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)
metamorphosis2010-05-27 05:56 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-05-27 05:56 pm
Entry tags:
114;
Title: Certainly Not
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: Not quite R, but it isn't very PG-13 either. PG-14?
Ripped off from another of my fics, an explanation of sorts for the reason why England knew the way to Spain's little Barcelona flat. If you know what I'm talking about, you've read that fic too much.
It started over drinks in Barcelona. England had been there, had ordered drinks and was already tipsy when Spain had arrived, still sticky from sea spray and salt. England had smiled and ordered a drink from him, and then they had drank until a misplaced touch sent them careening out of the pub, pulled them stumbling and laughing against a corner wall. Spain showed him the way, pressed flush against a wall and fingers pulling hair and tearing buttons along the way, bumping and bumbling and red and white and tan and breathing heavily against stone and doors until they rearched their destination. He fumbled for the key, voice faded into a keening whine for more, Inglaterra, more por favor between breaths and sour kisses.
Once inside, safe in a closed heaven and locked hell, they had made their way to the cream and white and gold and cold parlor, with clothes littering the trail and rings marking the way like breadcrumbs waiting to be picked up by crows. England’s hands searched and found the couch, turned and pressed Spain into it, discarded what was left of their clothing to the side and drew angry red lines down his sides and thighs. The cold left rising goose bumps and tight skin and the need to speed up the ministrations for heat, and not even the tight squeeze of the furniture could make them pause.
They awoke to each other’s breathing, with England pressed against the cold, wooden floor and Spain on the couch, his arm wrapped around his waist in a sloppy effort to hold him up. England jerked away and groaned at the sudden wave of nausea and a migraine, and Spain had laid there, perfectly fine being naked and cold, just to wake him up and chase the feeling of iron in his gut.
England left with his clothes and without another word.
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: Not quite R, but it isn't very PG-13 either. PG-14?
Ripped off from another of my fics, an explanation of sorts for the reason why England knew the way to Spain's little Barcelona flat. If you know what I'm talking about, you've read that fic too much.
It started over drinks in Barcelona. England had been there, had ordered drinks and was already tipsy when Spain had arrived, still sticky from sea spray and salt. England had smiled and ordered a drink from him, and then they had drank until a misplaced touch sent them careening out of the pub, pulled them stumbling and laughing against a corner wall. Spain showed him the way, pressed flush against a wall and fingers pulling hair and tearing buttons along the way, bumping and bumbling and red and white and tan and breathing heavily against stone and doors until they rearched their destination. He fumbled for the key, voice faded into a keening whine for more, Inglaterra, more por favor between breaths and sour kisses.
Once inside, safe in a closed heaven and locked hell, they had made their way to the cream and white and gold and cold parlor, with clothes littering the trail and rings marking the way like breadcrumbs waiting to be picked up by crows. England’s hands searched and found the couch, turned and pressed Spain into it, discarded what was left of their clothing to the side and drew angry red lines down his sides and thighs. The cold left rising goose bumps and tight skin and the need to speed up the ministrations for heat, and not even the tight squeeze of the furniture could make them pause.
They awoke to each other’s breathing, with England pressed against the cold, wooden floor and Spain on the couch, his arm wrapped around his waist in a sloppy effort to hold him up. England jerked away and groaned at the sudden wave of nausea and a migraine, and Spain had laid there, perfectly fine being naked and cold, just to wake him up and chase the feeling of iron in his gut.
England left with his clothes and without another word.