yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flair) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
metamorphosis2010-04-10 05:46 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-04-10 05:46 pm
Entry tags:
62;
Title: The sky is not going to fall.
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG-13
For 50scenes' prompt 'Sand'.
In the shade of the trees, the sand felt cool and calm beneath his feet, somehow sturdier than the hot sand beside it that easily shifted and kicked up. England digs his toes into the dry sand and stretches, lays back with a small towel around his neck for cushioning and squints his eyes against the sun, hanging high in the sky. He closes his eyes and enjoys the feel of the cool breeze, enjoys the feel of the sand beneath him, enjoys the sudden warmth caging around him – wait. He opens his eyes and is swiftly met with a kiss.
He groans and shoves Spain off of him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and spitting into the sand. Spain grins in response, letting his fingers glide over the smooth taut skin as he moves away, fingernails dragging softly against scars and goosebumps alike. England's response is to slide away, combating a shudder with a snarl of 'Don't lay your filthy hands on me' but no, that's not his response, that's what's in Spain's mind, the memory of a crisp evening on the beach with only a fire and England to keep him company, the memory of a sweet love both of them agreed to forget about in the morning, the memory of skin pressed against skin and mouths working down in a slow, sensual manner.
What England really says is, “What bloody game are you playing at?” and it isn't a snarl but a tired sigh, and those eyes aren't full of conflicted hatred but of played amusement.
“I just wanted to visit my least favourite tourist.”
“How lovely of you to think of me.”
There's an uneasy pause, which England decides to fill with shifting over and kissing Spain, letting his tongue sweep sand off of his lips and his hands fit sweetly in the rise and fall of his breathing. He draws back, pressing his fingertips softly against Spain's chest, then lays back down on the sand and closes his eyes, mute.
Spain presses his fingers to his lips, then leans over and returns the favour, sweeping sand off every part of England and kissing him as soft and firm as he can muster, massaging and chafing the skin gently. He pulls away long enough to mutter about how tense England was and long enough to slip a bottle of oil out of his pocket, kissing him as he opens it and warms it between his fingers, return to the massage he had begun.
It never faded to something more than open mouth kisses and gentle unknotting of muscle, never moved to something more deep and desirable, never meant anything more than a tense moment.
“Thank you for the massage.”
When he could finally catch his breath.
“It isn't good to be tense on vacations, Inglaterra.”
He rolls his shoulders in response.
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG-13
For 50scenes' prompt 'Sand'.
In the shade of the trees, the sand felt cool and calm beneath his feet, somehow sturdier than the hot sand beside it that easily shifted and kicked up. England digs his toes into the dry sand and stretches, lays back with a small towel around his neck for cushioning and squints his eyes against the sun, hanging high in the sky. He closes his eyes and enjoys the feel of the cool breeze, enjoys the feel of the sand beneath him, enjoys the sudden warmth caging around him – wait. He opens his eyes and is swiftly met with a kiss.
He groans and shoves Spain off of him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and spitting into the sand. Spain grins in response, letting his fingers glide over the smooth taut skin as he moves away, fingernails dragging softly against scars and goosebumps alike. England's response is to slide away, combating a shudder with a snarl of 'Don't lay your filthy hands on me' but no, that's not his response, that's what's in Spain's mind, the memory of a crisp evening on the beach with only a fire and England to keep him company, the memory of a sweet love both of them agreed to forget about in the morning, the memory of skin pressed against skin and mouths working down in a slow, sensual manner.
What England really says is, “What bloody game are you playing at?” and it isn't a snarl but a tired sigh, and those eyes aren't full of conflicted hatred but of played amusement.
“I just wanted to visit my least favourite tourist.”
“How lovely of you to think of me.”
There's an uneasy pause, which England decides to fill with shifting over and kissing Spain, letting his tongue sweep sand off of his lips and his hands fit sweetly in the rise and fall of his breathing. He draws back, pressing his fingertips softly against Spain's chest, then lays back down on the sand and closes his eyes, mute.
Spain presses his fingers to his lips, then leans over and returns the favour, sweeping sand off every part of England and kissing him as soft and firm as he can muster, massaging and chafing the skin gently. He pulls away long enough to mutter about how tense England was and long enough to slip a bottle of oil out of his pocket, kissing him as he opens it and warms it between his fingers, return to the massage he had begun.
It never faded to something more than open mouth kisses and gentle unknotting of muscle, never moved to something more deep and desirable, never meant anything more than a tense moment.
“Thank you for the massage.”
When he could finally catch his breath.
“It isn't good to be tense on vacations, Inglaterra.”
He rolls his shoulders in response.