I saw this picture: http://i185.photobucket.com/albums/x152/CrimsonAlchemist75/3422106.jpg And immediately I got this idea for a request. So here it is: Austria teaching Hungary how to play the piano. He can compliment her hands and guide her hands across the keys or something romantic like that. I just really want to see fluff and romance and if they end up having sex, that would be a HUGE bonus. And if this could be their first time (kissing and being intimate) I will seriously LOVE the person who fills this to death.
Hungarian Dance no. 5 in F# minor (although Austria augmented it to A minor to make it easier on Hungary) –Brahms http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cy58DFwtOHI
~*~
His fingers pressed onto the keys, the perfect chord ringing through the room only to blend into the next one seamlessly. The notes seemed to make the very dust motes sparkle in the late afternoon sun, rendering the music room an almost ethereal quality.
Elizaveta sat quietly, her hands folded on her lap, listening to her husband play. These moments were some of her favourites. When her husband played, she could feel the outside world drop away, and it would be only the two of them and the small music room that mattered. It still filled her with wonder, how the notes somehow came from his memory to his hands to make such beautiful sounds
She recognised the ends of the song and watched as he rocked towards the keyboard to use his full body to press the final notes of the cadence. His fingers lifted smoothly from the piano, although he kept the foot pedal depressed, allowing the final chord to ring through the room.
“That was lovely,” she said with a smile after several seconds had passed.
Her husband smiled back, his mouth slightly lopsided, making Elizaveta’s heart quicken. She loved her husband’s smile. It always looked slightly broken, as if he didn’t do it often, and sometimes forgot how it worked.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I’ve always enjoyed the second movement. Most people prefer the first, but there’s something so carefree about the second that it always gives me a pleasant feeling.”
Elizaveta nodded.
“Is there something I can play for you?” His foot lifted from the pedal, dampening the ring, although the after effect still shimmered in the warm room.
She swallowed, her throat gone suddenly dry. “Aren’t you playing for me already?” she asked, hiding her excitedly trembling hands in her skirt.
His violet eyes gazed at her warmly. “I meant is there something specific you would like to hear?”
“Oh.” She blushed. “Maybe something with soft, but with large chords or arpeggios?” Elizaveta was rather proud of that last word. The language of music was almost as foreign to her as her husband’s had been at first, but she was learning. Not that she didn’t have her mishaps, such as when she mistakenly said al dente instead of andante.
“Of course,” her husband agreed. “I have a new piece from Ivan’s country that I’ve recently learnt. May I play it for you?”
Elizaveta smiled. “Please.”
Her husband turned back to the piano and he laid his fingers lovingly on the keys, stroking down them gently. Elizaveta shivered, suddenly wondering how those fingers would feel on her own skin.
Those hands were often in her thoughts, especially late at night, lying in her large, cold bed. Alone. Her husband had given her a wedding ceremony, an unrequired kindness of him, considering the majority of their union was done through legal papers and councils. His hands had held hers then, large and warm, and when he gave her a kiss, the briefest of meetings of lips, it was like a spring tempest had arisen in her stomach, lightning and all.
Since then, he had never done so much as kiss her again. He had given her her own room, and said goodnight every night through their adjoining doors, but then the doors closed and separated them. She almost despaired that he didn’t want her as a wife – that he was disappointed to be saddled with a fighter from a country who didn’t know the difference between a salad fork and a fish fork.
But then sometimes she felt him watching her, something in his violet gaze making her breath catch as her blood ran hot.
Shaking her head slightly as he starting the first few notes, she banished her unladylike thoughts and let herself become entranced once again by the intricate dance of his hands, the way his fingers moved and stretched and appeared to collide but didn’t.
Elizaveta sighed internally. His hands were so beautiful. Long and tapered, with strong nails tipped in just the right amount of white, they were large enough to reach over eleven keys, yet still slim and pale and perfect.
Her gaze dropped to her own hands. Her blunt fingers ended in nails cut super short to avoid ragged ends from breaking or nibbling. At least today they were clean, with no dirt crusted around her less-than-perfect cuticles. No amount of soap, however, could hide the whitish scars marring her work roughened skin.
Elizaveta tore her thoughts away from her own self criticisms and instead focused on the soft, melancholy song. It seemed that this composer was touched too with the sadness that seemed to permeate Ivan and his country. The melody was lilting, though, and before she knew it, she had her eyes closed, just letting the music flow around her. As always, her husband’s playing filled her with pride. Perhaps the cultural capital was moving away from Vienna towards Paris, but to her, the best in music would always remain in this little room.
“Elizaveta.”
