plot twist i never met your mother you were adopted now go to bed
just because you love a character doesn’t mean they’re not a little shit
hey canadians have fun at school tomorrow
hey americans have fun paying your health care
stop guys we’re friends remember
Children, behave else mother shall have to give the pair of you bollocking.
YOU’RE NOT MY REAL DAD
Anonymous asked: I really love your ficlets, but i've been missing non-genderbent Spamano, could I get something of them dancing?
Hope you’re still around, anon, here you go! ♥
Romano will never get used to the way Spain does a night out, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try. 10 PM finds them out at their first tapas bar of the night, wine in one hand and a food-bearing toothpick in the other. Midnight finds them seated for the first time that night, atop plush cushions near a window that overlooks the city. Spain buys them both fruity cocktail after fruity cocktail, because though they’ve been to this particular bar before, they keep changing the menu and Spain has always liked to sample everything there is to offer. After a few drinks and some quiet chatter, a stark contrast to his usual boistrous way of conversing with people but nothing at all foreign to Spain, who has had many quiet evenings with him, Romano is a little sleepy and a lot content and would be fine with going home (well, back to Spain’s house) and staying in Spain’s bed until tomorrow night, but it’s 2 am and Spain is dragging him by the wrist, two fliers in his other hand.
“Where are we going now?” Romano asks, swaying just a bit as they make their way down the sidewalk, gliding through the crowd of people coming and going from the various bars and clubs lining the street.
Spain waves the brightly coloured papers in his face. “We’re going dancing! Look, we can get in for free.”
“Don’t you always get in for free?”
“Well.” Spain laughs and turns the corner, stopping briefly to look around before making a beeline for a brightly lit building across the street. “We haven’t been to this one before, and it takes so long for people to find my name on the list sometimes.”
Spains hands the bouncer their fliers and he quickly waves them into the club, but not before giving them each a drink voucher that Romano knows must come with the cover they haven’t paid. As if they need more drinks— Spain’s cheeks are just as flushed as Romano’s and when he tugs them both onto the dance floor, it is entirely without any of the grace he might possess when sober.
Music pulses through the air as Spain’s hips brush against Romano’s, Spain’s clumsy laughter quickly dissolving as the beat picks up and they gradually find the right tempo despite the fuzziness Romano feels flowing through his veins. Romano’s glad he wore a t-shirt that night, glad Spain did too, because they are both soon dripping with sweat, Romano can see it on Spain’s neck when he leans in so close their chests are moving against one another, can feel it when Spain’s hands run through his now messy hair.
Romano slips a hand into Spain’s waistband and Spain ghosts his lips against his neck, muttering something Romano can’t hear at all over the bass pounding into the floor and walls. Romano doesn’t know how many hours they spend that way— hip to hip, chest to chest, bodies swaying together to the music, ignorant of the mass of other bodies that surround them on all sides, but soon enough the sun is peaking through the crack in the door when people start exiting the club, the air lightens as the amount of people lessens, and eventually, the music stops. Spain takes Romano’s hand and leads him back through the door they came in, into the soft morning air and out into a world where it is very much easy to tell where Romano’s movement begins and Spain’s ends.
Spain swings their arms for a moment as they walk down the sidewalk, then moves so he’s standing in front of Romano, one hand still firmly holding Romano’s and the other snaking down to rest against his waist. “One more dance?” he asks, a tired, yet entirely content, smile on his face.
“There’s no music,” Romano replies, placing his free hand up on Spain’s back, near his shoulder blades.
“We don’t need any.” Spain steps forward and Romano responds, stepping back to meet the movement. Spain steps to the side, then back again, each move simple, not at all flashy, not so quick that their racing heartbeats can’t slow down and return to normal. Their dance is instead slow and lazy, flowing easily excepting when Romano interupts it briefly to rest his head against Spain’s neck. It’s the perfect end, and the very best constrast, to the quick-paced evening of before.
I don’t think I can take angst very seriously when it ends with a vespa. but that’s just me being a silly american who can’t appreciate the angstiness of vespas and romanos driving away on them. lovely little ficlet, zike, this is super sweet. ♥
Romano’s vespa is the best post-fight getaway vehicle ever fuck bitches. I don’t take any of their fights seriously and neither do they once they calm the fuck down and stop being dork faces and just nap a goddamned nap and eat some pasta.
fighting = effort though
I was rather hoping the fighting would be more like. just nobody argues with us because they know the truth of our victory. :D
kixboxer asked: femano/spain, breakups and makeups
It’s not that Spain doesn’t love Romano, because he does, he loves her more than sunshine and tomatoes and lazy naps on the beach combined, it’s just that he’s so frustrated (they both are), so tired from the economy and being worked to the bone by his boss and being pulled this way and that way and never getting a spare moment to so much as call his very favourite woman in the whole world. He’s frustrated from sleeping in cold, empty beds, frustrated from unanswered phone calls and conversations that barely get started when they have to end because Romano’s just as busy as he is, and he knows that, and she knows he knows that, knows he’s trying his best to make time for her. Time neither of them have much of lately.
Spain loves Romano, would gladly respond to her shouts of, “You never have time for me anymore,” and “Why didn’t you fucking call me yesterday when you said you would?” and, “I’m so sick of all of this,” with, “I love you,” and “I’m sorry,” and “I miss you too,” on any other day, but his boss is calling again and Romano’s yelling about how oh now he can make time for phone calls, just when she’s trying to talk to him, and the nice dinner he’d planned for them is remembered just in the moment that it starts burning and the flowers he got Romano have been tossed on the floor and he knows she’s not sick of him and he’s not sick of her and he doesn’t mean it when he says, “We need a break,” but he says it nonetheless.
He says it and the only thing that answers him is eerie silence, then the slamming of his front door, and the roar of an engine when Romano drives off on her vespa.
—-
Romano returns the next day with a knock on the door and a shout of, “Hurry up Spain, these are heavy!”
Spain answers the door, bags under his eyes not keeping his smile from reaching them, to find Romano standing there, tapping her foot, carrying cloth bags filled to the brim with tomatoes and bread and cheese and everything he thinks she’ll need to make the lasagne of hers that’s always been his favourite.
He takes the bags and Romano steps inside, her lips ghosting over his cheek briefly, so barely there Spain doesn’t know if he’s imagined it or not. “Your kitchen better be clean, you know I don’t like making food in there when it isn’t.”
“It’s clean.” And it doesn’t smell like burnt rice any longer.
“Good. Did you do my laundry last time I was here? I don’t know if I have any clean clothes.”
“I’ll go make sure, Roma. But you have a lot of clothes here.” They take up half his closet, plus a whole guest room closet.
“Well just make sure.” After Spain and Romano have both relieved themselves of the grocery bags, Romano’s digging through Spain’s pantry for her apron, the only plain, solid coloured one that doesn’t have stupid phrases written all over or pictures of smiling tomatoes. She notices Spain staring at her as she ties it behind her back, a dopey grin on his face, and she flushes before giving him the finger and nudging him out of the kitchen. “Laundry. Go. I’ll call you when the food is ready.”
“I love you, Roma.”
“And I love you better when you do what I say. Get out of my hair.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Spain’s boss calls yet again but all he does is shut the phone off, because right now he’d rather make the entire population of the world wait for him than miss this lunch with Romano.
