Sunday, April 20, 2014

A Canada Lemon -- Like Comets, We Collide


Character: Canada

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: I've just spent the past 4 days dying from the stomach flu.  3:<  Go, go and lavish in this random assortment of Canadian smut!!  Oh, and Happy Easter, hope no one else is sick to their stomachs!


Canada is infamous for hockey, a little something that Matthew appears to have passed down to his people, because he is a God on ice.  As an unfortunate rule, you don't trust yourself to go out onto the slippery lake.  (In fact, you had been shocked when Matthew had even suggested the little winter rendezvous in the first place.)  But you are content sitting on the sidelines, tapping your ice skates together, watching the charming movements of your normally under confident lover.
Matthew is not as content.  "Come on," he says, holding out his hands for you as he slides to a stop two feet away.  You quirk a smile and tell him, "Are you sure?  I'll likely fall on my butt."  You've had bad experiences with ice in your childhood and you're not the type of person who forgets easily.  But Matthew only nods and heaves you up, immediately catching you against his chest when you accidentally stumble.
You laugh and wait for him to fix your hat, pat your gloves, fiddle with your scarf.  Then he grins, and it so fully encompasses his features that it takes your breath away.  "Ready?" he asks, clasping your hand in his.  You dare not say how unready you actually are, with him making your heart all fluttery.  You barely have time to nod before he's pushing off and sliding away, dragging you behind him.  A bit faster than you're ready for.
"Oh!" you cry, tripping forward.  He is just able to catch you before you fall face first onto the ice.  When you peer up at him in embarrassment, you can see that he's trying not to smile.  "Oh shut up!" you exclaim, not really angry.  This is, after all, one of the things Matthew is innately better at.  You have many talents in many things, so you're pleased when he can one up you in some way.  And the way his eyes sparkle, all bright violet, all smiling, makes you want to kiss him.
"We'll take it slower," he promises, and can't stop the chuckle that drifts into the air.  You scowl, just for the show of it, and he helps you back on your feet.  "You sort of have to walk backwards to move forward.  Here," he slides around to face you, taking both your hands.  In this position, you suddenly realize how taller he is than you, a feat that is often covered up by his under confidence.  But in his element, Matthew blossoms.
It gets better after that, but you can tell that the slow pace makes Matthew restless.  So after a couple minutes of him guiding you around, you untangle your hands from his and say, "I think I've got the hang of it."  (Even though you definitely don't and maybe never will.)  Nonetheless, he seems pleased and starts to slide away so gracefully, all agile and lithe, that you don't even bother to get annoyed at how easy it had been.
You watch him as you flounder forward, inch by dreadful inch.  You find yourself smiling as you wonder how he can move like that, so beautifully on the ice, and why he doesn't bring some of that gracefulness with him on land too.  You're so deep in your thoughts, your attention diverted from keeping balance, that it's really no surprise when you end up on your back.  You cringe cause your body is all aching from the fall, but when you open your eyes at the sky, the pain barely registers.  It is a beautifully blue and white mess of clouds, threaded through with the nettles of the branches.
"[Name]!  Are you alright!?"  Matthew's suddenly kneeling next to you, hovering over you, leaning down to look at you.  You're so overcome by that sky and his face and everything else that you start to laugh.  And suddenly you're aware of how ridiculous you are, laying on the ice.  And how this is probably how Matthew feels in social situations, in the face of your peculiar talents for getting out of sticky situations.
"I'm fine," you mumble when your laughter edges away.  His eyes soften and you raise your hand to his cheek, suddenly aware of his proximity and the lovely fact that you are both alone.  "Matthew…?" you whisper, noting at the way he seems to be unconsciously drawing nearer.  He breathes out a short, "Hmm?" and his eyes drop to your lips, which he desperately wants to kiss.  You prompt him by murmuring, "…Kiss me…?"  And he does, gratefully.
His kiss his soft and cherished, all mixed in with snow and ice and blue skies and crisp mountain air.  And then he's kissing you harder, slipping his hand beneath your head and pressing you into the ice.  And you're sliding your arms around his waist, clutching at his jacket, tangling your legs with his.  You don't feel cold anymore.  You only feel intense, lovely heat pooling everywhere, setting the air between you afire.
The kiss dissolves.  He pulls away for a very brief moment, takes one look at you (the way you're splayed out beneath him), and then delves back against your mouth because he can't possibly help himself.  Not when you're looking at him like that, not when he's so high on the powerful feeling of doing something he so terribly good at. 
"Mmm," you sigh against his mouth, cupping his neck and pulling him closer.  His touch is both gentle and invigorating, the perfect meld of emotion and desire.  And the way the cold ice presses against your back, countered only by his body as it presses flush against yours, makes your heart skip in giddy delight.  You'd like to suggest that you move somewhere more private, but unfortunately your kiss is interrupted in a much more embarrassing way.
"Mommy, are they kissing?" a young girl's voice asks, loudly.  Immediately, Matthew pulls away with a gasp, his face a furious red as he hurries to pull himself off of you.  You slowly sit up, feeling morbid embarrassment as well, and glance toward the mother and daughter.  It doesn't exactly surprise you that you've got company.  This is a mountain resort, and a very sprawling one at that.  You're more surprised at the lengthy amount of time you and Matthew got to spend alone. 
The mother clears her throat awkwardly and begins to quietly scold her daughter.  Meanwhile, Matthew pushes himself onto his feet and reaches down to help you up, still blushing.  You let him pull you up and softly ask, "Wanna head back to the lodge?"  Because you could do with a cup of hot cocoa right about now.  (Or something stronger.)