Elizaveta’s eyes snapped open to see her husband frowning even as the last chords died away.
“I’m sorry; my playing is probably boring you,” he apologised, turning to her slightly.
“Absolutely not, my lord,” she refuted, sitting up straight. “I love to listen to you play.”
“Still, it must get rather dull just sitting there.” His expression lifted. “Why don’t I teach you something?”
“I don’t know,” Elizaveta hedged.
“Oh come. It will be fun.” Her husband shifted on the bench and motioned for her to join him. She rose from her chair slowly and sat down beside him, the bench so small she had to press her thigh against his, feeling the warmth of his leg even through all their layers of clothing.
“Here. Watch.” He played a series of seven notes slowly. Elizaveta copied them slowly, her fingers feeling awkward on the keys.
“Very good,” he murmured to her softly, his breath caressing her ear. “This is the next part.” He played another set of seven notes, which was much easier than the last. Elizaveta repeated them with a smile, her confidence growing.
“Now together,” her husband instructed, playing the simple melody.
Elizaveta started it off well enough, but when she got to the second to last note, she stopped.
“I’ve run out of fingers,” she remarked morosely.
To her surprise, her husband chuckled. “Here. Keep these five fingers on these five keys.” He placed her hand, his touch soft and gentle, sending tingles up Elizaveta’s arms. “Then use your left hand to play the sixth note.”
He pulled his hand away to demonstrate, and Elizaveta swallowed her disappointment as she watched him.
“This part you play twice,” he told her once she was proficient enough at the notes he had already taught. Elizaveta copied quickly. “And then the first part again.” He played the entire tune until Elizaveta became more confident and began to duet it in her soprano register. Slowly, her husband switched from merely playing the tune to a full rolling accompaniment. Elizaveta’s smile widened, and soon she was laughing in delight.
“Mozart wrote twelve variations on this theme,” her husband said. “But I rather like our arrangement.”
“So do I,” Elizaveta replied, hitting the final note for the last time. “That was fun. Teach me something else.”
“This one’s a little harder,” her husband said, reaching an arm around her back to show her a series of notes that included both the black and white keys.
Tentatively, she tried to copy, but her husband stopped her gently, laying his hands over hers.
“Curl your fingers like this,” he instructed, his words a whisper along her skin, his fingers putting light pressure on hers as she tried not to let him see how erratic her breathing had become. She watched his hands on hers, the faint blue lines of his veins and the movements of his tendons. The size of his hands dwarfed hers and made them look, if not delicate, at least a little more womanly.
She allowed herself a small smile. Wasn’t that just like the rest of their relationship? That only her husband could make her even the slightest bit more refined just by his presence.
His far hand trailed up her forearm, leaving goosebumps and tingles in its wake.
“My lord,” Elizaveta breathed.
“Roderich,” her husband corrected.
“Roderich,” she repeated warmly as his hand stole up her arm to her elbow. She looked at up at him and that look was back in his eyes, the one that made her feel naked and shivery, but in a warm way. Her head moved slightly towards him and then suddenly he was kissing her, really kissing her, making her thoughts dissolve like sugar in the rain. Eyelashes fluttering closed, she leaned into him, her hands moving to his chest.
“Elizaveta,” he breathed, running those hands over her lips, over her ears, and into her hair, as she kept her eyes closed, her breath ragged. Her skin felt too tight, her entire body was tingling with little sparks.
Realising he hadn’t continued after calling her name, she opened her eyes to see him watching her, his violet gaze almost smouldering behind his glasses, but with a hint of uncertainty. Without saying a word, she slid her hands to his jaw and brought his mouth back to hers.
Before she knew it, he had laid her down on the rug in the middle of the room, his fingers fumbling at the buttons on her shirt as his mouth made its way around her neck, his tongue homing in on and licking up her frantic pulse.
“Roderich,” she groaned, arching up towards him and pulling his white shirt out of his pants.
“I’m so sorry, Elizaveta,” he apologised, his voice husky as he helped her strip off his top, then went back to kissing her. “I wanted to wait, to give you time to adjust.” Then his mouth was on her breast and she gasped, her fingers tangling in his dark, messy hair. His fingers tickled down her ribs, pushing her shirt to the side as his lips and teeth and tongue seemed to dance on her nipple. “To court you like a man should court his wife.” His hands slid further south, pushing down her skirt and drawers, licks of fire following wherever his hands went. “Flowers, expensive wines.” She could feel his tremors as her hands ran down the smooth skin of his back.
“I don’t need all that,” she whispered back, pulling him closer to her. “I just need you.”
“Oh, Elizaveta,” he sighed.
