![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
[Fanfic] Not another one
Title: Not another one
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tikula
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~230
Genre: humor
Characters: Bulgaria, Romania
Pairings: Bulgaria/Romania
Summary: Romania had a dream. It sounds just as dangerous as it is.
Notes: Just a silly drabble.
“Once, I had a dream,” Romania starts, in a tone he usually reserves for hey, wanna hear a story? and Bulgaria considers elbowing him in the stomach in hope of winding him enough to stop him from saying a word more.
And he would have, maybe, if he’d had enough of a willpower to move. It’s much too nice to just lie like that, though, partially pinned down by Romania’s leg and arm. It’s… warm. And maybe even a tiny bit comfortable.
“No,” he manages to say, instead.
“But I did. Was a right feast too, that one.”
He doesn’t even ask if Bulgaria wants to hear about it anymore.
“There was you”, Romania says, wiggles a bit closer as if trying to melt right into Bulgaria’s back, “and a really big spatula.”
“Oh god,” is all Bulgaria can reply with while being busy to stop himself from picturing it.
“You also only had really tight pants on.”
“Why spatula?” Bulgaria asks, giving up. He also tells himself he’s not interested right to the point when he realizes he is.
“You were baking the shopska salad.”
Romania pauses; so does Bulgaria. They both consider it for a while.
It’s Bulgaria who decides to point out the obvious. “You don’t really… bake a salad.”
Romania presses his face between Bulgaria’s shoulder blades. “Precisely.” He grins. “It was hot.”
They leave it at that.
Author:
tikulaRating: PG
Wordcount: ~230
Genre: humor
Characters: Bulgaria, Romania
Pairings: Bulgaria/Romania
Summary: Romania had a dream. It sounds just as dangerous as it is.
Notes: Just a silly drabble.
“Once, I had a dream,” Romania starts, in a tone he usually reserves for hey, wanna hear a story? and Bulgaria considers elbowing him in the stomach in hope of winding him enough to stop him from saying a word more.
And he would have, maybe, if he’d had enough of a willpower to move. It’s much too nice to just lie like that, though, partially pinned down by Romania’s leg and arm. It’s… warm. And maybe even a tiny bit comfortable.
“No,” he manages to say, instead.
“But I did. Was a right feast too, that one.”
He doesn’t even ask if Bulgaria wants to hear about it anymore.
“There was you”, Romania says, wiggles a bit closer as if trying to melt right into Bulgaria’s back, “and a really big spatula.”
“Oh god,” is all Bulgaria can reply with while being busy to stop himself from picturing it.
“You also only had really tight pants on.”
“Why spatula?” Bulgaria asks, giving up. He also tells himself he’s not interested right to the point when he realizes he is.
“You were baking the shopska salad.”
Romania pauses; so does Bulgaria. They both consider it for a while.
It’s Bulgaria who decides to point out the obvious. “You don’t really… bake a salad.”
Romania presses his face between Bulgaria’s shoulder blades. “Precisely.” He grins. “It was hot.”
They leave it at that.