He looks relieved at the suggestion, which makes you giggle a little.  The mother and daughter are now putting their skates on, and so as you both move to the edge of the lake, you give them a small, apologetic smile.  Then you hurry to put your shoes back on.  You can't get to the lodge fast enough.
When you finally do, fifteen minutes later, you sit down with a tired sigh.  Matthew gives you a small, knowing grin and you bite your lip to stop from laughing.  Looking back on the situation, you suppose it had been a little funny.  You take a deep sip of the hot chocolate Matthew bought you and nudge his foot with yours.  He smiles boyishly and wraps both legs around your shins, a move that both surprises and excites you.  Here, in this winter resort miles away from home, you are both able to shed some of your inhibitions.  It is a lovely feeling.
"Tomorrow, I'll take you up the mountain," he tells you, reaching forward to play with your hand.  He threads his fingers with yours and rubs his thumb over your palm.  Then he asks, slowly, sort of hesitantly, "…Are you having fun?"  And the end of his sentence seems to rush into the silence.  'Are you having fun with me?'
You look at him for a moment, then slide both your hands into his and keep them there.  He blinks at you.  You murmur a soft, simple, "Yes."  And he can't stop the relieved smile from forming on his face.  When he sees the smirk that's curling up your mouth, though, he pauses.  His curiosity is blown away when you lean forward and suggest, in a voice of molded eager desire, "Let's go back to our room, Matthew."  The way you say his name is like nothing he's ever heard, all wrapped up in the promises of heat and skin and closed doors and privacy.  He suddenly can't wait to see those promises to fruition.
Though he doesn't give you a 'yes' or a 'no', you can see his answer boldly making its way onto his expression.  He likes your suggestion.  It makes you smile and stand up, taking your winter coat into your arms, your skates into your other hand, and looking expectantly at him before starting on the path to your rented room.  He follows quickly.
In the elevator, you wrap your arm around his waist and fit yourself to his side.  It's a normal move, for a couple.  Completely innocent.  And yet, there is something so exotic about touching someone you love in a public place, even if the touch is simple and common.  Matthew swallows down a burst of desire (to move you closer, to press you against the elevator wall, to kiss you like he had before), and you smile because even in this silence you can read him like an open book.  What you see doesn't merely amuse you: it excites you too, with the sort of passion that a person gets from the anticipation of it all.
The elevator dings and you head out into the hallway, still tucked to his side.  It is fairly empty but that doesn't surprise you.  Most of the guests spend their days skiing or skating or by the heated pool and it is still the middle of the afternoon.  Matthew fishes out the key card when you step up to your room and slides it in.  Then he reaches for the handle, peers down at you, and meets your eyes.  Violet crashes behind his gaze, impatient and steady.  When the door opens, you hurry inside and immediately turn to him.  Before the door closes all the way, you're wrapping your arms around his shoulders and dragging him into a kiss.
His cheeks flush with gentle pink, but the way he returns your kiss cancels out all hints of his own shyness.  Normally he would have spluttered and slowed.  Now, with all the confidence that comes from a much needed vacation, Matthew sinks into the kiss and pulls you closer, tipping your head back as he explores the contours of your mouth. 
There is little room for hesitance between the movements of his lips and the slow drag of his fingers, which snake beneath your shirt and press touches into your spine.  You find yourself clutching onto him tightly, his shirt crumpled in your grasp.  When you murmur, "Matthew…" he muffles the noise, swallows it, lets it shiver down his body and ignite the arousal spreading thickly through his veins.  He gathers you up closer and the kiss slowly dissolves.  When he opens his eyes, you're already watching him, and the sight of your bruised mouth and wide eyes and erratic breathing has his body turning to fire.
His cheeks turn to fire too, a bright red that engulfs his delicate pale skin.  And you laugh a little at the sight of him, but your laugh is dark and twisty and doesn't ring with innocent amusement like it usually does.  You push your body closer to his.  Your lips careen, graze past his mouth but you don't kiss him.  He watches you carefully, breath mingling with yours, hands hot around your waist and against your back.  And then you're whispering the most lovely set of words into a breathless kiss and it makes him feel like water breaking through the constraints of a glass cage.
"I'm in love with you…Matthew…" the words merge against his skin and it sounds like little bells have been attached to the letters of his name, because he swears he's never liked hearing it so much before.  His heart feels like it'll beat right out of his chest and he can't breathe, can't breathe.  But then he feels your hands rubbing warmth and desire into other parts of him and his inability to breathe is pushed aside for, frankly, more important things.
Matthew has never put much stock into physical desire.  Perhaps that's because he's never had anyone to be physical with.  But he simply cannot get enough of your touch, of the way you're able to take his shyness and turn it into brilliant, dazzling control.  He moans when you rub his erection through his pants, which bulges slightly into the air.  He buries his face into your hair and stumbles against you and clenches his fists into the back of your shirt, which is still unfortunately splayed against your body.
You kiss over his jaw and press power into his skin, like little pinpricks of sharpened stars that edge over the blurry line of his vision.  Then you're moving your palms up his body and lifting his shirt over his head, because there's only so much you can take right now and clothing isn't one of those things.  He lets you, and when the shirt tumbles past his head, his hair and glasses become skewed in the most adorable way, and you giggle because it's so counterproductive, that adorableness.  It's supposed to be hot and erotic and sensual, but being with Matthew always turns into something that transcends that.  Something that has more to do with comfort and zealousness and yes, a shred of that sensuality.
