.”
“This is his house,” Romano protested between kisses. He closed his eyes and ignored Spain’s words, ignored how they made his chest heave with delight, ignored France’s flowery words from downstairs, ignored all thoughts and words that lead to relationship because, this wasn’t that at all, it was just a way for Romano to release his sexual desires. So he wouldn’t taint a pretty girl and she could retain her Heavenly promise.
Ave Maria -- [3/3]
anonymous
October 7 2011, 16:45:51 UTC
Romano clutched the golden chain around Spain’s neck, as if trying to embed it into Spain’s skin, and couldn’t stop the buck his hips gave as Spain shifted his thigh between his legs.
“I don’t want to be in this room anymore,” Spain whispered.
Santa Maria, Madre di Dio.
“I want to show you how much I love you, Romano.” Romano froze for a second, his forehead beading with sweat, his lower lip gently pressed against Spain’s shoulder. He stared at a knot in the wood and wondered just how old this house was, as Spain tightened the warm grip he had on Romano.
“Don’t say that,” Romano murmured.
“Roma-“
“I said, don’t s-say that.” Romano gripped the necklace in his left hand, stringing it through his fingers until the cross settled in his palm. Spain coughed a bit as the chain dug into the side of his neck.
Romano was shaking.
“Romano-“
“Stai zitto,” Romano responded.
“Italy.” At that, Romano’s body tensed, and his toes tingled as they dug into the hardwood floor, just beyond the old mattress. Spain ducked his head into the curve of Romano’s bare neck and pressed his lips against it, but he didn’t kiss; he just leaned. “Italia.”
...prega per noi peccatori, adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte.
Romano was in Spain’s lap, his legs wrapped around his waist, arms hanging onto his shoulders for dear life, struggling between wanting to dig his nails into Spain’s flesh to make him let him go or-the more desirable, the more realistic option-wanting to stroke the back of Spain’s head the way that Spain used to when he was a child.
“I love you, Italia Romano.”
Romano wanted to cry, but his eyes were dry.
Amen.
--
Some author notes: this started taking a rather dark, sad turn when I started incorporating my headcanon into it. Headcanon dictates that Romano and Spain have sex, but Romano refuses to see it as a relationship, because he's so incredibly Catholic, and instead he's "using" Spain to get out his urges so he's not sexing up innocent, virginal girls. However, he's just in denial. Btw, Romano hasn't been abused when I mention bruises, he just likes be handled roughly. I started this fill right after the prompt was posted but then it took me forever to finish, argh.
Re: Ave Maria -- [3/3]
anonymous
October 7 2011, 17:19:53 UTC
Ohhh, anon, this makes my chest ache. Having been raised Catholic myself, it really struck me hard. In a strange way, I think Romano + religious angst is a kink of mine. So is Romano liking it rough, but that's something different entirely... In any case, this is really, really lovely, anon.
Omg. Just, omg. I love you. SO. MUCH. BEAUTIFUL FILL IS BEAUTIFUL. You've made me so happy. ASKDHLAKSJDLS SOOO HAPPYYYYYY :LAKjiksfjslkdfn askafn like, i have no words. this is so wonderful. I love the cross. I love the prayers(?) used, and just oooomggggg You wrote such a beautiful romano. sooooo...asdkjan >//< Marry me, you marvelous anon you??
“De los álamos vengo, madre, de ver cómo los menea el aire...” Tap, tap, and Romano cracked one emerald eye open into the morning light.
“ De los álamos de Savilla, de ver ami linda amiga.” Tap, tap. Romano pressed his palm into his cheek and closed his one open eye, groaning from the back of his throat.
“You’re singing it wrong,” Romano half-grunted across the dimly-lit room. Tap, tap. Spain continued to tap his fingertips along the floorboards and stare out the window, his toes pressed up against the wrought-iron bars that made up what could have been a beautiful balcony. Spain slid a hand into his jean pocket and looked out into the sun. Romano had both eyes open as Spain shifted, his bare back smiling frustratingly at Romano, each muscle perking and moving and shifting beneath his sun-kissed skin. Romano swallowed thickly and closed his eyes.
