Carnation (PT 2)
anonymous
November 26 2010, 16:56:06 UTC
Roma doesn’t know. In all honestly, she has no idea of what she was intending to do this afternoon, other than attempt to beat the mirror for a day. She sits at one of the kitchen chairs and crosses her legs as pretty as she can, showing off her shoes and brand new stockings. I was going to stay home, her brain supplies. What comes out, instead is, “I thought I could call France.” She barely has a second to regret those words it before Spain’s eyes turn not cold, but hot.
“France?” She repeats, looking from disbelieving to angry to utterly heartbroken, all in one. Spain tries to hold it in, Roma knows, but every emotion she has always ends up showing in her face. Her smile is tight. “I didn’t know you got along so well. He’ll be pleased to see you this pretty.”
“That pervert is pleased about seeing anyone pretty.” Roma mutters, angry at Spain and at herself, but the venom dies as soon as she notices that Spain is right behind her chair and leaning in to hug her from behind, breasts warm and soft pressed against Roma’s back.
Spain’s words are almost a whisper. “Then why do you want to see him?”
It was not a good decision to tell that lie, Roma decides. But she’s angry and frustrated and this skirt is too short and right now she wishes she could stop thinking about Venezia’s generous bust and how these clothes would look better on her, anyway, but maybe if she ate all of that arroz she’d get curvier and fix it and Spain wouldn’t need to call her sister so often. She’s pretty sure some of those thoughts have spilled from her lips while she was thinking, and she hopes it was just the rice thing, because at least the love of food she can justify.
Spain’s lips are hot against her cheek, and her voice hesitant. “Venezia?”
Roma wants to die.
She firmly intends to get off the chair and walk back to her room, or maybe, if her fury is big enough when she walks past the door, go see France, England or even the potato bastard. Anyone, anyone she can lie to properly. Spain’s grip keeps her on the chair despite her blush, and Roma thinks that at the very least the bitch can’t see her face. “But I only have eyes for you, Roma.”
“France?” She repeats, looking from disbelieving to angry to utterly heartbroken, all in one. Spain tries to hold it in, Roma knows, but every emotion she has always ends up showing in her face. Her smile is tight. “I didn’t know you got along so well. He’ll be pleased to see you this pretty.”
“That pervert is pleased about seeing anyone pretty.” Roma mutters, angry at Spain and at herself, but the venom dies as soon as she notices that Spain is right behind her chair and leaning in to hug her from behind, breasts warm and soft pressed against Roma’s back.
Spain’s words are almost a whisper. “Then why do you want to see him?”
It was not a good decision to tell that lie, Roma decides. But she’s angry and frustrated and this skirt is too short and right now she wishes she could stop thinking about Venezia’s generous bust and how these clothes would look better on her, anyway, but maybe if she ate all of that arroz she’d get curvier and fix it and Spain wouldn’t need to call her sister so often. She’s pretty sure some of those thoughts have spilled from her lips while she was thinking, and she hopes it was just the rice thing, because at least the love of food she can justify.
Spain’s lips are hot against her cheek, and her voice hesitant. “Venezia?”
Roma wants to die.
She firmly intends to get off the chair and walk back to her room, or maybe, if her fury is big enough when she walks past the door, go see France, England or even the potato bastard. Anyone, anyone she can lie to properly. Spain’s grip keeps her on the chair despite her blush, and Roma thinks that at the very least the bitch can’t see her face. “But I only have eyes for you, Roma.”
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