Don't Look
This was embarrassing; Spain presses his lips together and stares into the mirror. He sees the laughing green eyes behind him, darker than his own, and the mouth moves but without sound to punctuate the meaning.
"Undress."
"Don't look."
His reply is quiet, and he begins to unclasp the various buttons on the coat. He checks if England's watching, and is surprised to find the young man averting his eyes, sighing in resignation. Spain smiles - his first victory of the night, and he's determined to win many more - and continues.
England sighs and shifts, bored. He wonders, momentarily, if Spain's done yet; he glances into the mirror, and turns red as the blouse drops, slow and deliberate, inching its way down to show the expanse of rich Spanish skin. In the candlelight, this is the Spanish gold he longs to have in his hands, spilling onto the floor and between his fingers. As close as he is, he resists the urge to reach out and caress the rich skin. He tears his eyes away from the sight, reluctant now.
Spain smiles at the staring; another victory, as far as he was concerned. He undoes the buckles, shakes his hips to some unknown rhythm. He catches England's eye - the latter doesn't want to look, and yet he can't tear his eyes away from the scene, the careful and measured sway of the hips and the trousers dropping casual to the floor - and reddens despite his plan of action.
It comes to a slow and grinding halt as Spain sits on the bed, next to England, and undoes his boots. He throws them carelessly on the floor - England licks his lips - and stretches; only in his underwear, now. A sadistic smile works its way to both their faces and they share a mutual interest in each other. Spain smiles, and strokes England's face.
"Desnúdate."
A tense silence fill the room; England furrows his brows at the word and Spain laughs, then tugs on the former's clothes.
"Desnúdate, Inglaterra! Por favor~?"
The words, along with the tugging, leads him to think of the implications. He was the captor here; he was the one making the rules to the game. A challenging look from Spain - 'Are you afraid, Inglaterra?' it said - puts him into motion and he stands in front of the mirror.
"Don't look."
Spain smiles, and fakes a look to the left. Out of the corner of his eye he watches the jacket slide off lazily; the blouse follows, quick and unheeding. Hesitation only appears at the buckle of his belt; England undoes it, slowly, and uncertainly shakes the trousers off. Spain watches the hips shaky, slowly revealing the pale legs of the man (no - boy) before him. The boots follow after, carelessly tossed besides Spain's, and England turns halfway.
The candlelight makes the skin, paler than his own, glow with the healthiness that seemed to be wavering these days. This was the ivory that many sought; the hair, now unburdened from the hat, it shines like the gold he longs to have. As soon as England sits down, awkward at having lost the advantage he had held before, Spain reaches out - hesitation is lost; resistance is nothing - and grips the golden threads, shining so dangerously.
Skin presses against skin and it's a flurry of activity; each of them trying, trying, trying to grab the gold they long for, the gold they must have, that they'd promised to have. Lips are misplaced and move, confusedly, over the exposed flesh of the other, trying to get the upper hand. Spain's had far more practice with this; after a few minutes he captures the other's lips, surprised at the softness of them. They part for a breath of air; Spain's straddling England. Beads of sweat make their way down each of their bodies. A smile, and soft laugh, and Spain goes down again.
The experience's sexual, sensual; soft, pleasing kisses and touches makes England writhe and arch and moan like he's never done before. His eyes close halfway, hazy in such pleasure, then shoot open as Spain bites, softly, at one of his nipples. He turns his head slightly and the bastard makes his way up, kissing and licking the nape of his neck; he responds by stretching it, eyes closing-
Shame fills him as he sees himself in the mirror, eyes opening the moment they settle on the piece; flushed, lustful, wanting and needing the passion the country offers gladly. Spain glances over, too; a smug grin appears on that face. He laughs again and lays down on the lean teen below him, nuzzling and purring all the while. England tenses - oh, God, this was-- this was-- this wasn't right, it was wrong but it felt so right...! - and feels even more shame at the mewls that come from his parted lips, the wicked moans and groans of the slow rhythm.
"Do you like what you see, Inglaterra?"
The question catches him off guard and he takes a moment to breath (learn to breath again, God damn it all). The mirror watches; he watches it back. Spain's eyes glint mercilessly and he continues without hesitation. England bites his lip and arches, closes his eyes and turns his head away from the mirror.
Fingers work off the underwear from the both of them; still shame-faced, England listens to the sweet nothings and dirty words whispered with soft lips pressed against heated flesh. He doesn't understand a word of it - that dirty, Godforsaken language - yet feels his stomach clench at every phrase. Shame cast aside the moment an oddly talented mouth wraps around his arousal, England shudders in ecstasy. He pulls Spain's hair, twisting the curls around his fingers, bringing him down harder, faster, moaning and - he'd never admit it - whimpering when Spain yanks away with a wince.
