Besos

AN; Sorry I haven't been updating in a very long time, but I seem to either have writer's block or lack of motivation.

This will be a multi chaptered collection of prompts that include kisses and Spamano (SpainxRomano).

This chapter is relatively short, but lengths will vary with my mood and interest. This was mostly just an experimentation on trying to stay in present tense and keeping people interested while using little to no dialogue. And guess what? I actually bothered to do some historical reasearch! Though you probably won't be able to tell.

Please note that the rating may go up.

Also, the best way to encourage me to update will be with prompts and interesting suggestions.

So please put them in your reviews!

Disclaimer; I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters.

On the hand. Adoration. Innocence.

There is nothing particularly special about this colony, Spain considers to himself. Rays of light stream through the leaves of the tree outside his window as Spain waits in semi boredom for Austria to bring in his new henchmen. He shifts a little from his sprawled position across a velvet settee, basking in the warmth.

It wasn't as if he was unused to dealing with colonies. Quite the opposite, for he already has quite a few.

Of course, Spain had heard snippets of gossiping about the Italy twins (mostly from France, though he steadfastly denied that he was gossiping) and had seen them from afar. But even from just that, he could conclude that the Northern part was most definitely the better of the pair.

The North had the Renaissance movement going on, with art and musical culture blooming, while the South only had agriculture going for it. Of course Austria would keep the better half to himself, using the excuse of the Holy Roman Empire as a justification.

Even so, land was still land.

And land could only strengthen his Empire to further beat up that Eyebrows freak.

A young maid interrupts his musing and informs him of the arrival of his guests. But Spain is only half listening, instead, he glances the maid up and down.

She's dark brown haired and emerald eyed, just the way he likes them, but she doesn't have the fiery passion that he is attracted to.

Such a shame.

Done with his impromptu evaluation, Spain sends a wink in her direction and leaves before he sees a blush of red spread across her face. But even so, the soft closing of the door leaves only an unsatisfactory hollow feeling in his chest.

There's something missing, he decides, yet he can't quite figure out what it is. Spain dismisses the thought to the back of his head for further analysation later. But by that time, that cold empty feeling would have already disappeared.

Spain practically skips his way down the stairs, two at a time, a grin working its way onto his face.

Had he even looked in Austria's direction, he would have seen the frown of absolute disapproval shot at him. Austria was still uptight with that air of order and meticulousness showing in his perfect wrinkles clothes.

But Spain is too busy absorbing the adorable little doll standing in front of him to pay any mind to him.

The dress clad figure returns his staring with a scowl (and what an absolutely endearing scowl it is), eyes flashing up at him with ire from underneath a fringe of auburn hair. What pretty eyes they are.

If Spain had to name a colour for them, it would be hazel, but he could see flecks of amber and bronze there. And my, is that a flicker of gold he spies? But even without the wonderful colours he finds there, he would have been drawn to the stirring passion he finds in them. It burns with a blistering fervor that Spain hasn't seen in many a year.

The child is in a pink maid's dress, a clean white apron fitted over the top. Small hands clutch at the material as if they have to stop themselves from punching something.

But that is fine, because Spain has to forcefully restrain himself from pinching those chubby puffed up cheeks or tug at that wayward curl of hair that escapes the maid's headdress.

In the background, he faintly hears Austria excuse himself and find his way out. Spain only spares him a distracted wave of the hand and a passing hope that he doesn't get lost on the way back.

He kneels down, mentally laughing when those cheeks puff further in aggravation when the child discovers that Spain doesn't have to look up to meet his eyes.

He takes a tiny hand in his own and wonders at the incredible silkiness of the skin. They're soft (so, so soft) and aren't nearly as tanned as his own, but he finds that he rather likes the contrast it creates.

Brushing his fingers against that unmared skin, squeezing down the smallest bit, Spain swears an oath to himself. This child, he will never allow this child to become a monster like him.

These hands will never need to be scrubbed raw to get off the spilt blood that will never be there.

Those eyes, with such hope and innocence shining through(¡Dios mío, have you sent down an Angel from the Heavens above?), will never see the slaughter of millions as his have.

And let that simple childish selfishness never be replaced by torturing grief or suffering.

The vow is sealed with a soft chaste kiss of pure adoration onto the untainted skin of innocence.

And when he lifts his head, he is rewarded with flushed cheeks and wide soulful eyes.

Perfection.

"Welcome home, mi príncipe."

End

Note; I do not know any Spanish, so if I have written it wrong, please correct me. But generally, what I intended for was for '¡Dios mío' to be 'Oh My God' and 'mi príncipe' to be 'my prince'.