Re: America/fem!Canada Cherry Pie 3/?
anonymous
August 31 2010, 02:11:14 UTC
(In which America finally shows up)
Another loud beat started playing and this time she recognized the song within 2 seconds. I wonder if I should be embarrassed, she wondered as the DJ announced an “old school classic”. This is what they call old school now? Jeez, RUN DMC is old school... why do I know that? She never could quite pinpoint why on earth she liked this song- it was American misogynist hip hop at its finest- but damn if it didn’t always make her want to move. She never said as much to America. He’d never let her live it down. Of course he also refused to believe any decent rap every came out of her country. For fucks sake he even tried to claim K’naan as his after hearing Wavin’ Flag.
As soon as she heard “three six nine,” she was moving with abandon. She kept her eyes open, watching for any signs of America but as her hips rocked back and forth and she let the prompt of “get low” lead her she found she wasn’t really paying attention. Her partner moved behind her and she felt his large, strong hands on her waist as she danced. He was behind her, grinding into her and a small exhilarated smile was one her face while they moved. Canada was definitely impressed by the hard length she felt against her ass. Arms above her head she undulated with him, eyes half mast.
It was hot in there, almost too hot on the dance floor and she could feel herself just wanting to drown in his heat and scent. It was too much too soon though, and as the second chorus started up she pulled away just slightly. Canada shot a promising look over her shoulder before she bent over and started shaking British Columbia rather expertly. She got low. She let her body drop slowly, her ass still gyrating with the beat until she nearly did hit the floor. She started to rise again slowly, bent at the waist and he was behind her again with an excited shake of his head and a rough smack to her ass. He bent over her for a moment and she was definitely liking his flexibility. “Mmm, girl I could tear that ass up,” she felt his breath hot in her ear and felt her legs wobble just slightly before he moved again. His fingers tangled in her short hair, hips snapping as if he were fucking her.
The song blurred without stop into some odd track about not being an alcoholic just drinking a lot, and that was when she caught sight of America entering the club. Even in the shitty lighting it was hard to miss the accent lights glinting off his golden hair and those eyes, like hers, were bright and nearly incandescent. As always that caught her attention first, but what really stood out was his dress. I knew it! A fucking ratty t shirt and blue jeans! A pack of cigarettes was rolled up into the sleeve and the brief glare she shot at the scuffed sneakers could’ve blistered paint. She had a passing painful memory of cutting her fucking labia shaving while she watched him swagger in like James fucking Dean slept in his clothes and rolled out of bed. Y’know what, fuck you, Al.
Her partner’s grip loosened after a time and he let her up. Canada turned around and straddled his leg, her arms around his neck. She smiled as he licked his lips. He seemed to just now realize that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She hadn’t needed to really: whether it was some odd side effect of the transmogrifier or simple part of being a nation she wasn’t sure. In any case she -and judging by the expression her partner as well- wasn’t complaining. As she rutted against his leg she could feel America’s eyes on her and her entire body warmed up. That's right, Al. Watch me. Watch and kiss it, jerk. He had t be seething. Served him right.
Another loud beat started playing and this time she recognized the song within 2 seconds. I wonder if I should be embarrassed, she wondered as the DJ announced an “old school classic”. This is what they call old school now? Jeez, RUN DMC is old school... why do I know that? She never could quite pinpoint why on earth she liked this song- it was American misogynist hip hop at its finest- but damn if it didn’t always make her want to move. She never said as much to America. He’d never let her live it down. Of course he also refused to believe any decent rap every came out of her country. For fucks sake he even tried to claim K’naan as his after hearing Wavin’ Flag.
As soon as she heard “three six nine,” she was moving with abandon. She kept her eyes open, watching for any signs of America but as her hips rocked back and forth and she let the prompt of “get low” lead her she found she wasn’t really paying attention. Her partner moved behind her and she felt his large, strong hands on her waist as she danced. He was behind her, grinding into her and a small exhilarated smile was one her face while they moved. Canada was definitely impressed by the hard length she felt against her ass. Arms above her head she undulated with him, eyes half mast.
It was hot in there, almost too hot on the dance floor and she could feel herself just wanting to drown in his heat and scent. It was too much too soon though, and as the second chorus started up she pulled away just slightly. Canada shot a promising look over her shoulder before she bent over and started shaking British Columbia rather expertly. She got low. She let her body drop slowly, her ass still gyrating with the beat until she nearly did hit the floor. She started to rise again slowly, bent at the waist and he was behind her again with an excited shake of his head and a rough smack to her ass. He bent over her for a moment and she was definitely liking his flexibility.
“Mmm, girl I could tear that ass up,” she felt his breath hot in her ear and felt her legs wobble just slightly before he moved again. His fingers tangled in her short hair, hips snapping as if he were fucking her.
The song blurred without stop into some odd track about not being an alcoholic just drinking a lot, and that was when she caught sight of America entering the club. Even in the shitty lighting it was hard to miss the accent lights glinting off his golden hair and those eyes, like hers, were bright and nearly incandescent. As always that caught her attention first, but what really stood out was his dress. I knew it! A fucking ratty t shirt and blue jeans! A pack of cigarettes was rolled up into the sleeve and the brief glare she shot at the scuffed sneakers could’ve blistered paint. She had a passing painful memory of cutting her fucking labia shaving while she watched him swagger in like James fucking Dean slept in his clothes and rolled out of bed. Y’know what, fuck you, Al.
Her partner’s grip loosened after a time and he let her up. Canada turned around and straddled his leg, her arms around his neck. She smiled as he licked his lips. He seemed to just now realize that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She hadn’t needed to really: whether it was some odd side effect of the transmogrifier or simple part of being a nation she wasn’t sure. In any case she -and judging by the expression her partner as well- wasn’t complaining. As she rutted against his leg she could feel America’s eyes on her and her entire body warmed up. That's right, Al. Watch me. Watch and kiss it, jerk. He had t be seething. Served him right.
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