“There’s no wrong way to sing it, Romano, you know that.” Romano’s eyes remained squeezed shut, and he buried his face into the pillow. Even though it was summertime in Marseilles, a shiver ran down his bare spine. He opened one eye again and glanced at the violet-crimson finger-shaped bruises along his slim waist, and he closed his eyes once more, holding onto the mattress like it was his lifeline.
Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te.
Spain shifted once more where he was sitting.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Tu sei benedetta fra le donne e benedetto è il frutto del tuo seno, Gesú.
“N-no,” Romano murmured. His toes curled into the mattress as the thought of the bruises entered his brain. Bruises he’d gotten before and would continue to get.
Spain turned to look at him, just as Romano re-opened his eyes. He was still curled up on his side, still shirtless, still bruised. His lips were swelling again.
Spain smiled, and Romano scowled back. Somewhere downstairs, there was some clinking of china and whistling of tea kettles. The sunlight caught the gold chain around Spain’s neck.
“France is having company today,” Spain said, turning back to the window. “I was surprised he let us come here. He-“
“-always spends summer with pretty ladies in Marseilles,” Romano finished in a stilted whisper. Spain chuckled, and then pushed himself to his feet, hands in his pockets, crouching at the low attic ceiling, still looking out the window. Romano squeezed his eyes shut at the sight.
Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori-
Spain sat down on the hardwood floor beside him, reached out, and curled his fingers against Romano’s cheek, pushing the dark hair away from his cheeks and rubbing against his fine skin.
-adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte, Amen.
Spain’s fingers were at his lips. Romano closed his eyes and kissed them.
...Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te.
“You’re thinking,” Spain said gently. His hair was mussed, tousled, from hands and cloth mattresses and old box springs and French summertime. “You’re not normally so quiet once awake.”
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“Not sure. Late. Or, rather, early.” Romano’s eyes fell on the gold chain around Spain’s neck, the one that settled so nicely on his collarbone, the chain that fell at an impeccable height with his chest. The cross on the end was perfect, and always looked perfect against that dark pallor. Romano’s breathing increased as Spain hovered beside him; his cheeks grew hot and he threw his arm over his eyes to block the sight of Spain.
Tu sei benedetta fra le donne e benedetto è il frutto del tuo seno, Gesú.
“Roma-“ Spain reached out and pulled Romano’s arm down, successfully pinning it to his side, and the Spaniard was now a few mere centimeters away, hazel-green eyes staring straight into his own.
“...Romano, your lips are moving but you’re not saying anything,” Spain said. Romano bit his lower lip; he hadn’t realized he’d been doing it. “Are you praying?” Romano, eyes wide, shook his head. “You’re lying.” He shook his head again.
Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori, adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte.
Spain kissed him. Romano, as always, was stiff at first, eyes wide still, trying to ignore the lingering taste of tomatoes and wine and the soft familiarities of Spain’s beautiful lips. His stomach gurgled and he clenched his fists even tighter. Maybe this would be the taste that ended his fervor. Maybe this kiss would be the last; he’d push away from Spain, disgusted-
A-ave Maria, piena di grazia.
He closed his eyes as his chest felt light, and he parted his lips for Spain, clapping his hand to Spain’s neck, pinching the chain between his fingers. Spain happily grunted and then leaned closer to Romano, so close the other could feel the heat radiating from his body, and Spain was pushing his bare toes into Romano’s stomach but he didn’t care.
Romano pushed himself from the mattress and he sat up, leaning into Spain, his hands up by Spain’s neck, trying to fight the urge to push Spain to the floor and ravish him until he was no longer capable of rational thought. The fact that he was entertaining the idea made his stomach flip from arousal and his brain send fiery signals to his heart.
