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)
metamorphosis2010-07-09 02:43 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-07-09 02:43 am
Entry tags:
136;
Title: Canasta
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG-13
As he peels off the hot leather glove and presses his nose to the sweaty palm, Spain realizes something: with everything that has changed between them, the lines on England's hand have stayed the same. So he smiles into the moist skin and presses kisses to his lines of fate and lines of love, his line of life and his line of health. England's heart thunders with his pulse (Spain can feel it under his breath) and Spain turns the hand over, drags his lips across the back, and leaves trails of butterfly kisses along his wrist and along his fingers. He licks England's fingertips and kisses those, too, makes the fingers curl around his own and brings his hand up. Spain smiles with a certain charm, and kisses England's hand as soft as a ritual of courtship. England doesn't make a sound or a move because if he did, that would only further betray his feelings as much as the trembling of his hand, cupped in Spain's, does.
It's a feeling that stretches and thins across his skin, that encases him in ice and snow. It is a cold fury, unlike his fire that flickers and flares up to burn the roofs of the sky, and it makes him grow still and sends warmth flooding into his veins. Spain only smiles, bows out of the courtesy of hand kissing, and takes his leave, moving quickly if noisily across the marble floor, the clicking of his boots echoing the emptied hall.
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG-13
As he peels off the hot leather glove and presses his nose to the sweaty palm, Spain realizes something: with everything that has changed between them, the lines on England's hand have stayed the same. So he smiles into the moist skin and presses kisses to his lines of fate and lines of love, his line of life and his line of health. England's heart thunders with his pulse (Spain can feel it under his breath) and Spain turns the hand over, drags his lips across the back, and leaves trails of butterfly kisses along his wrist and along his fingers. He licks England's fingertips and kisses those, too, makes the fingers curl around his own and brings his hand up. Spain smiles with a certain charm, and kisses England's hand as soft as a ritual of courtship. England doesn't make a sound or a move because if he did, that would only further betray his feelings as much as the trembling of his hand, cupped in Spain's, does.
It's a feeling that stretches and thins across his skin, that encases him in ice and snow. It is a cold fury, unlike his fire that flickers and flares up to burn the roofs of the sky, and it makes him grow still and sends warmth flooding into his veins. Spain only smiles, bows out of the courtesy of hand kissing, and takes his leave, moving quickly if noisily across the marble floor, the clicking of his boots echoing the emptied hall.