She could hear his voice, but when his large soft hand cupped her heat, all she could do was feel.
“You deserve so much more,” he told her as his fingers tested and learned all her secret spots that made her gasp and sink her fingertips into his shoulder blades. “A bed. Music.”
At that, though, she smiled and pulled his face up to kiss him. “We do have music,” she murmured. “Our music. Listen.” She took one of his perfect hands and kissed the palm, then pressed each of the fingers against her lips, enjoying her husband’s gasp. “Winds,” she explained huskily, and laid the hand between her breasts so he could feel her pounding heartbeat. “Percussion.”
“Oh, Elizaveta,” he moaned again, and slowly sank inside her.
She gave a brief gasp, more from the oddness of the act than any pain, but her husband immediately stilled, a stricken look on his face. Reaching her hand out to his, she intertwined their fingers, his warm hand engulfing hers, and shifted her hips encouragingly.
“Please, Roderich.”
He gave her his warm lopsided smile again and began to move.
It was beautiful and wild and overwhelming, like symphonies and thunderstorms, and when Elizaveta felt the world tilt and shatter inside her, her husband was there, falling with her, holding her as she trembled, adding his baritone to her soprano cries.
Later, curled up in his chest, the sun casting long shadows over the both of them, Elizaveta sighed happily. “Now I am positive this is my favourite room,” she murmured.
Oh my goddddd! This is so beautifully written, so romantic. I just... love you. <3 I'm not op-anon, but I've always wanted to see sweet and kind of traditional relationship of Austria/Hungary like this for quite a while (not that i don't enjoy top!hungary or something like that but those can grow boring, right?), so i'm very happy to read this. also, i don't know anything about classical music so thank you so much for the link to the songs.
The former music nerd in me is delighted. If only to be... 'courted' like that. Oh, Austria, you stiff, shy idiot... -sigh- I love the juxtaposition of their hands in size but also in strength.
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(Anonymous) 2009-03-15 06:46 am (UTC)(link)I saw this picture: http://i185.photobucket.com/albums/x152/CrimsonAlchemist75/3422106.jpg
And immediately I got this idea for a request. So here it is: Austria teaching Hungary how to play the piano. He can compliment her hands and guide her hands across the keys or something romantic like that. I just really want to see fluff and romance and if they end up having sex, that would be a HUGE bonus. And if this could be their first time (kissing and being intimate) I will seriously LOVE the person who fills this to death.
Sorry, specific request is specific D:
Symphonies and Thunderstorms (1/3)
(Anonymous) 2009-03-17 10:37 pm (UTC)(link)Also, because I’m a nerd, the songs Austria plays are:
Sonata in C major, K. 330 –Mozart
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oQzp_-N6IUs&feature=related
June: Barcarolle –Tchaikovsky
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBDAklpf8X4
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
Hungarian Dance no. 5 in F# minor (although Austria augmented it to A minor to make it easier on Hungary) –Brahms
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cy58DFwtOHI
~*~
His fingers pressed onto the keys, the perfect chord ringing through the room only to blend into the next one seamlessly. The notes seemed to make the very dust motes sparkle in the late afternoon sun, rendering the music room an almost ethereal quality.
Elizaveta sat quietly, her hands folded on her lap, listening to her husband play. These moments were some of her favourites. When her husband played, she could feel the outside world drop away, and it would be only the two of them and the small music room that mattered. It still filled her with wonder, how the notes somehow came from his memory to his hands to make such beautiful sounds
She recognised the ends of the song and watched as he rocked towards the keyboard to use his full body to press the final notes of the cadence. His fingers lifted smoothly from the piano, although he kept the foot pedal depressed, allowing the final chord to ring through the room.
“That was lovely,” she said with a smile after several seconds had passed.
Her husband smiled back, his mouth slightly lopsided, making Elizaveta’s heart quicken. She loved her husband’s smile. It always looked slightly broken, as if he didn’t do it often, and sometimes forgot how it worked.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I’ve always enjoyed the second movement. Most people prefer the first, but there’s something so carefree about the second that it always gives me a pleasant feeling.”
Elizaveta nodded.
“Is there something I can play for you?” His foot lifted from the pedal, dampening the ring, although the after effect still shimmered in the warm room.
She swallowed, her throat gone suddenly dry. “Aren’t you playing for me already?” she asked, hiding her excitedly trembling hands in her skirt.
His violet eyes gazed at her warmly. “I meant is there something specific you would like to hear?”