You splay your fingers over his bare chest, still smiling.  You watch him push his glasses back into place, run a hand through his hair.  Then he glances down at you and gives you a little pouty look that makes him even more adorable, and you can't stop yourself from laughing.  Because in this hotel room, a million miles from home, that comfort and zealousness all careen into you and him.  And it doesn't even matter that you can never seem to get the erotica down pat like other lovers can.  It doesn't matter because it's easier like this, smoother, like white wine and snow stretched as far as can be seen.
"What is it?" Matthew asks after a moment.  The way you're looking at him makes him curious, maybe a little hesitant.  He watches your smile crease up into your eyes and you hum pleasantly.  "You're cute," you tell him, closing the space between your bodies.  He swallows a little, tries to push down the butterflies that always, always erupt within him when you're near.  Then he smiles a little and shakes his head, looking down at you and murmuring, "Aren't we supposed to be making love?"
It's the closest thing to kinky that Matthew's ever said.  He seems to have realized this as well and blushes.  But you only smirk, lean up and kiss the edge of his mouth, thumb over the heat of his blush.  Then you nod and say, "You're right."  And you chuckle because before Matthew came hurtling into your life, you'd never gotten caught up in someone's smile.  But when he smiles you're lost like a lone ship at sea, and you forget about everything else you'd planned to do with him.  But now you remember.
You slide your hands down his arms, you light touch tickling into his skin.  The tips of your fingers gently slip down his hands, brush into his palms, his knuckles, before your arms drop to your sides.  You tilt your head back and look at him, and in a sultry-but-lighthearted sort of voice, you breathe, "Undress me."  Then you watch his reaction to your words, the delicious shiver that he cannot control, the gentle blush that tips against his neck and ears, the sheen of bashful interest that turns his gaze into a beautifully scintillating promise.
"Undress you…" he whispers, like he can't quite believe the words.  Like he isn't sure how to go about it, because now that he thinks of it, he's never just undressed you before.  You'd always had a part in it, and you'd always been pressed up against him and kissing him and in the heat of the moment.  But it had never been like this: dry like a desert and a million times more callow. 
You raise an eyebrow and smirk.  "Mm.  Undress me."  You step forward and he can feel the heat of your body invade his skin.  And he wonders if you can hear his heartbeat because it's so loud, to him.  And it rattles right through his flesh like torrid, barren bones that clack into a jumbled, incoherent, skeletal mess.
His fingers are shaking when he raises them up to touch your waist.  He steps closer, looking down at you with those bright eyes.  And you smile, this time softly, like you're trying to convey to him that he doesn't have to be afraid of you, that he can touch you as much as he likes because you like it, too.  He sighs out (torrid, barren), and slips his fingers around the hem of your shirt.  He pulls it up and off of you, and you gently circle your arms around his waist.
His violet eyes lurch into yours just as his fingers trim around your waist.  Carefully, like he's inhaling all the stars in the sky, Matthew leans down and presses his lips against yours.  You don't kiss him back.  You only immerse yourself in the delicate, sweet way he tucks kisses against your skin, lightly pulls at your bottom lip, scraps his teeth softly at your sensitive flesh.  And as he kisses you, distracts himself, falls into the promise of your love, he slowly unbuttons your jeans and jostles them down over your hips. 
This time, you help him.  Your jeans hit the floor and you kiss him back, mirroring the slow passion of his movements.  Kissing him like this is like sitting in a dark theater listening to opera.  The thrill of the pitch, the way it zigzags through the atmosphere, like you can physically feel the song digging into your skin and nerves and sinew.  And the way the reverberations chill down your spine and glide, break, attack, whisper.  And immersed in the imperfect beauty of a gentle but robust and raw and ragged darkness, kissing and breathing and making love seems to be the only course of action one should ever need to take.
His fingers pepper touches along your thighs, the tops of them, the sides of them, like he's blinded by the warmth of your body, the way it crushes into his.  Then he tumbles that touch to your panties, drags them down over your hips.  The kiss dissolves into silence, into an intermission, and the last note of the opera rings into his gaze as he directs it at you.  Your panties drop to the floor.  He raises his hands to unclip your bra and watches your every movement as he removes it.  The atmosphere is suddenly not adorable any more.  It is loaded, smoky like a slowly smoldering incense, creased with the empowered quiet that often accompanies sex.
You raise your fingers to his temples, curl them into his hair, bring his head down.  You press your breasts against him and he sighs out at the feel of your bareness pressed against his bareness.  Then you kiss him and the opera shatters into the dangerous lilt of deep baritone and you can't stop kissing him because it's so addictive.
"Mmm…you're still…wearing…those jeans…" you hear yourself whisper, but it's more like a dark murmur twisted through with the growling reverberation of passion.  And Matthew shudders at the sound of your words, the way they sink into the air and make it sizzle against his skin. 
You push him back, gently, until the bed is looming up behind you and Matthew's falling backwards onto it.  He looks surprised to be suddenly laying down.  His eyes are messy with desire and wide, so wide as he looks up at you.  His hair is strewn across his forehead and splayed against the sheets.  His glass are skewed again.  And there is no way he's adorable anymore, not at all.  Not when his jeans are hanging low on his hips.  Not when the tent of his pants has grown and his body has turned into a flushed and unmistakably aroused mess.
You follow him down, hook your legs around the both of his and straddle him.  Then you sinks against his core, rub circles against his erection and watch him gasp and clutch the sheets hard.  Your body hums in anticipation.  The reminder that your lover is hard and aroused and yours makes you feel delirious and crazy.  So it's no surprise that you waste little time in unzipping his pants.