"A-ah... N-now, say it, Inglaterra... Say 'Conquístame'."
The meaning of the words registers in his mind - 'Conquer me' - and England mutters a feeble refusal. That foul language would never touch his mouth. The lips of the country who spoke it, made it - foul, foul, all of it - purse and whistle in disappointment. Antagonizingly, the kisses and pleasures return; sensual, sexual, pleasurable. England arches and pants; he's close when Spain stops again and grins against his arousal.
"I-I... I said... say 'Conquístame'. 'Conquístame, por favor, mi conquistador'...!"
"O-over m-my--" Gritted teeth, groan and arch. "--my dead body!"
"That... could be arranged."
They struggle for a moment; England fights as Spain pins his hands down. A gasp is extracted as Spain teases an earlobe with his tongue. Another shudder ripples through England; a line of spit drips from the side of his mouth. When it ends, they're panting in unison - Spain's eyes shine with determination and domination, passion and want; England's eyes shine with shame and weakness, hatred and want. Despite his words, the implied meaning that he wouldn't do a thing to finish until England spoke the words he wanted to hear, he continues his careful climb.
They tangle and intertwine, grind and moan. A rhythm's established - achingly slow, England complains in the heat of the moment, and regrets the words later - and touches and affections flourish. Words are exchanged in mother tongues ('I want you. I need you.' 'Te deseo! Te necesito!') and are later refuted as false by pride and shame; confessions reveal otherwise, eyes closed and praying for forgiveness from God.
At the moment, though, it's soft. Exploration continues, experimentation weakens, and after some work England caves first (if unwillingly) to the gentle and almost loving touches. Spain follows after, rocking his hips in a final push against England. They lay together for a moment; weak smiles are exchanged, a dull ember alighting in their eyes. Spain smiles and pulls out carefully, not wanting to hurt the beautiful country under him, and lays on top of him. England feebly scowls and tangles into the earthy-smelling hair of his counterpart.
They glance into the mirror, and see their faces; flushed, smiling, complacent in the afterglow of sex. Hands explore each other's hair as they watch themselves in the mirror; Spain tilts his head and watches his reflection do the same. He chuckles and England joins him in laughing. Spain drifts off to sleep, in the middle of drawing circles on the island nation's shoulder.
The cross hanging across from the bed shines with sin, but neither of them care at the moment.
-
Translations;
Desnúdate - Undress
Conquístame - Conquer me
Te deseo - I desire you
Te necessito - I need you
Merci to Sara_rojo for all the Spanish help! ♥
"Undress."
"Don't look."
His reply is quiet, and he begins to unclasp the various buttons on the coat. He checks if England's watching, and is surprised to find the young man averting his eyes, sighing in resignation. Spain smiles - his first victory of the night, and he's determined to win many more - and continues.
England sighs and shifts, bored. He wonders, momentarily, if Spain's done yet; he glances into the mirror, and turns red as the blouse drops, slow and deliberate, inching its way down to show the expanse of rich Spanish skin. In the candlelight, this is the Spanish gold he longs to have in his hands, spilling onto the floor and between his fingers. As close as he is, he resists the urge to reach out and caress the rich skin. He tears his eyes away from the sight, reluctant now.
Spain smiles at the staring; another victory, as far as he was concerned. He undoes the buckles, shakes his hips to some unknown rhythm. He catches England's eye - the latter doesn't want to look, and yet he can't tear his eyes away from the scene, the careful and measured sway of the hips and the trousers dropping casual to the floor - and reddens despite his plan of action.
It comes to a slow and grinding halt as Spain sits on the bed, next to England, and undoes his boots. He throws them carelessly on the floor - England licks his lips - and stretches; only in his underwear, now. A sadistic smile works its way to both their faces and they share a mutual interest in each other. Spain smiles, and strokes England's face.
"Desnúdate."
A tense silence fill the room; England furrows his brows at the word and Spain laughs, then tugs on the former's clothes.
"Desnúdate, Inglaterra! Por favor~?"
The words, along with the tugging, leads him to think of the implications. He was the captor here; he was the one making the rules to the game. A challenging look from Spain - 'Are you afraid, Inglaterra?' it said - puts him into motion and he stands in front of the mirror.
"Don't look."
Spain smiles, and fakes a look to the left. Out of the corner of his eye he watches the jacket slide off lazily; the blouse follows, quick and unheeding. Hesitation only appears at the buckle of his belt; England undoes it, slowly, and uncertainly shakes the trousers off. Spain watches the hips shaky, slowly revealing the pale legs of the man (no - boy) before him. The boots follow after, carelessly tossed besides Spain's, and England turns halfway.
