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)
metamorphosis2010-01-09 10:05 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-01-09 10:05 am
Entry tags:
21;
Title: the skin is just another easel
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG
It's feral, in a way.
The streaks of body paint that glisten until dry on their bodies; the laughter of Spain, the grumbles of England, and the mixed breath between them are heard in the former's studio. Spain smiles and paints a long, delicate line with his paintbrush; his smile widens at the sudden, shuddering breath taken. He paints these stripes, and motions to a mirror.
"El tigre!"
England growls and turns around - one could almost imagine the large fangs, the lashing tail, the tufts of fur close to those dangerous green eyes - and launches himself at the painter. The subject and easel now become the artist as every lick and movement sends Spain into ecstasy. England grimaces at the taste of the body paint, feeling as if it doesn't help his health, and continues on.
There's no rhyme or reason to the spirals and twirls and figures he makes, trailing his tongue along the sweet spots of Spain. Every shudder and moan is enough for him at the moment; pinned down as he was, Spain arches up to help the white shirt he'd been wearing before to fall. It's playful teasing - the mouth and tongue draw around the dark nipples, biting and grazing in delight - and the feral look never fades from the 'tiger'.
England gets off at last - Spain whines at him to get back there and finish what he started - and sits on a chair, content. Spain loosely puts back on his shirt, and glowers at the former. It wasn't fair, he mutters, and the look in his eyes becomes sharper as he tackles his (once more) easel.
This time it's his tongue, his grimacing at the taste, messing up the carefully laid stripes in favor of teasing and torturing the lonely island as he had done before. They part a moment, breath heavy, before Spain straddles England and delicately picks up a small pallet of the paint, licking his index finger and dipping it into the thick stuff. He pauses again, staring down at the flush and partly-angry nation before him, then begins to write in his slanted cursive, every sweep and stroke carefully planned and managed. England squirms - cold, cold, cold! - and his eyes imply he better be able to read this when he gets up. Spain chuckles in response and leans down, kisses him, parting to nuzzle his neck and breath softly onto the skin.
"Oh, it's nothing you've never heard from me, Inglaterra."
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG
It's feral, in a way.
The streaks of body paint that glisten until dry on their bodies; the laughter of Spain, the grumbles of England, and the mixed breath between them are heard in the former's studio. Spain smiles and paints a long, delicate line with his paintbrush; his smile widens at the sudden, shuddering breath taken. He paints these stripes, and motions to a mirror.
"El tigre!"
England growls and turns around - one could almost imagine the large fangs, the lashing tail, the tufts of fur close to those dangerous green eyes - and launches himself at the painter. The subject and easel now become the artist as every lick and movement sends Spain into ecstasy. England grimaces at the taste of the body paint, feeling as if it doesn't help his health, and continues on.
There's no rhyme or reason to the spirals and twirls and figures he makes, trailing his tongue along the sweet spots of Spain. Every shudder and moan is enough for him at the moment; pinned down as he was, Spain arches up to help the white shirt he'd been wearing before to fall. It's playful teasing - the mouth and tongue draw around the dark nipples, biting and grazing in delight - and the feral look never fades from the 'tiger'.
England gets off at last - Spain whines at him to get back there and finish what he started - and sits on a chair, content. Spain loosely puts back on his shirt, and glowers at the former. It wasn't fair, he mutters, and the look in his eyes becomes sharper as he tackles his (once more) easel.
This time it's his tongue, his grimacing at the taste, messing up the carefully laid stripes in favor of teasing and torturing the lonely island as he had done before. They part a moment, breath heavy, before Spain straddles England and delicately picks up a small pallet of the paint, licking his index finger and dipping it into the thick stuff. He pauses again, staring down at the flush and partly-angry nation before him, then begins to write in his slanted cursive, every sweep and stroke carefully planned and managed. England squirms - cold, cold, cold! - and his eyes imply he better be able to read this when he gets up. Spain chuckles in response and leans down, kisses him, parting to nuzzle his neck and breath softly onto the skin.
"Oh, it's nothing you've never heard from me, Inglaterra."