yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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metamorphosis2010-05-27 06:04 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-05-27 06:04 pm
Entry tags:
115;
Title: plucking at my harpstrings
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: G
For LJ's 50scenes' prompt 'Harp'.
Spain’s never known where he learned to play the harp. Whenever he picks one up, runs his hands along the feminine curve of the wood, he feels it tingle with long-forgotten memories that, try as he might, he can never grasp tight enough to remember. England laughs it off and tells him he doesn’t judge on his fancies – but he does - and if that’s what he preferred to sodomize to, well, who was to stop him? Spain frowns disapprovingly and returns to focusing on the harp, runs his fingers against the strings and picks out a little melody.
He’s startled when England reaches over and suddenly grabs his hand, stopping the music and letting the note ring in the air, leaning forward and against him, nested between his crossed legs. There’s a hair’s width between them, breathing slightly erratic and hearts pounding the same rhythm. England doesn’t loosen his grip on Spain’s hand; he just slides it to his wrist, rubs circles in the soft skin and feeling the scratchiness of rope that wasn’t there.
“Where did you learn that melody?”
England’s voice sounds like it’s caught in his throat. Spain’s is caught, too, and he doesn’t answer for a while – he just thinks about how close they are. England shakes his wrist angrily, eyebrows furrowing and repeats his question with irritation and surprise.
“It’s just something I heard when I was a child.”
They stay in that position for a moment, then England lets go of Spain’s wrist and slides away, slipping his finger against his mouth and frowning into it, thinking. Spain raises his eyebrow an inch then shrugs, returning to the melody.
It’s a soft and sweet one, something from lost childhood innocence and from first serenades and second kisses. He doesn’t notice when he begins to sing, but England does, and he doesn’t notice England get closer until he’s awkwardly straddled, with the scowling privateer half on his lap and the harp being nudged away by his elbow, and that’s what really gets his attention.
England trails his fingers across Spain’s jaw softly, presses a kiss to his temple, and murmurs two words:
“Never sing.”
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: G
For LJ's 50scenes' prompt 'Harp'.
Spain’s never known where he learned to play the harp. Whenever he picks one up, runs his hands along the feminine curve of the wood, he feels it tingle with long-forgotten memories that, try as he might, he can never grasp tight enough to remember. England laughs it off and tells him he doesn’t judge on his fancies – but he does - and if that’s what he preferred to sodomize to, well, who was to stop him? Spain frowns disapprovingly and returns to focusing on the harp, runs his fingers against the strings and picks out a little melody.
He’s startled when England reaches over and suddenly grabs his hand, stopping the music and letting the note ring in the air, leaning forward and against him, nested between his crossed legs. There’s a hair’s width between them, breathing slightly erratic and hearts pounding the same rhythm. England doesn’t loosen his grip on Spain’s hand; he just slides it to his wrist, rubs circles in the soft skin and feeling the scratchiness of rope that wasn’t there.
“Where did you learn that melody?”
England’s voice sounds like it’s caught in his throat. Spain’s is caught, too, and he doesn’t answer for a while – he just thinks about how close they are. England shakes his wrist angrily, eyebrows furrowing and repeats his question with irritation and surprise.
“It’s just something I heard when I was a child.”
They stay in that position for a moment, then England lets go of Spain’s wrist and slides away, slipping his finger against his mouth and frowning into it, thinking. Spain raises his eyebrow an inch then shrugs, returning to the melody.
It’s a soft and sweet one, something from lost childhood innocence and from first serenades and second kisses. He doesn’t notice when he begins to sing, but England does, and he doesn’t notice England get closer until he’s awkwardly straddled, with the scowling privateer half on his lap and the harp being nudged away by his elbow, and that’s what really gets his attention.
England trails his fingers across Spain’s jaw softly, presses a kiss to his temple, and murmurs two words:
“Never sing.”