"Help me out," you murmur to him.  He lifts his hips and helps you shimmy his jeans down his thighs.  You leave them hanging off him like that, not particularly caring that they're still clinging to his legs.  He doesn't care much either, because then your hand is pumping his length and he's too busy trying to remember how to breathe.
"A-Ahh…" he gasps, staring down at you.  The sight of your hand around his cock is almost too much for him to handle.  He bucks his hips up and clenches his teeth hard when your thumb brushes over his tip.  "[N-Name]…ahh, pl-please hurry…up…!"  And you can't possibly deny him when he's begging for you like this.  So you give him one last pump and crawl up his body, slowly starting to take him inside you.
His shaft is hard like iron and spears into you like nothing else.  Matthew's eyes are blown like twin eclipses, and he watches you closely as his cock is pressed ever further into you.  His chest rises and falls hurriedly and you splay your hands against it, brushing your touch over his nipples.  Then, when he's fully immersed within your core, you lift your hips and drag him out of you, then slam back down.  He crumbles, deteriorates, fragments into a thousand little pieces and sinks right into the mattress.  His mouth parts and his eyes turn into molten purple.  You're quick to press yourself against him, and quicker to take his mouth with yours.
The movements of your lips are sloppy at best, but then again you don't really care about being neat at this point.  The wind rushes at the window outside and rattles the glass.  The bed starts to creak from your thrusts and the weight of your bodies.  But all you can think about is Matthew, laying prone beneath you, gasping against your mouth neck the hollow of your ear, clutching at your waist and hips like he's drowning. 
In some ways, he is.  He's drowning within you, searching and yearning and giving into the mesh of emotion that clings like raindrops to his flesh.  And he wants to drown, so so badly.  He wants to fall into that sliver of peaceful, dark silence and come.  And perhaps it's the loaded atmosphere, but already Matthew can feel his end approaching.
He gasps and thrusts up, meeting your hips halfway and rattling a moan from you.  You bury your face into his neck and the mattress below.  His fingers reach up and he tugs at your hair, pulling gently but firmly with one hand.  His other hand clenches over your rear, pulling at your skin as his orgasm begins to shake through him. 
"[Name]!" his back arches just a little, just enough to make you feel yet another push of satisfied desire at the sight of his helplessness.  "I can't stop!  I can't -- nng!"  His coming before either of your are prepared, but if anything it's utterly sexy and you have to pull away so you can watch him.  His hips buck up into yours senselessly, his face crumples with desperate emotion, and his body spins off into a brilliant, flushed display of his finish.  It's so erotic that you can't stop your own body from reacting to it. 
You feel the crease of your own end infiltrating your body, but it's not enough.  Your thrusts quicken.  You push down his hips and milk him clean and feel his release saturate the very deepest part of you, and you watch him gasp and pant as you gloriously drag out his orgasm and search for your own.
It comes to you like a lone star dazzling across the sky, poignant and bright.  All at once you're moaning and thrusting harder and he's touching you reverently as he watches from below, eyes wide like he's witnessing the most lovely thing in the entire world.  And when finally it's over, all you can do is fall against his chest and try to find the breath that you've long ago lost. 
He wraps his arm tight around you and sighs.  The both of your are numb with satisfaction, hot and diluted with the fullness of sex.  You raise your head just a little and look down at him, and Matthew gives you a soft, small smile that makes you chuckle.  You run your hand through his hair and brush your thumb over the edge of his glasses, still skewed on his face. 
"I like going on vacations with you," you decide, grinning crookedly.  He hums, closes his eyes, and falls back.  You follow, snuggled up as close as a lover, comfortable and hungry for his presence.
"We should do this more often," he says tiredly in response.  You're unsure if he's talking about the actual vacation or the mindblowing sex that accompanies it, but then again you don't suppose it matters.  So you hum in agreement and press a kiss to his jaw, sighing out in exhaustion. 
Outside, the wind shrieks and rattles, and the daytime sun forms dove gray shadows over the floor.  Inside, you fall into a gentle sleep that is made out of bare skin and tired sighs and comfort and zealousness.  And somewhere, sometime, in some dark theater, a curtain slowly drops in a powerful clutch of heavy velvet, and the last note of a tragic story splits through the quiet stillness of the audience like two comets colliding. 

~~~

Sunday, April 13, 2014

A Johanna Mason Lemon -- Efflorescence

Character: Johanna Mason

Fandom: The Hunger Games

OC: Bethany Carpenter

Inspiration: This is possibly one of my most shameless lemons yet, so prepare yourselves ;3


Johanna made love like she was roughly scratching away at dried paint.  She had a certain way about her that made all her movements seem poignant and raw.  And she always said that Bethany was a mushy romantic, at least compared to her own pragmatic dynamism.  Bethany was alright with falling into this category.  She liked to consider it a balance, as perfect as it was going to ever get, between two souls who couldn't help but careen into one another.  Johanna would scoff at the thought, but Bethany knew that inwardly she was pleased.
"Would you just hurry up?" Johanna grumbled, her head cushioned into crossed arms that were strewn up and behind her hair.  Forest green eyes blinked down to watch the unhurried ministrations of her lover, who was nestled comfortably between legs, her lips tracing a slow path down Johanna's abdomen.  The musky scent of arousal set the scene in the lightest of ways, like the taste of a dream playing with the senses.