Il Signore è con te.
“Rom-“ Spain started when he was able to pull away, but Romano held onto his shoulders and pressed their faces together, Romano getting a bit of suction and holding Spain in place. Spain could feel Romano swallow apprehensively but the Italian continued to kiss him with as much fervor as Spain had originally offered. Romano let out a terse breath through his nose and then, much to Spain’s surprised, Romano had him pinned up against the dark wooded wall, Romano’s fingernails digging into his shoulders.
“Romano,” Spain said finally as he gently pushed the nation away from him, “Romano, what has gotten into you today?”
“What?” Romano said in a breathy whisper into Spain’s earlobe, “t-that’s the point of this, isn’t it?” One of Romano’s hands slid down Spain’s waist, down to the hem of his jeans, trying to gain access between the tight old denim of Spain’s flesh. “To have sex.”
Tu sei benedetta fra le donne e benedetto è il frutto del tuo seno, Gesú.
Somewhere beneath them, France let out a cheerful laugh. Romano’s stomach churned three times over.
“Roma,” Spain murmured into said nation’s crisp skin as Romano began kneading at his neck with his lips, “Roma, I asked France to leave the house today. So we could be alone together, not in this room.”
“This is his house,” Romano protested between kisses. He closed his eyes and ignored Spain’s words, ignored how they made his chest heave with delight, ignored France’s flowery words from downstairs, ignored all thoughts and words that lead to relationship because, this wasn’t that at all, it was just a way for Romano to release his sexual desires. So he wouldn’t taint a pretty girl and she could retain her Heavenly promise.
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“I don’t want to be in this room anymore,” Spain whispered.
Santa Maria, Madre di Dio.
“I want to show you how much I love you, Romano.” Romano froze for a second, his forehead beading with sweat, his lower lip gently pressed against Spain’s shoulder. He stared at a knot in the wood and wondered just how old this house was, as Spain tightened the warm grip he had on Romano.
“Don’t say that,” Romano murmured.
“Roma-“
“I said, don’t s-say that.” Romano gripped the necklace in his left hand, stringing it through his fingers until the cross settled in his palm. Spain coughed a bit as the chain dug into the side of his neck.
Romano was shaking.
“Romano-“
“Stai zitto,” Romano responded.
“Italy.” At that, Romano’s body tensed, and his toes tingled as they dug into the hardwood floor, just beyond the old mattress. Spain ducked his head into the curve of Romano’s bare neck and pressed his lips against it, but he didn’t kiss; he just leaned. “Italia.”
...prega per noi peccatori, adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte.
Romano was in Spain’s lap, his legs wrapped around his waist, arms hanging onto his shoulders for dear life, struggling between wanting to dig his nails into Spain’s flesh to make him let him go or-the more desirable, the more realistic option-wanting to stroke the back of Spain’s head the way that Spain used to when he was a child.
“I love you, Italia Romano.”
Romano wanted to cry, but his eyes were dry.
Amen.
--
Some author notes: this started taking a rather dark, sad turn when I started incorporating my headcanon into it. Headcanon dictates that Romano and Spain have sex, but Romano refuses to see it as a relationship, because he's so incredibly Catholic, and instead he's "using" Spain to get out his urges so he's not sexing up innocent, virginal girls. However, he's just in denial. Btw, Romano hasn't been abused when I mention bruises, he just likes be handled roughly. I started this fill right after the prompt was posted but then it took me forever to finish, argh.
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I love you. SO. MUCH.
BEAUTIFUL FILL IS BEAUTIFUL.
You've made me so happy. ASKDHLAKSJDLS
SOOO HAPPYYYYYY
:LAKjiksfjslkdfn
askafn
like, i have no words.
this is so wonderful.
I love the cross.
I love the prayers(?) used, and just oooomggggg
You wrote such a beautiful romano.
sooooo...asdkjan
>//<
Marry me, you marvelous anon you??
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