Agreements [2/4]
anonymous
November 13 2009, 01:13:31 UTC
She rolls her eyes heavenward. Any straight woman (or yes, gay man) would have a hard time choosing too, from this gallery of testosterone. Deceptively delicate Canada with the pouty lips and big vulnerable eyes. Rangy, roguish Australia with that stupid grin and flyaway hair. Tall, exotic New Zealand with his sardonic but gentle smile and tattoos all over his muscled limbs. Golden boy America with that heart-stopping smile and blinding charisma.
Then she smirks. “Surprise me,” she finds herself saying. “If you lads can come to accords.”
In retrospect, that is probably not the right thing to say to a group of four lads who had managed to corner her in her own house.
Someone unfastens her cuffed hands from the headboard and they flip her on her stomach, not ungently however. Hands support her and rub along her back and shoulders and belly, caressing and exploratory. Fingers pinch at her nipples and someone gropes her breasts without much art (Australia again).
“Gently there, mate,” is the rumble of New Zealand’s pleasant baritone.
“Don’t be a pussy.”
She rolls her eyes again and shifts on her knees and her cuffed hands. “Gits,” she mutters and is ungracious enough to bite the fingers that trail along her lips and jaw and try to open her mouth.
The yelp is higher than it should have been. Oh, that had been Canada. She cranes her neck to kiss the fingers in apology as she hears Australia laugh. The North American nation murmurs, “I probably deserved that.”
“Man up, frog.”
Even England can feel a perceptible drop in temperature from where she guesses Canada is. “Boys,” she says and feels a very familiar headache start to form behind her temples-
And she gasps as she feels the very tip of someone’s erection rubbing against her, pushing right into her. Her fists clench and they start tingling in that delicious-dangerous way from cut-off circulation. Whoever’s fucking her isn’t Canada, she deduces. His fingers are stroking her hair. Not Australia either. She bites her lower lip and feels a rough fingertip gently stop her from doing so and she looks sidelong and sees the light glinting off America’s glasses. Process of elimination…
Ever mindful, ever quietly conscientious, New Zealand fucks her at a good pace and her toes curl as she feels every inch of him in her. He actually ignores sniping comments from Australia and she rolls her eyes again, ignoring them too. His mouth kisses and bites along her shoulder blade and back just hard enough to feel good. He’s always seemed so very balanced to her, so very poised, quick to anger but quick to subside as well. His hands are bigger than the others’, the calluses on them from woodwork and from the sea. They feel absolutely heavenly upon her back, dancing across tensed muscles.
She arches into him, closing her eyes as he grunts under his breath and thrusts into her one last time. Her body shudders again but she doesn’t scream, merely sigh. Panting, she rests her upper body against the mattress, only half aware of how obscene she must surely look.
And that is surely an invitation for Australia, who shoulders New Zealand out of the way (she can hear the curses and the thump as the taller nation hits the floor of her bedroom). He doesn’t use any kind of ceremony; he just fucks her hard from the start. It’s almost painful, really (who is she kidding? It is painful). But still, she doesn’t mind it. In a way, she craves this more than all the gentleness in the world. He doesn’t know it; not consciously, but he refuses to treat her like glass.
Their hips collide hard enough to bruise and he clutches at her waist with nails digging in hard. She realizes that she’s whimpering and she hears angry remarks buzzing over her head like flies.
Then she smirks. “Surprise me,” she finds herself saying. “If you lads can come to accords.”
In retrospect, that is probably not the right thing to say to a group of four lads who had managed to corner her in her own house.
Someone unfastens her cuffed hands from the headboard and they flip her on her stomach, not ungently however. Hands support her and rub along her back and shoulders and belly, caressing and exploratory. Fingers pinch at her nipples and someone gropes her breasts without much art (Australia again).
“Gently there, mate,” is the rumble of New Zealand’s pleasant baritone.
“Don’t be a pussy.”
She rolls her eyes again and shifts on her knees and her cuffed hands. “Gits,” she mutters and is ungracious enough to bite the fingers that trail along her lips and jaw and try to open her mouth.
The yelp is higher than it should have been. Oh, that had been Canada. She cranes her neck to kiss the fingers in apology as she hears Australia laugh. The North American nation murmurs, “I probably deserved that.”
“Man up, frog.”
Even England can feel a perceptible drop in temperature from where she guesses Canada is. “Boys,” she says and feels a very familiar headache start to form behind her temples-
And she gasps as she feels the very tip of someone’s erection rubbing against her, pushing right into her. Her fists clench and they start tingling in that delicious-dangerous way from cut-off circulation. Whoever’s fucking her isn’t Canada, she deduces. His fingers are stroking her hair. Not Australia either. She bites her lower lip and feels a rough fingertip gently stop her from doing so and she looks sidelong and sees the light glinting off America’s glasses. Process of elimination…
Ever mindful, ever quietly conscientious, New Zealand fucks her at a good pace and her toes curl as she feels every inch of him in her. He actually ignores sniping comments from Australia and she rolls her eyes again, ignoring them too. His mouth kisses and bites along her shoulder blade and back just hard enough to feel good. He’s always seemed so very balanced to her, so very poised, quick to anger but quick to subside as well. His hands are bigger than the others’, the calluses on them from woodwork and from the sea. They feel absolutely heavenly upon her back, dancing across tensed muscles.
She arches into him, closing her eyes as he grunts under his breath and thrusts into her one last time. Her body shudders again but she doesn’t scream, merely sigh. Panting, she rests her upper body against the mattress, only half aware of how obscene she must surely look.
And that is surely an invitation for Australia, who shoulders New Zealand out of the way (she can hear the curses and the thump as the taller nation hits the floor of her bedroom). He doesn’t use any kind of ceremony; he just fucks her hard from the start. It’s almost painful, really (who is she kidding? It is painful). But still, she doesn’t mind it. In a way, she craves this more than all the gentleness in the world. He doesn’t know it; not consciously, but he refuses to treat her like glass.
Their hips collide hard enough to bruise and he clutches at her waist with nails digging in hard. She realizes that she’s whimpering and she hears angry remarks buzzing over her head like flies.
“Ease up, Australia-”
“Don’t hurt her-”
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