Who's Riding Whom? 4/?
anonymous
July 8 2009, 08:06:21 UTC
"Good, good. As it turns out, I have something similar in mind." England was walking towards him, but sort of circling rather than making a b-line. It made him nervous. Like the target of a pack of hungry buzzards. He was also fiddling with the reins, and looking around at nothing in particular.
America swallowed. "Yeah? Ya wanna go together?"
"Yes," England purred, locking his eyes with America's. "I do."
America brightened, although the knot in his stomach only wound tighter. "I've got plentya extras you c'n...use..." He trailed off, disturbingly aware of England's closeness, and the warmth of him.
"Oh, I'm sure you do," England said, so huskily that it was then America knew for sure that their minds were ambling down two very different paths.
"Ah."
"Got it now?"
"Yeah." America stood stock-still as England looked him over hungrily, and he had the fleeting feeling that perhaps he knew at last how a plump cow felt before it was sold to a butcher. --- Dun dun dun~!! I don't even know. This is getting sort of out of hand, isn't it. < <;
Re: Who's Riding Whom? 4/?
anonymous
July 8 2009, 08:08:43 UTC
Hahahaha OH AL. Why so cute. Why so dense.
"I got it. You want to share a saddle? I guess since you don't know the lay of the land, it'd be best to share a horse....good thing Gabriel's strong. And you're so skinny."
Who's Riding Whom? 5/?
anonymous
July 8 2009, 08:37:04 UTC
Before he could object, America found himself on his knees, England kneeling behind him--too close--and whispering sweet nothings into his ear.
"Hey, England," America began, hoping to strike up some sort of conversation. It was not always a problem that he spoke when he was nervous.
"Yes?"
He bit back the urge to ask what the other nation was planning, and/or why he was sitting behind him, almost on his hips, if he leaned forward a bit more. "D'ya remember when I was a kid?"
England paused. "Of course."
"And we used ta rassle?"
"Yes." There was that dark undertone again, and America immediately regretted bringing it up.
"Yeah."
"What about it?"
"N-nothin'."
"Do you maybe want to try again?" England asked, fingers sliding to rest atop America's shoulders. "For old time's sake...?"
"No!" America hollered, face reddening to match Tequila's coat. "Er, not...unless...?"
England smirked, and kissed his neck; quick, soft touches; nothing more than lip; like the tickling sensation one gets on their palm when giving alfalfa to one's mount after a good ride.
He gasps at how erotic that suddenly seems, and wonders if he'll ever be able to look at the stable--built with his own hands--in the same light.
Then England was kissing the corner of his mouth, and he turned his head instinctively, sighing. He reached to cup England's cheek, surrendering to the fact that he probably wouldn't be going out with the horses that day, but England moved. Just up and walked away! America gaped after him.
England threw him the most coy (or was it openly flirtatious? He honestly couldn't tell) look he had ever received, and strode to the wall near the tack closet, where he took to examining some ropes.
"Wha...England, what're ya doin'?"
"Picking something good," came the simple response. America rose to his feet, brushed the hay from his pants, and put his hat back where it had fallen from on top of his sweat-slicked hair. He wasn't sure why. After all, they were inside the stable, which was free of the blinding sun. It was much too hot to be playing such games away of the house.
England walked back to America, looped a hardy rope around his neck, and tugged him close.
"I'll be riding today, Alfred," he said matter-of-factly. "But I'm certain you'll enjoy it just the same."
"Oh," was all America could manage.
"You're making this rather boring, Mister Drover." England began adding some intricate knotwork to the rope, and America watched him. He'd lost his tongue trying to figure out what was going to happen. It's not that he was stupid or anything; One could just never tell with England. Especially when England had been drinking. --- Drover is another word for cowboy, rasslin(g)/wrassli(g) is sort of wrestling; rolling around and fighting, but not usually with the intent to hurt.
Re: Who's Riding Whom? 5/?
anonymous
July 8 2009, 08:53:56 UTC
Guh, England. Why so hot. America. WHY SO CUUUUUUUTE. He's so adorably lost. Lead him, England. Rein in and ride that wild (if somewhat silly) stallion!