Bethany raised her head to glance at Johanna, a dry expression hooking itself onto her features.  This was another difference between them: Johanna's patience ran out extremely quickly, whereas Bethany liked taking her time.  It made for a lot of interesting scenarios, if nothing else.
Bethany kissed the top of her lover's thigh.  Against her skin, she murmured, "Do you have somewhere else to be?"  The response she received was a scoff and a rough twist of fingers in Bethany's hair, impatiently lifting her head again.  Green dashed into articulate eyes. 
Instead of answering Bethany's question, though, Johanna merely asked one of her own.  "Did you bring the strap on?"  The bluntness of her words almost had Bethany blushing, but she held it at bay because she knew it would only amuse Johanna. 
With a disgruntled sigh, Bethany lifted herself up and glowered down at her lover.  "Are you sure you're ready for that?  We only just got started."  The last part came out as a whine, because Bethany had wanted to drag out the initial pleasure as long as possible.  The petting, the touching, it thrilled her.  But Johanna preferred a more brash, direct approach.
"Just put it on," Johanna said, settling her head back into her arms.  In that position, her breasts were pushed up into the air just a tiny bit.  It drew Bethany's attention and made her want to lean down and caress that scarred, flawed body.  But instead she just rolled her eyes and slid off the bed, reaching for the bag she'd brought and tossed on the ground earlier that evening.  When she returned to the bed, she was reluctantly buckling the contraption around her hips.  Johanna watched with heady eyes, her mouth curved into the hint of a delicious smirk.
"You look so sexy with that on," the older woman purred, slowly pushing herself up.  Her eyes lingered on the straps that clung around Bethany's thighs.  The primal, predatory way Johanna smiled made a thrill of uneven pleasure rush through her, like a waterfall of heady passion.
Bethany tilted her head and reached down to fondle with the fleshy strap on, pumping it like she would a real cock.  She watched Johanna's eyes light up in interest as she watched her every movement.  Then Bethany smirked and murmured, "Aren't you gonna touch me, 'hanna?"  And the older woman scoffed and sat up, gently pushing Bethany onto her back and muttering, "Che.  Maybe I should be the one wearing it.  You deserve some punishment, you rude wench."  She drew out the last word and it sounded like sticky honey was saturating every letter.
Bethany beamed.  "D'you wanna ride me or something?  Shouldn't I make sure you're ready for it first?"  But her words were careless and backless, because she knew that Johanna was more than ready, and besides, the older woman liked a little pain mingled in with the pleasure.  Something that Bethany learned early on.
"Shut up," Johanna muttered, and then she kissed her younger lover hard, her fingers tugging into Bethany's hair and pulling at her scalp.  Bethany let out a little whimpering sound that made Johanna feel full of power, and she pushed Beth further into the mattress whilst pressing a knee between her legs.  The dildo shifted against Johanna's leg and the reminder of it made the kiss that much hotter, wetter, deeper.
"Mmm…" Bethany moaned, hooking a leg around Johanna's slim waist.  She pushed herself onto her elbows and kissed Johanna harder, their tongues meeting and rubbing against each other.  Then the kiss dissolved when Johanna gently pushed Beth back down, hooked her legs up around her waist, and curled her fingers around the dildo.
Johanna had this way of taking what she wanted first and leaving Bethany gasping with a pounding arousal.  But she always paid Bethany back tenfold later on, so Bethany wasn't about to complain as she watched Johanna rub the strap on against her folds.  Instead, she just got comfortable, settling herself against the pillows and watching with heady, fascinated eyes as Johanna began to push the cock into her core.  Then, when the older woman had taken all of it, Johanna let out a deep sigh and started shifting her hips against Bethany's.  It was this moment that Beth enjoyed the most, because it meant she could touch Johanna as much as she wanted and the older woman wouldn't stop her.
She raised her hands to Johanna's waist, rubbed over the tops of her thighs for a moment before reaching up to trace the underside of her breasts.  Then, because she still dearly wanted to taste that skin, Bethany gently pushed herself into a sitting position and lowered her mouth to Johanna's breast.  Johanna watched, swallowing down her moans and rocking against the strap on faster, faster.  And when Bethany gently tugged her nipple between tongue and teeth, Johanna let out the most mesmerizing moan that made Bethany utterly ache.
"Does it feel good?" Bethany asked after a long minute of licking and sucking and tasting.  She raised her head to Johanna's, looked into those bright eyes that were filled with delirious passion.  And the answer Beth got was worth everything second spent glorifying that body.  Johanna tangled one hand into Beth's hair and forced her head back, her mouth lurching down to devour Bethany's lips.  The strength of the kiss, coupled with the increasing pace of Johanna's hips, left Bethany with the knowledge that her lover was nearly there.
"Mmm," Johanna moaned, the sound muffling into Beth's mouth.  She swallowed the sound, taking the kiss deeper and curling one hand around the older woman's waist.  Her hips rocked forward just a little, and though the position didn't allow for much movement, the small improvement sent Johanna spiraling down into a burning pit of desire.  She broke the kiss and buried her face into Bethany's neck, breathing out hard and pressing her breasts against her young lover's.  "I'm gonna come," she warned, and her voice was surprisingly strong even as the rest of her quivered and shook. 
Bethany took it all in stride.  She nodded, looked up towards the ceiling and murmured, "Whenever you're ready."  And she was barely finished with her sentence before Johanna was arching her back, pounding her hips harder, taking the strap on deeper, faster.  She let out a grumbled moan that seemed to crackle and break and shift with pleasure, and Bethany let it reverberate through her as Johanna drowned against her smaller frame.
