[ ficlet ] Play with Shadows [ Greece/Spain, France/Spain ]
Title: Play With Shadows
Author: frostberryjam
Rated: PG, although some might call it PG-13.
Pairing: (established) Greece/Spain, France/Spain.
Word Count: 500 words.
Warnings: Vague/implied sex.
Summary: A little pretending never hurt anyone, did it?
Author Notes: Written for chromatic_coma for a fic meme, although… I’m really, really sure this probably wasn’t what she wanted/was expecting at all. She (blindly) picked; ‘accepting your s/o is attracted to someone else’.
Also, it seems I’m without internet for the time being, so… yeah.
I'm sorry if the bad translations hurt your eyes.
“It’s okay,” Greece strokes the column of his throat with gentle fingertips. They moil their way down to his shoulders to ease the tension gathered there. He has magic fingers, warm and textured, prying each muscle loose until Spain is leaning back against him, utterly lax.
Yet he shakes his head. “No.”
There’s no reply for a beat, only the faint stirring of the other nation’s breath against the back of his head. They’re laying on the bed in Spain’s Barcelona apartment, fan lazily swirling above them, still fully clothed, with their shoes tossed in a pile beside the doorway. The room is quiet aside from the whine of whirling fan blades.
“Why not?” Greece asks when the moment has almost stretched past awkward.
Although there is no censure in those two words, a guilty weight drags still from the base of Spain‘s throat to his gut. “It’s not right.”
“I don’t mind.” The adumbrated ‘so why should you?’ is succinct.
With a huff, Spain tries to turn around but a hand on his shoulder denies him. “Are you sure--”
“Would you do the same for me?”
Spain‘s tongue falls cementitious against the floor of his mouth, mind sweeping flicker-fast blur of image bleeding into next, because that‘s how he remembers history now a days, voluble chaos. Turkey. Not that he says it, of course, that’d be like… that’d be like saying ‘America’ to England, or ‘Holy Roman Empire’ to North Italy.
The delay between hesitation and a sluggish tongue brings forth a somewhat unexpected answer. “Yes.”
Greece nuzzles the frail skin beneath his ear before Spain can examine his own answer. “Shut your eyes.”
Common sense gives a final, moribund whine before Spain capitulates to what he secretly wants. And closes his eyes.
It starts off easy, slow. Greece lays him down on the bed and unbuttons his shirt, each calloused finger brushing against the skin underneath, followed by the press of lips and words.
“J'aime ta peau.”
I love your skin.
“J'aime ton goût.”
I love your taste.
“J'aime ton sourire.”
I love your smile.
A fine tremble starts. Spain covers his face with an arm, blocking out the sunlight against his closed eyelids. The cool darkness aids, abets. He breathes with relief.
“France…”
In reality, Greece slides jeans from lean thighs, strokes the hollows of hips with his thumbs and continues to play along.
He knows. What it’s like. Wanting something that hurts you until the hurt of not having it exceeds the pain. So he only smiles like a shadow when Spain’s fingers curve into his hair, seeking blond locks, tightening when they don’t find any.
“Je t'aime.” Greece murmurs, and the fingers relax.
Author: frostberryjam
Rated: PG, although some might call it PG-13.
Pairing: (established) Greece/Spain, France/Spain.
Word Count: 500 words.
Warnings: Vague/implied sex.
Summary: A little pretending never hurt anyone, did it?
Author Notes: Written for chromatic_coma for a fic meme, although… I’m really, really sure this probably wasn’t what she wanted/was expecting at all. She (blindly) picked; ‘accepting your s/o is attracted to someone else’.
Also, it seems I’m without internet for the time being, so… yeah.
I'm sorry if the bad translations hurt your eyes.
“It’s okay,” Greece strokes the column of his throat with gentle fingertips. They moil their way down to his shoulders to ease the tension gathered there. He has magic fingers, warm and textured, prying each muscle loose until Spain is leaning back against him, utterly lax.
Yet he shakes his head. “No.”
There’s no reply for a beat, only the faint stirring of the other nation’s breath against the back of his head. They’re laying on the bed in Spain’s Barcelona apartment, fan lazily swirling above them, still fully clothed, with their shoes tossed in a pile beside the doorway. The room is quiet aside from the whine of whirling fan blades.
“Why not?” Greece asks when the moment has almost stretched past awkward.
Although there is no censure in those two words, a guilty weight drags still from the base of Spain‘s throat to his gut. “It’s not right.”
“I don’t mind.” The adumbrated ‘so why should you?’ is succinct.
With a huff, Spain tries to turn around but a hand on his shoulder denies him. “Are you sure--”
“Would you do the same for me?”
Spain‘s tongue falls cementitious against the floor of his mouth, mind sweeping flicker-fast blur of image bleeding into next, because that‘s how he remembers history now a days, voluble chaos. Turkey. Not that he says it, of course, that’d be like… that’d be like saying ‘America’ to England, or ‘Holy Roman Empire’ to North Italy.
The delay between hesitation and a sluggish tongue brings forth a somewhat unexpected answer. “Yes.”
Greece nuzzles the frail skin beneath his ear before Spain can examine his own answer. “Shut your eyes.”
Common sense gives a final, moribund whine before Spain capitulates to what he secretly wants. And closes his eyes.
It starts off easy, slow. Greece lays him down on the bed and unbuttons his shirt, each calloused finger brushing against the skin underneath, followed by the press of lips and words.
“J'aime ta peau.”
I love your skin.
“J'aime ton goût.”
I love your taste.
“J'aime ton sourire.”
I love your smile.
A fine tremble starts. Spain covers his face with an arm, blocking out the sunlight against his closed eyelids. The cool darkness aids, abets. He breathes with relief.
“France…”
In reality, Greece slides jeans from lean thighs, strokes the hollows of hips with his thumbs and continues to play along.
He knows. What it’s like. Wanting something that hurts you until the hurt of not having it exceeds the pain. So he only smiles like a shadow when Spain’s fingers curve into his hair, seeking blond locks, tightening when they don’t find any.
“Je t'aime.” Greece murmurs, and the fingers relax.