Re: Who's Riding Whom? 5/?
anonymous
July 8 2009, 09:43:41 UTC
Anon-saaan, it's clever, joyful laugh aloud-worthy commenters like yourself who make me love writing these things. I seriously can't stop giggling right now. x'D ...I'm also getting extremely incoherent...Oyasumi!! *flees*
Who's Riding Whom? 6/?
anonymous
July 8 2009, 09:40:52 UTC
Anon's English/American/Texan is suffering so greatly right now. Gabriel is a name I have loved since the beginning of forever. Molly sounded like a good name for a motherly horse. Tequila is named after a horse my sister once owned, who had the destinct behavioral trait of appearing drunk. All the time. He also had a coat the color of the rising sun. --- Stripped of his shirt but still wearing the hat, America, on his hands and knees, was panting. England sat in front of him, painting his cheeks, nose, and forehead with butterfly kisses as he gently adjusted the makeshift lead.
"You sound exhausted," he said, tilting America's chin up slightly. "We've barely started!"
"Ahm...Arthur...Why dun' we go inside?"
"You love it here," England said in a clipped tone. "Why are you so insistent on the house? Is it the bed?"
America dropped his gaze.
England smirked. "It's them, then?" He indicated the horses.
America's face reddened further. "Yeah. Th-they're like kids ta me. I don' wan' 'em seein' this."
"As though they haven't seen or done the same sort," England chided. "We'll stay here."
And then he was pushing America up onto his haunches so that he could get the belt off, and pushing him back down to do it up just above the hipbones in immitation of the billet strap. It was the best they could do, since the saddles wouldn't fit him.
He tugged America's boots off and set them neatly beside Cherokee's stall, with a nod to the curious Appaloosa, before returning to run his hands along America's trembling withers.
America craned his neck, trying to watch England, but the older nation kept moving around, touching him here and there, planting kisses on the curve of a shoulder blade. He leaned over America's back, pressing against him, sighing into the back of his neck.
America groaned softly around the rope between his teeth, and arched into England, who retreated yet again. --- Yeah. It's definitely getting out of hand. Cherokee is just a name I figure works for a horse. 4:4o already?! Nighty-night. :'3 I'll finish this later on.
Haha, I love America being all awkward about the horses watching them. "America's trembling withers"? Oh man, I love that line and find it very sexy for some reason.
Out of hand? Probably, but it's pretty sexy all the same!
"blushes" Excuse me as I melt from the overwhelming hotness here. This hit so many of my kinks and was just so delicious from start to finish. The ending was pure gold and top!Arthur is so delightful to see when he's well written the way you wrote him.
*offers towel* Thanks so much. I was a bit nervous writing this, as I hadn't done anything quite like it before. It's great to hear you enjoyed it. x3 *blush*
Who's Riding Whom? 7/?
anonymous
July 8 2009, 17:01:18 UTC
*listens to Save a Horse for the first since it came out* lolwut --- "D-dang it..."
"What's the matter, boy?" England cooed. America shook his head. It was completely unreasonable to be so turned on by England petting him. A stroke here, a feather-touch there...There was no sense in his heart racing! No sense in the down-traveling warmth.
He shifted the damp rope in his mouth uncomfortable. It tasted musty and smelled of carroway seed.
England knelt in front of him again, and he leaned up, hands shifting from the floor. England pressed his hands back to the floor and kissed him hard. Before America could respond, England was walking away. Again.
"Woulja quit that?" he growled in aggravation.
"Quit what?" England asked, coming to sit beside the younger nation. "Give me your hands."
"Hem hawwin'." He held out his hands, and England tied them together at the wrists.
"Oh." If America didn't know better, he would have said England was blushing. It was probably just whatever alcohol he'd consumed.
Speaking of which, America really needed some whiskey.
"No." America scowled, but not for long, because England was kissing him again, running his fingers through America's hair, the Stetson slipping to dangle from its tie.
And then he was on his back, bound hands laying on his stomach, and England was straddling his hips, smirking from beneathe a crimson blush.
America was sure his face was even redder, because he had just pin-pointed England's plan.
Who's Riding Whom? 8/?
anonymous
July 8 2009, 17:25:55 UTC
"Put your arms above your head," England commanded quietly, never taking his eyes from America, who slowly obeyed. He watched the well-toned muscles shifting beneathe glistening, tan skin, and breathed deeply. It was lovely, being where he was. On top of America. In control.
Once again.
He leaned to kiss America's collar bone, before licking and nipping his way up the side of the neck. America gasped and groaned, wriggling below England. He brought his knees up suddenly, causing England to pitch forward and fall over him. They stared at eachother briefly, startled, before England stood, pushed on his knees until his legs were straight again, and knelt above his head.
"Hold still." America held still as England loosened the ropes on his wrists, put his arms behind his head, and paused. "How's that?"