The candlelight makes the skin, paler than his own, glow with the healthiness that seemed to be wavering these days. This was the ivory that many sought; the hair, now unburdened from the hat, it shines like the gold he longs to have. As soon as England sits down, awkward at having lost the advantage he had held before, Spain reaches out - hesitation is lost; resistance is nothing - and grips the golden threads, shining so dangerously.
Skin presses against skin and it's a flurry of activity; each of them trying, trying, trying to grab the gold they long for, the gold they must have, that they'd promised to have. Lips are misplaced and move, confusedly, over the exposed flesh of the other, trying to get the upper hand. Spain's had far more practice with this; after a few minutes he captures the other's lips, surprised at the softness of them. They part for a breath of air; Spain's straddling England. Beads of sweat make their way down each of their bodies. A smile, and soft laugh, and Spain goes down again.
The experience's sexual, sensual; soft, pleasing kisses and touches makes England writhe and arch and moan like he's never done before. His eyes close halfway, hazy in such pleasure, then shoot open as Spain bites, softly, at one of his nipples. He turns his head slightly and the bastard makes his way up, kissing and licking the nape of his neck; he responds by stretching it, eyes closing-
Shame fills him as he sees himself in the mirror, eyes opening the moment they settle on the piece; flushed, lustful, wanting and needing the passion the country offers gladly. Spain glances over, too; a smug grin appears on that face. He laughs again and lays down on the lean teen below him, nuzzling and purring all the while. England tenses - oh, God, this was-- this was-- this wasn't right, it was wrong but it felt so right...! - and feels even more shame at the mewls that come from his parted lips, the wicked moans and groans of the slow rhythm.
"Do you like what you see, Inglaterra?"
The question catches him off guard and he takes a moment to breath (learn to breath again, God damn it all). The mirror watches; he watches it back. Spain's eyes glint mercilessly and he continues without hesitation. England bites his lip and arches, closes his eyes and turns his head away from the mirror.
Fingers work off the underwear from the both of them; still shame-faced, England listens to the sweet nothings and dirty words whispered with soft lips pressed against heated flesh. He doesn't understand a word of it - that dirty, Godforsaken language - yet feels his stomach clench at every phrase. Shame cast aside the moment an oddly talented mouth wraps around his arousal, England shudders in ecstasy. He pulls Spain's hair, twisting the curls around his fingers, bringing him down harder, faster, moaning and - he'd never admit it - whimpering when Spain yanks away with a wince.
"A-ah... N-now, say it, Inglaterra... Say 'Conquístame'."
The meaning of the words registers in his mind - 'Conquer me' - and England mutters a feeble refusal. That foul language would never touch his mouth. The lips of the country who spoke it, made it - foul, foul, all of it - purse and whistle in disappointment. Antagonizingly, the kisses and pleasures return; sensual, sexual, pleasurable. England arches and pants; he's close when Spain stops again and grins against his arousal.
"I-I... I said... say 'Conquístame'. 'Conquístame, por favor, mi conquistador'...!"
"O-over m-my--" Gritted teeth, groan and arch. "--my dead body!"
"That... could be arranged."
They struggle for a moment; England fights as Spain pins his hands down. A gasp is extracted as Spain teases an earlobe with his tongue. Another shudder ripples through England; a line of spit drips from the side of his mouth. When it ends, they're panting in unison - Spain's eyes shine with determination and domination, passion and want; England's eyes shine with shame and weakness, hatred and want. Despite his words, the implied meaning that he wouldn't do a thing to finish until England spoke the words he wanted to hear, he continues his careful climb.
They tangle and intertwine, grind and moan. A rhythm's established - achingly slow, England complains in the heat of the moment, and regrets the words later - and touches and affections flourish. Words are exchanged in mother tongues ('I want you. I need you.' 'Te deseo! Te necesito!') and are later refuted as false by pride and shame; confessions reveal otherwise, eyes closed and praying for forgiveness from God.
At the moment, though, it's soft. Exploration continues, experimentation weakens, and after some work England caves first (if unwillingly) to the gentle and almost loving touches. Spain follows after, rocking his hips in a final push against England. They lay together for a moment; weak smiles are exchanged, a dull ember alighting in their eyes. Spain smiles and pulls out carefully, not wanting to hurt the beautiful country under him, and lays on top of him. England feebly scowls and tangles into the earthy-smelling hair of his counterpart.
They glance into the mirror, and see their faces; flushed, smiling, complacent in the afterglow of sex. Hands explore each other's hair as they watch themselves in the mirror; Spain tilts his head and watches his reflection do the same. He chuckles and England joins him in laughing. Spain drifts off to sleep, in the middle of drawing circles on the island nation's shoulder.
The cross hanging across from the bed shines with sin, but neither of them care at the moment.
-
Translations;
Desnúdate - Undress
Conquístame - Conquer me
Te deseo - I desire you
Te necessito - I need you
Merci to Sara_rojo for all the Spanish help! ♥