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)
metamorphosis2010-04-17 04:34 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-04-17 04:34 pm
Entry tags:
71;
Title: Salt Water
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG-13
It's foggy and dreary and he honestly doesn't know how much he can stand of it. Peering into the darkness, he guesses there's abut two feet of sight in front of him. It's a pain to sail through it, but what choice do they have? They were ordered to return to Barcelona, 'inmediatamente '.
Spain sighs and lowers the spyglass, running his fingers over the fancy gold dragon etched into the crimson surface, lips quirking in remembrance of the Chinese trader that sold him it. It had been a surprisingly cheap buy, actually – supposedly it was cursed with bad luck. He had God on his side; there was no way this 'bad luck' could affect him.
That is, until he sees the white hull of a ship passing dangerously close and cannons firing out. Something lands in front of him – no, someone – and it's England, smiling.
At the end of the fight it isn't Spain who's captured but England, wrists bound by rope and ankles the same way. He stares defiantly, not giving an inch – not even when Spain kisses him. He bites Spain, then, draws blood and laughs in his face, receives Spanish insults and swift kicks as punishment.
He's left to lie on the cold, awful wooden floor, with the water rising just the slightest.
The next night, Spain stays with him, holds England's head in his lap and kisses him, mutters sweet somethings into his skin and his ear, layers his skin with bites and nips and broken, beaten promises. He swears he'll make up for this, every last inch, and England just listens and holds his tongue because it's better than getting salt water into his nose while he's trying to sleep. Even if that means having to sleep with the dirty dog.
Besides, Spain's really very warm and it's rather pleasant, until he can feel and hear Spain's heartbeat through his stomach, matching his own, making his speed up and turn his head into the wooly fabric and just breathe, hating it. It isn't fair that Spain can make him feel this way – this warm, sticky feeling – and it isn't fair that he feels it, anyways. He hates Spain, he wants to kill him, he wants him.
He wants him dead, he mentally rephrases, he wants him on the bed, writing and gasping, tongue dancing and-- dead, he wants him dead and gone any nothing more. He throws the delusions to bad humours, thinks he should bleed himself later when he's alone. He reminds himself to ask Spain to leave something sharp.
England's mind wanders back to Spain and he nuzzles into his stomach, pleased at the sudden tenseness and the barely audible gasp. He realises he's brushing against something else, too, but doesn't mind; he continues, trying to scrape his binds off. It's easy to control Spain like this, the passionate and overzealous fool he was. He licks the buttons on his shirt, teasing his tongue through the gaps and chuckling when it meets skin and unbuttons the shirt as far as he can reach with his mouth.
Spain makes an offhand comment at how good England is with his tongue, and it's enough to jerk him back to reality and to turn his head again, away this time, staring at the wall in an effort to ignore the semi-hardness under his cheek.
“I hate you,” he says finally, cracking the silence and using his voice, so hoarse and tired, “I really, really do.”
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG-13
It's foggy and dreary and he honestly doesn't know how much he can stand of it. Peering into the darkness, he guesses there's abut two feet of sight in front of him. It's a pain to sail through it, but what choice do they have? They were ordered to return to Barcelona, 'inmediatamente '.
Spain sighs and lowers the spyglass, running his fingers over the fancy gold dragon etched into the crimson surface, lips quirking in remembrance of the Chinese trader that sold him it. It had been a surprisingly cheap buy, actually – supposedly it was cursed with bad luck. He had God on his side; there was no way this 'bad luck' could affect him.
That is, until he sees the white hull of a ship passing dangerously close and cannons firing out. Something lands in front of him – no, someone – and it's England, smiling.
At the end of the fight it isn't Spain who's captured but England, wrists bound by rope and ankles the same way. He stares defiantly, not giving an inch – not even when Spain kisses him. He bites Spain, then, draws blood and laughs in his face, receives Spanish insults and swift kicks as punishment.
He's left to lie on the cold, awful wooden floor, with the water rising just the slightest.
The next night, Spain stays with him, holds England's head in his lap and kisses him, mutters sweet somethings into his skin and his ear, layers his skin with bites and nips and broken, beaten promises. He swears he'll make up for this, every last inch, and England just listens and holds his tongue because it's better than getting salt water into his nose while he's trying to sleep. Even if that means having to sleep with the dirty dog.
Besides, Spain's really very warm and it's rather pleasant, until he can feel and hear Spain's heartbeat through his stomach, matching his own, making his speed up and turn his head into the wooly fabric and just breathe, hating it. It isn't fair that Spain can make him feel this way – this warm, sticky feeling – and it isn't fair that he feels it, anyways. He hates Spain, he wants to kill him, he wants him.
He wants him dead, he mentally rephrases, he wants him on the bed, writing and gasping, tongue dancing and-- dead, he wants him dead and gone any nothing more. He throws the delusions to bad humours, thinks he should bleed himself later when he's alone. He reminds himself to ask Spain to leave something sharp.
England's mind wanders back to Spain and he nuzzles into his stomach, pleased at the sudden tenseness and the barely audible gasp. He realises he's brushing against something else, too, but doesn't mind; he continues, trying to scrape his binds off. It's easy to control Spain like this, the passionate and overzealous fool he was. He licks the buttons on his shirt, teasing his tongue through the gaps and chuckling when it meets skin and unbuttons the shirt as far as he can reach with his mouth.
Spain makes an offhand comment at how good England is with his tongue, and it's enough to jerk him back to reality and to turn his head again, away this time, staring at the wall in an effort to ignore the semi-hardness under his cheek.
“I hate you,” he says finally, cracking the silence and using his voice, so hoarse and tired, “I really, really do.”