America blinked. "Uh....'sokay." England nodded, and redid the ropes. He then went around to examine his work, and was very pleased. There, on the floor in the middle of his own horse stable, lay America, shirtless, bootless, and soon-to-be pantless. He was hot and needy as a young gelding, hair disheveled and covered in straw, eyes hazy, arms behind his head like a pillow, chest heaving beautifully.
England smirked.
He leaned in, eyelids fluttering, face close to America's, and whispered, "Do you want me?"
America tried to look away, really he did, but there was nothing to be done. "Yes," he breathed.
"Good," England mouthed, and pulled away just centimeters before their lips met.
Re: Who's Riding Whom? 8/?
anonymous
July 8 2009, 18:32:26 UTC
He isssss, he issssssssssssss......but I'm impressed by his ability to control himself when presented with SUCH a delicious image like THAT. Nnngh oh god, if I saw America like that I'd jump him like an Olympic hunter riding for the gold. Speaking of horsey metaphors, I thought geldings were - ah - castrated?
America swallowed. "Yeah? Ya wanna go together?"
"Yes," England purred, locking his eyes with America's. "I do."
America brightened, although the knot in his stomach only wound tighter. "I've got plentya extras you c'n...use..." He trailed off, disturbingly aware of England's closeness, and the warmth of him.
"Oh, I'm sure you do," England said, so huskily that it was then America knew for sure that their minds were ambling down two very different paths.
"Ah."
"Got it now?"
"Yeah." America stood stock-still as England looked him over hungrily, and he had the fleeting feeling that perhaps he knew at last how a plump cow felt before it was sold to a butcher.
---
Dun dun dun~!!
I don't even know.
This is getting sort of out of hand, isn't it. < <;
Reply
"I got it. You want to share a saddle? I guess since you don't know the lay of the land, it'd be best to share a horse....good thing Gabriel's strong. And you're so skinny."
Reply
PLEASE ALLOW ME TO EXPRESS MY LOVE OF IT WITH EXCESSIVE CAPSLOCK AND HEARTS.
<3 <3 <3 <3 HEART HEART HEART <3 <3 <3 <3
Okay, so that doesn't even come close, but you get the idea, yes?
Reply
"Hey, England," America began, hoping to strike up some sort of conversation. It was not always a problem that he spoke when he was nervous.
"Yes?"
He bit back the urge to ask what the other nation was planning, and/or why he was sitting behind him, almost on his hips, if he leaned forward a bit more. "D'ya remember when I was a kid?"
England paused. "Of course."
"And we used ta rassle?"
"Yes." There was that dark undertone again, and America immediately regretted bringing it up.
"Yeah."
"What about it?"
"N-nothin'."
"Do you maybe want to try again?" England asked, fingers sliding to rest atop America's shoulders. "For old time's sake...?"
"No!" America hollered, face reddening to match Tequila's coat. "Er, not...unless...?"
England smirked, and kissed his neck; quick, soft touches; nothing more than lip; like the tickling sensation one gets on their palm when giving alfalfa to one's mount after a good ride.
He gasps at how erotic that suddenly seems, and wonders if he'll ever be able to look at the stable--built with his own hands--in the same light.
Then England was kissing the corner of his mouth, and he turned his head instinctively, sighing. He reached to cup England's cheek, surrendering to the fact that he probably wouldn't be going out with the horses that day, but England moved. Just up and walked away! America gaped after him.
England threw him the most coy (or was it openly flirtatious? He honestly couldn't tell) look he had ever received, and strode to the wall near the tack closet, where he took to examining some ropes.
"Wha...England, what're ya doin'?"
"Picking something good," came the simple response. America rose to his feet, brushed the hay from his pants, and put his hat back where it had fallen from on top of his sweat-slicked hair. He wasn't sure why. After all, they were inside the stable, which was free of the blinding sun. It was much too hot to be playing such games away of the house.
England walked back to America, looped a hardy rope around his neck, and tugged him close.
"I'll be riding today, Alfred," he said matter-of-factly. "But I'm certain you'll enjoy it just the same."
"Oh," was all America could manage.
"You're making this rather boring, Mister Drover." England began adding some intricate knotwork to the rope, and America watched him. He'd lost his tongue trying to figure out what was going to happen. It's not that he was stupid or anything; One could just never tell with England. Especially when England had been drinking.
---
Drover is another word for cowboy, rasslin(g)/wrassli(g) is sort of wrestling; rolling around and fighting, but not usually with the intent to hurt.
