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)
metamorphosis2010-06-01 05:19 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-06-01 05:19 pm
Entry tags:
122;
Title: Dance For Me
Characters: Turkey, Egypt
Rating: PG-13
Egypt hates the way the cloth feels – sheer and silky, barely there and full of air – against his hips and legs, how it covers next to nothing and shows what it should hide. He moves in a graceful and practiced gait, closes his eyes against the hungry stares and the sweet-smelling candles of the room lush with pillows. The cloth feels tight against his chest when he stretches so he resigns to the loose movements of Turkish dancing, feeling waves of red at this embarrassment and anger at this position. Behind the curtain of smoke, Turkey watches and drums his fingers on his thigh, smiles through the tight black mask and pulls it down only to suck another breath of the opiate-induced oxygen.
When the shimmering music ends and the musicians leave, Egypt leaves too – to tries to, stopped only by only a gloved hand grabbing his wrist and pulling him away from the crowd. Turkey lifts his hand and presses a cloth kiss to the inside of his wrist, reaches out and fingers the golden earrings that hang free of the keffiyah usually worn but now shorn, revealing the short brown hair covered in gold dust and sand. Turkey pulls his mask down and kisses Egypt, kisses until he’s out of breath and out of clothing.
Being the oldest – or looking the oldest of the group of them under the Ottoman Empire, he guesses – gives him responsibilities; among such were cooking and cleaning, like a regular servant, as well as providing entertainment. Serbia did as well, and Bulgaria grumbled but complied, yet Egypt was called more often and bore down more often. He hates being Turkey’s favorite, though it protected him from certain lower duties, like mucking out stables, it arose worse moments. Pressed against the bed, hidden by smoke and mirrors, Egypt closes his eyes and lets the tip of the hookah’s reed press into his mouth, takes a deep breath of it and holds it in, then blows it out in Turkey’s face and delivers a fake smile of good conduct when the empire frowns and waves it away.
He makes him dance again for that, except without the comfort of music to guide him and all by heart, not by string.
Characters: Turkey, Egypt
Rating: PG-13
Egypt hates the way the cloth feels – sheer and silky, barely there and full of air – against his hips and legs, how it covers next to nothing and shows what it should hide. He moves in a graceful and practiced gait, closes his eyes against the hungry stares and the sweet-smelling candles of the room lush with pillows. The cloth feels tight against his chest when he stretches so he resigns to the loose movements of Turkish dancing, feeling waves of red at this embarrassment and anger at this position. Behind the curtain of smoke, Turkey watches and drums his fingers on his thigh, smiles through the tight black mask and pulls it down only to suck another breath of the opiate-induced oxygen.
When the shimmering music ends and the musicians leave, Egypt leaves too – to tries to, stopped only by only a gloved hand grabbing his wrist and pulling him away from the crowd. Turkey lifts his hand and presses a cloth kiss to the inside of his wrist, reaches out and fingers the golden earrings that hang free of the keffiyah usually worn but now shorn, revealing the short brown hair covered in gold dust and sand. Turkey pulls his mask down and kisses Egypt, kisses until he’s out of breath and out of clothing.
Being the oldest – or looking the oldest of the group of them under the Ottoman Empire, he guesses – gives him responsibilities; among such were cooking and cleaning, like a regular servant, as well as providing entertainment. Serbia did as well, and Bulgaria grumbled but complied, yet Egypt was called more often and bore down more often. He hates being Turkey’s favorite, though it protected him from certain lower duties, like mucking out stables, it arose worse moments. Pressed against the bed, hidden by smoke and mirrors, Egypt closes his eyes and lets the tip of the hookah’s reed press into his mouth, takes a deep breath of it and holds it in, then blows it out in Turkey’s face and delivers a fake smile of good conduct when the empire frowns and waves it away.
He makes him dance again for that, except without the comfort of music to guide him and all by heart, not by string.