Then Johanna was pushing Bethany onto her back, moving her hips smoothly as she dragged out her own orgasm.  She closed her eyes and Bethany could only watch, watch as the remnants of passion filtered through her expression, breath, movements.  It was lovely.  Then it was done, and Johanna was sighing out and pulling away, sliding off the fake cock and tracing the buckles that held it against Bethany's waist.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, both taken aback by the immense pleasure of being together.  Then Johanna leaned in to press her mouth against Bethany's, and into the kiss she murmured a low, "It's your turn."  The younger woman shivered at the words and let her lover unbuckle the strap on and slide it off.
"Are you gonna put that on now?" Beth asked, her voice sort of lazy even against the backdrop of intense desire.  But her lover only shook her head, smirked, and said, "I've got a better idea.  You'll like it."  The promise had Bethany sitting up and raising an eyebrow, curiosity getting the better of her.  It was only when Johanna had dug around in the drawer beside the bed that said curiosity was sated.  The toy was a hot pink and Bethany was well acquainted with it, but was usually the one who used it on Johanna and not the other way around.
She gave Johanna a crooked grin and shifted her legs apart, looking positively mischievous.  "I do like this idea," she murmured, blinking up at the older woman.  Johanna slid closer, nudged Beth's legs around her waist, and scoffed playfully.  Then she gently pressed the dildo against her lover's core and smirked, "Guess we don't need lubricant.  You're soaking wet, you little slut."
Bethany pouted up at her, probably because of the mock insult, and whined, "Hurry up, 'hanna.  This little slut needs you~"  And Johanna gave her a small shove as though to say, 'stop being so corny'.  A moment later, the older woman was rather roughly pushing the toy into her lover.
"Tch!  Go slower!" Bethany exclaimed indignantly, her back arching in discomfort.  She sent Johanna a pouting glare, but the older woman only smirked and stubbornly ignored her.  "'Hanna - ohhh!" a little buzzing sound filled the static silence and made Bethany arch her back in something that had little to do with pain.  Her fingers clutched at the sheets and she gasped loudly, feeling the vibrations of the dildo traveling to places inside her that she hadn't even known existed.  And above her, Johanna's eyes glittered.
It wasn't gentle, the movements of that toy.  Johanna knew how to combine the pleasure and the pain in the most delicious and intricate of ways.  Her long fingers brushed over the nub of Bethany's clit and, coupled with the vibrations and motions of the toy, it made her orgasm come all the faster.  Beth's hips surged forward helplessly, her mind a startlingly blank maze woven through with pleasure.  She felt herself launching into her orgasm before she could stop herself, and by then all she could do was lay there and let Johanna work her magic on her body.
"'Hanna…'hanna…!" she cried, twisting into an arch that had Johanna's mouth watering.  The older woman quickened her already fast pace, pumping the toy in and out of Bethany's core and watching her lover unravel with harsh, domineering eyes.  It wasn't until Bethany was gasping and spent, splayed out against the sheets, that Johanna slowed down and eventually tossed the toy over the edge of the mattress, not caring where it landed.
Then the older woman crawled up Bethany's body, nudging her limbs aside and collapsing against Beth's chest.  Her chin rested right above her young lover's breast, and Johanna idly slid her hand up and down Bethany's side as she listening to her lover's erratic breathing begin to slow down. 
"I'm not finished with you yet," Johanna warned, her voice low with unfulfilled passion that had yet to be released.  Bethany let out a breathless chuckle and smoothed her hand through Johanna's hair.  Their legs tangled together.
"Glad to hear it," came her soft response.  She pressed a kiss to her lover's head and closed her eyes.  They would have ample time to explore and rediscover the nature of their relationship, but for now, a little rest was more than welcome. 

~~~

Monday, April 7, 2014

An Austria Lemon -- Nefarious

Character: Austria

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: The sequel to 'Misfit Me' is finally up!  It's not my best, but hopefully you all like it :3  


Roderick likes to think of himself as sophisticated and classy.  Centuries of adhering to these personal codes of conduct have made him (in his opinion) into the perfect gentleman.  He is proud of his many talents, and yet…he has come to realize that in this modern, sprawling world, a part of him has been sort of, kind of, a little left behind.
He is mostly fine with this.  There is nothing in this modern world that quite compares to the colorful world of his predecessors.  He would rather remember the times of knights and sword fighting and Mozart.  There is little that quite excites him as much as listening to the classical, passionate notes of times gone by.  Except perhaps, for one thing.
You are traditional too, in a wicked sort of way that you deftly try to hide.  He isn't sure why you hide away such a lovely part of yourself.  He isn't sure but there is little he can do about it.  You are stubborn and strive to be as modern as possible.  Your clothes, you manner of speech, the way you address your would-be superiors, it all lends a fascinatingly contemporary air to you.  An air that sometimes makes Roderick feel a little, well, old.
And even though he knows that the rest of the world is slowly leaving him behind, he desperately doesn't want you to do the same.  Which is why he occasionally sheds that gentlemanly conduct and uses more underhanded ways to remind you that he is still the Great Austria, still proud and sophisticated and classy.  He wouldn't say he is being manipulative.  He has just learned all the best ways to exploit you.  He knows you won't complain at least.
You certainly don't.  From the moment you walk into house and notice the clothes he's wearing, you stare at him wide-eyed.  Then you drop your purse to the floor, unravel your scarf, unbutton your coat, all the while letting your eyes scan his figure again and again and again.  A relentless stare that makes Roderick feel only a tiny bit uncomfortable, because he knows that if he gives you feel even the smallest bit of control you will walk all over him.