“Oh.” She blushed. “Maybe something with soft, but with large chords or arpeggios?” Elizaveta was rather proud of that last word. The language of music was almost as foreign to her as her husband’s had been at first, but she was learning. Not that she didn’t have her mishaps, such as when she mistakenly said al dente instead of andante.
“Of course,” her husband agreed. “I have a new piece from Ivan’s country that I’ve recently learnt. May I play it for you?”
Elizaveta smiled. “Please.”
Her husband turned back to the piano and he laid his fingers lovingly on the keys, stroking down them gently. Elizaveta shivered, suddenly wondering how those fingers would feel on her own skin.
Those hands were often in her thoughts, especially late at night, lying in her large, cold bed. Alone. Her husband had given her a wedding ceremony, an unrequired kindness of him, considering the majority of their union was done through legal papers and councils. His hands had held hers then, large and warm, and when he gave her a kiss, the briefest of meetings of lips, it was like a spring tempest had arisen in her stomach, lightning and all.
Since then, he had never done so much as kiss her again. He had given her her own room, and said goodnight every night through their adjoining doors, but then the doors closed and separated them. She almost despaired that he didn’t want her as a wife – that he was disappointed to be saddled with a fighter from a country who didn’t know the difference between a salad fork and a fish fork.
But then sometimes she felt him watching her, something in his violet gaze making her breath catch as her blood ran hot.
Shaking her head slightly as he starting the first few notes, she banished her unladylike thoughts and let herself become entranced once again by the intricate dance of his hands, the way his fingers moved and stretched and appeared to collide but didn’t.
Symphonies and Thunderstorms (2/3)
(Anonymous) 2009-03-17 10:39 pm (UTC)(link)Her gaze dropped to her own hands. Her blunt fingers ended in nails cut super short to avoid ragged ends from breaking or nibbling. At least today they were clean, with no dirt crusted around her less-than-perfect cuticles. No amount of soap, however, could hide the whitish scars marring her work roughened skin.
Elizaveta tore her thoughts away from her own self criticisms and instead focused on the soft, melancholy song. It seemed that this composer was touched too with the sadness that seemed to permeate Ivan and his country. The melody was lilting, though, and before she knew it, she had her eyes closed, just letting the music flow around her. As always, her husband’s playing filled her with pride. Perhaps the cultural capital was moving away from Vienna towards Paris, but to her, the best in music would always remain in this little room.
“Elizaveta.”
Elizaveta’s eyes snapped open to see her husband frowning even as the last chords died away.
“I’m sorry; my playing is probably boring you,” he apologised, turning to her slightly.
“Absolutely not, my lord,” she refuted, sitting up straight. “I love to listen to you play.”
“Still, it must get rather dull just sitting there.” His expression lifted. “Why don’t I teach you something?”
“I don’t know,” Elizaveta hedged.
“Oh come. It will be fun.” Her husband shifted on the bench and motioned for her to join him. She rose from her chair slowly and sat down beside him, the bench so small she had to press her thigh against his, feeling the warmth of his leg even through all their layers of clothing.
“Here. Watch.” He played a series of seven notes slowly. Elizaveta copied them slowly, her fingers feeling awkward on the keys.
“Very good,” he murmured to her softly, his breath caressing her ear. “This is the next part.” He played another set of seven notes, which was much easier than the last. Elizaveta repeated them with a smile, her confidence growing.
“Now together,” her husband instructed, playing the simple melody.
Elizaveta started it off well enough, but when she got to the second to last note, she stopped.
“I’ve run out of fingers,” she remarked morosely.
To her surprise, her husband chuckled. “Here. Keep these five fingers on these five keys.” He placed her hand, his touch soft and gentle, sending tingles up Elizaveta’s arms. “Then use your left hand to play the sixth note.”
He pulled his hand away to demonstrate, and Elizaveta swallowed her disappointment as she watched him.
“This part you play twice,” he told her once she was proficient enough at the notes he had already taught. Elizaveta copied quickly. “And then the first part again.” He played the entire tune until Elizaveta became more confident and began to duet it in her soprano register. Slowly, her husband switched from merely playing the tune to a full rolling accompaniment. Elizaveta’s smile widened, and soon she was laughing in delight.
“Mozart wrote twelve variations on this theme,” her husband said. “But I rather like our arrangement.”
“So do I,” Elizaveta replied, hitting the final note for the last time. “That was fun. Teach me something else.”
“This one’s a little harder,” her husband said, reaching an arm around her back to show her a series of notes that included both the black and white keys.
Tentatively, she tried to copy, but her husband stopped her gently, laying his hands over hers.