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I seriously can't stop giggling right now.
x'D
...I'm also getting extremely incoherent...Oyasumi!!
*flees*
Reply
Gabriel is a name I have loved since the beginning of forever. Molly sounded like a good name for a motherly horse. Tequila is named after a horse my sister once owned, who had the destinct behavioral trait of appearing drunk. All the time. He also had a coat the color of the rising sun.
---
Stripped of his shirt but still wearing the hat, America, on his hands and knees, was panting. England sat in front of him, painting his cheeks, nose, and forehead with butterfly kisses as he gently adjusted the makeshift lead.
"You sound exhausted," he said, tilting America's chin up slightly. "We've barely started!"
"Ahm...Arthur...Why dun' we go inside?"
"You love it here," England said in a clipped tone. "Why are you so insistent on the house? Is it the bed?"
America dropped his gaze.
England smirked. "It's them, then?" He indicated the horses.
America's face reddened further. "Yeah. Th-they're like kids ta me. I don' wan' 'em seein' this."
"As though they haven't seen or done the same sort," England chided. "We'll stay here."
And then he was pushing America up onto his haunches so that he could get the belt off, and pushing him back down to do it up just above the hipbones in immitation of the billet strap. It was the best they could do, since the saddles wouldn't fit him.
He tugged America's boots off and set them neatly beside Cherokee's stall, with a nod to the curious Appaloosa, before returning to run his hands along America's trembling withers.
America craned his neck, trying to watch England, but the older nation kept moving around, touching him here and there, planting kisses on the curve of a shoulder blade. He leaned over America's back, pressing against him, sighing into the back of his neck.
America groaned softly around the rope between his teeth, and arched into England, who retreated yet again.
---
Yeah. It's definitely getting out of hand.
Cherokee is just a name I figure works for a horse.
4:4o already?!
Nighty-night. :'3 I'll finish this later on.
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Haha, I love America being all awkward about the horses watching them. "America's trembling withers"? Oh man, I love that line and find it very sexy for some reason.
Out of hand? Probably, but it's pretty sexy all the same!
Reply
Yes. I would feel awkward too.
And I'm actually weirding myself out with all the horseish refs, etc. lol Withers
Great to hear you're enjoying it!! :3
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*blush*
Reply
---
"D-dang it..."
"What's the matter, boy?" England cooed. America shook his head. It was completely unreasonable to be so turned on by England petting him. A stroke here, a feather-touch there...There was no sense in his heart racing! No sense in the down-traveling warmth.
He shifted the damp rope in his mouth uncomfortable. It tasted musty and smelled of carroway seed.
England knelt in front of him again, and he leaned up, hands shifting from the floor. England pressed his hands back to the floor and kissed him hard. Before America could respond, England was walking away. Again.
"Woulja quit that?" he growled in aggravation.
"Quit what?" England asked, coming to sit beside the younger nation. "Give me your hands."
"Hem hawwin'." He held out his hands, and England tied them together at the wrists.
"Oh." If America didn't know better, he would have said England was blushing. It was probably just whatever alcohol he'd consumed.
Speaking of which, America really needed some whiskey.
"No." America scowled, but not for long, because England was kissing him again, running his fingers through America's hair, the Stetson slipping to dangle from its tie.
And then he was on his back, bound hands laying on his stomach, and England was straddling his hips, smirking from beneathe a crimson blush.
America was sure his face was even redder, because he had just pin-pointed England's plan.
Reply
Once again.
He leaned to kiss America's collar bone, before licking and nipping his way up the side of the neck. America gasped and groaned, wriggling below England. He brought his knees up suddenly, causing England to pitch forward and fall over him. They stared at eachother briefly, startled, before England stood, pushed on his knees until his legs were straight again, and knelt above his head.
"Hold still." America held still as England loosened the ropes on his wrists, put his arms behind his head, and paused. "How's that?"
America blinked. "Uh....'sokay." England nodded, and redid the ropes. He then went around to examine his work, and was very pleased. There, on the floor in the middle of his own horse stable, lay America, shirtless, bootless, and soon-to-be pantless. He was hot and needy as a young gelding, hair disheveled and covered in straw, eyes hazy, arms behind his head like a pillow, chest heaving beautifully.
England smirked.
He leaned in, eyelids fluttering, face close to America's, and whispered, "Do you want me?"
America tried to look away, really he did, but there was nothing to be done. "Yes," he breathed.
"Good," England mouthed, and pulled away just centimeters before their lips met.
America groaned.
---
Igi's such a tease.
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