"Roderick…" you drawl, smirking.  Your coat falls but you take no notice of it.  You're still checking him out, still dragging your eyes over those amazing God-like jeans.  It's been weeks since you went to that store to buy them and he hasn't worn them even once.  So you're surprised to see that he's suddenly remembered about them.  Surprised, turned on, and very eager to find out why he's decided to give you such a lovely eye-full.  You bite your lip and meet his eyes, smirking vividly, "You're looking very modern today."
He raises his eyebrow at the slight jab and proceeds to ignore you.  There is nothing you hate more in the world than being ignored.  He knows it.  Knows as well that it is the quickest and more amusing way to make you snap.  He turns a page in his book and, out of the corner of his eye, sees you frown.
"You aren't gonna ask where I've been all day?" you wonder idly, walking into the room and collapsing into the chair opposite him.  You tap your fingernails (rouge, avant-garde style) on the small, circular tabletop and blink at him.  After a moment or two, Roderick raises his head to look at you, his face a lovely mask of utter boredom.  He says lazily, "I'm trying to read, [Name]."  And as he turns back to his book, he feels a vigorous spike of excitement shoot through him. 
You stare, trying to decide if he's seriously brushing you off or just joking around.  Roderick doesn't joke.  Why, then, does it feel as though you're missing something dreadfully important?  You lean forward, glancing at the book he's reading.  Musical theory.  It can't be that interesting since Roderick's probably read it numerous times already.  But he looks totally engrossed in the text.  Maybe a little too engrossed.
"I see that," you say in amusement.  Your legs brush against his and then curl around his shins.  He glances up at you with a raised eyebrow, and you give him a smile that says, 'those jeans would look lovely strewn against tiles'.  He glowers.  You brush your fingers against his hand.
Roderick never puts up much of a fight.  So you're surprised when today, he snaps his book shut and stands, untangling his legs from yours and saying, "No, [Name].  I'm not in the mood to play your games."  He glances at you like you're a child.  And under the carefully put upon air around him, you actually find yourself feeling like some bratty, spoiled girl.  Rouge nails, womanly figure, sex appeal and all.  You stare in shock as he turns to the kitchen and starts to brew tea.
There must be something you're missing.  Roderick is wearing those jeans and acting all deliciously hard to get and that's not normal.  So there must be something you're missing.  You stand up and pad into the kitchen, wildly interested in the way he's acting and not really hurt by the way he brushes you off.  You're most fascinated. 
You're happy, at least, to see that Roderick pulls out two teacups and not one.  He isn't entirely brushing you off then.  So you don't feel as bad as you sidle up next to him, fitting your side to his and peering at his face.  He glances at you, emotionless, and to your surprise he raises a hand and touches your hair, drags his fingers down your cheek, neck, arm.  His touch is a gradual building of intensity that makes you swallow, move closer.  But when his fingers burn against the skin of your abdomen, the kettle starts to go off and he turns away as if nothing just happened.  You stare and take the teacup when he hands it to you, not sure what to say in the face of this new and highly intriguing man.
The jeans had been the first strike.  The personality overhaul the second.  Roderick is quite enjoying himself.  He rarely lowers himself to this form of entertainment.  But the expression on your face is priceless, and though he realizes that he might be a little harsh, he will make it up to you later.  So he doesn't feel too bad when he blinks casually at you from over the rim of his teacup.  Inside he is basking in your confusion.  He should have known you'd figure it out though.
He is not so adept at these social skills than he'd like to believe.  The art of the perfect expression is perhaps the only thing he excels in.  Other than that he is see-through.  Transparent.  And you're slowly beginning to grasp at the finer details of his little plan.
"Those pants…" you inch forward, reveling in the slight surprise that flits over his face.  When your hand slides over his stomach, the muscles beneath his shirt flex and clench.  You tilt you head and mutter lowly, "They make me a little crazy.  But you already know that, don't you?"  He swallows and must realize that you're in the know.  He must because the next move is a staggering display of thinly veiled despair.
He shoves his teacup to the counter.  The contents slush and spill down the edges but he doesn't care for once.  All he cares about is his plan.  (Which is more about maintaining dominance and less about driving you crazy, but the latter is fine too.)  The next moment he's tucking you between the counter and himself, threading his fingers into your hair, and kissing you hard.
You're surprised but not anywhere near complaining.  The way he forces your head back has you clutching his tightly, trying to match the burning pace of his mouth.  But it's hard to, hard because Roderick is utterly crushing any of your attempts at control.  You'll admit that the notion is rather arousing for you.
He forces your head to the side to kiss a path down your neck, nibbling here and there and delighting in the way your skin blossoms with red.  "Mmm," you tilt your head back farther to accommodate him and bite your lip, thoroughly enjoying the ease of his dominance.  He's enjoying it, too.  The way your body quivers beneath his has him jerking one leg between the both of yours and settling against your core. 
His hips mold against yours, the friction from those jeans rubbing heat into you.  You make another breathless moaning noise that Roderick proceeds to swallow as he rushes forward to kiss you again.  This time, he lets you tangle your fingers into his hair and kiss him back.  But by now, you're quite content with letting him have his way, and very interested to see where this will go. 
"Mmm…" you sigh again when he pushes his mouth against yours.  His fingers spin little circles on the skin above your pants.  His tongue dips against your lower lip and he starts to nibble at it.  You moan a little and whimper, "You're being…really kinky today Roderi - mmph!"  He swallows your words and revels in the surprised but oh so delightful noise you splutter into the suddenly deep kiss.