“Curl your fingers like this,” he instructed, his words a whisper along her skin, his fingers putting light pressure on hers as she tried not to let him see how erratic her breathing had become. She watched his hands on hers, the faint blue lines of his veins and the movements of his tendons. The size of his hands dwarfed hers and made them look, if not delicate, at least a little more womanly.
She allowed herself a small smile. Wasn’t that just like the rest of their relationship? That only her husband could make her even the slightest bit more refined just by his presence.
Symphonies and Thunderstorms (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2009-03-17 10:42 pm (UTC)(link)“My lord,” Elizaveta breathed.
“Roderich,” her husband corrected.
“Roderich,” she repeated warmly as his hand stole up her arm to her elbow. She looked at up at him and that look was back in his eyes, the one that made her feel naked and shivery, but in a warm way. Her head moved slightly towards him and then suddenly he was kissing her, really kissing her, making her thoughts dissolve like sugar in the rain. Eyelashes fluttering closed, she leaned into him, her hands moving to his chest.
“Elizaveta,” he breathed, running those hands over her lips, over her ears, and into her hair, as she kept her eyes closed, her breath ragged. Her skin felt too tight, her entire body was tingling with little sparks.
Realising he hadn’t continued after calling her name, she opened her eyes to see him watching her, his violet gaze almost smouldering behind his glasses, but with a hint of uncertainty. Without saying a word, she slid her hands to his jaw and brought his mouth back to hers.
Before she knew it, he had laid her down on the rug in the middle of the room, his fingers fumbling at the buttons on her shirt as his mouth made its way around her neck, his tongue homing in on and licking up her frantic pulse.
“Roderich,” she groaned, arching up towards him and pulling his white shirt out of his pants.
“I’m so sorry, Elizaveta,” he apologised, his voice husky as he helped her strip off his top, then went back to kissing her. “I wanted to wait, to give you time to adjust.” Then his mouth was on her breast and she gasped, her fingers tangling in his dark, messy hair. His fingers tickled down her ribs, pushing her shirt to the side as his lips and teeth and tongue seemed to dance on her nipple. “To court you like a man should court his wife.” His hands slid further south, pushing down her skirt and drawers, licks of fire following wherever his hands went. “Flowers, expensive wines.” She could feel his tremors as her hands ran down the smooth skin of his back.
“I don’t need all that,” she whispered back, pulling him closer to her. “I just need you.”
“Oh, Elizaveta,” he sighed.
She could hear his voice, but when his large soft hand cupped her heat, all she could do was feel.
“You deserve so much more,” he told her as his fingers tested and learned all her secret spots that made her gasp and sink her fingertips into his shoulder blades. “A bed. Music.”
At that, though, she smiled and pulled his face up to kiss him. “We do have music,” she murmured. “Our music. Listen.” She took one of his perfect hands and kissed the palm, then pressed each of the fingers against her lips, enjoying her husband’s gasp. “Winds,” she explained huskily, and laid the hand between her breasts so he could feel her pounding heartbeat. “Percussion.”
“Oh, Elizaveta,” he moaned again, and slowly sank inside her.
She gave a brief gasp, more from the oddness of the act than any pain, but her husband immediately stilled, a stricken look on his face. Reaching her hand out to his, she intertwined their fingers, his warm hand engulfing hers, and shifted her hips encouragingly.
“Please, Roderich.”
He gave her his warm lopsided smile again and began to move.
It was beautiful and wild and overwhelming, like symphonies and thunderstorms, and when Elizaveta felt the world tilt and shatter inside her, her husband was there, falling with her, holding her as she trembled, adding his baritone to her soprano cries.
Later, curled up in his chest, the sun casting long shadows over the both of them, Elizaveta sighed happily. “Now I am positive this is my favourite room,” she murmured.
Her husband smiled and held her tighter.
O-oh God
(Anonymous) 2009-03-18 12:40 am (UTC)(link)Re: Symphonies and Thunderstorms (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2009-03-18 02:57 am (UTC)(link)That made my music nerd side SMILE :D
Re: Symphonies and Thunderstorms (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2009-03-18 03:12 am (UTC)(link)Re: Symphonies and Thunderstorms (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2009-03-18 02:07 pm (UTC)(link)I'm not op-anon, but I've always wanted to see sweet and kind of traditional relationship of Austria/Hungary like this for quite a while (not that i don't enjoy top!hungary or something like that but those can grow boring, right?), so i'm very happy to read this.
also, i don't know anything about classical music so thank you so much for the link to the songs.
Re: Symphonies and Thunderstorms (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2009-03-18 04:28 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Symphonies and Thunderstorms (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2009-03-20 05:09 am (UTC)(link)