And what a kiss it is.  His fingers tilt your chin up, poised and curled around your neck.  His mouth devours yours in a carelessly slow manner, like he's savoring you as well as struggling with his own internal impatience.  Your skin is burning.  It doesn't help that his entire body is pressing yours into the counter, and that you can feel his erection grinding deliciously against your stomach.  You grip him hard and kiss him back, trying to maintain a level of clear-headedness.  But inside you're a mess and you've got a feeling you're not fooling Roderick at all.
His hand suddenly slips around your neck and he pulls you closer.  The touch borders on menacing, but Roderick doesn't do menacing and it only further excites you.  You hear yourself moaning before you can stop yourself, and then Roderick's smiling gleefully against your lips and your narrowing your eyes at him.  He chuckles, "Do you like it when I act this way?"  And the lilt of his voice, the way it cascades into an amused silence, makes you glower.  He's getting you back for the dressing room escapade.  It's a realization that hits you suddenly and profoundly, and you're not sure why it took this long to figure out.
"Hmph," you make a face at him and he presses his forehead against yours, smiling.  His eyes soften up just a little bit.  His expression makes your heart swell but you won't admit it.  Instead, you just curl your arms around his waist and mutter, "This is your revenge, isn't it?"  His growing smirk and the twinkle in his eye answers your question.  You sigh, dragging your hands up his chest, starting to mess with the buttons of his shirt.  "Well then I guess we'd better hurry it up.  I have things to do."  Your lie rolls off your tongue in such an obvious way that Roderick finds himself scoffing.
"Do you really?" he asks dryly, casually undoing your pants and shimmying them down your legs.  You watch with a pout, not helping or hindering, just studying the lazy way he removes your clothing.  When you're bare, and your underwear is laying on the kitchen tiles, Roderick devours the sight of you with hungry but patient eyes.  You tilt your head, wait for him to get his thoughts back together, and smirk.
After a moment, he starts loosening his own clothes and you eagerly help him, dashing his shirt onto the tiles and then sighing.  You trace the hem of his jeans, where the denim meets his skin, and he raises an eyebrow.  With a smirk, you explain, "It's such a shame that these have to go.  You never wear them."  To annunciate your words, you slide your palm over his erection and give him a gentle squeeze.  His eyes flutter briefly, but Roderick seems to be in amazing control of himself today and he doesn't make any sort of sound to urge you on.  You pout.
"Take them off," he tells you after a moment.  His eyes clash into yours with unbending resolve.  His mouth hovers temptingly near yours but he doesn't move in.  He merely watches you, until you have no choice but to listen.  You can't deny that, when you go to unbutton the jeans, you're a little bit more excited than you outwardly claim.  It's been a while since you've fallen into this sort of situation, and the ebb of arousal has taken its toll on you.
"Fine, fine." You mutter, slipping the zipper down over the bulge of his cock.  He watches you closely as you do, and you smirk up at him.  A moment later, you're hooking your fingers into his jeans and boxers and tugging them down over his hips.  He helps, then kicks them off, and steps closer to you.  The feel of his freed cock, the hardness of it against your stomach, makes you shiver into him.
He hums out a little, slipping his hands around your back to grip your butt.  He gently squeezes it, his mouth lingering closer to yours.  The silent demand in his eyes makes you chuckle and close the space between you, pressing your mouth obediently to his and sinking into the kiss with a sigh.  You hook one leg around his waist, grind into his erection a little, and moan when he presses himself closer.  The friction pulls at you, makes you crazy.  You grip him hard and buck your hips forward, but your impatience only seems to make him more amused.  You'll eventually get him back for all this, but for now all you can do is drown against him and try to remember how to breathe.  It is harder than you'd think.  His next words only make things harder on you.
"…Turn around," he mumbles against your mouth.  You stop kissing him.  To say that you aren't surprised would be a blatant lie, because never once has Roderick ever been willing to do anything like that.  But he merely raises an eyebrow and squeezes your waist playfully, like he's silently laughing at your disbelief. 
"Really?" you ask a moment later, narrowing your eyes at him.  You definitely don't want to appear to be too eager, even though his suggestion has made your blood boil in anticipation.  "Are you sure?" you ask again, slowly, like the words you're forming are not your own. 
He 'che's and blushes the faintest bit, just enough to drag back a sense of the old him.  The one that lives with utmost dignity and would never even consider doing anything kinky whilst making love.  (At least until you crashed head first into his life.)  You grip his forearms and watch him curiously.
After a moment, Roderick gives you a sideways look and mutters, "Don't you always complain that I'm boring?"  He starts to push you around and you let him, laughing, "I never said that!  I only said that you're a little bit repetitive." 
You imagine that he rolls his eyes at your words.  You're about to say something more, but your words die on your tongue because then, his hips are molding against your butt and the hardness of him takes your breath away.  A moment later, when he starts to gently push himself into you, more than just your breath is shattered.
"God!" you gasp immediately, because it hurts and you aren't expecting it.  But he's gentle even when he's rough, a paradox that can only be truly, really understood when he's got you pressed up against him, his hands everywhere.  His fingers slip around your hips to rub reassuring circles into you inner thighs, spreading you apart at the same time.  But there is nothing reassuring about the way he hilts himself inside you.  There is only the rawness of lust, the way it makes a person drown with anticipation and sinful, wicked temptation.  And him, the feel of him, the heat of him, the way he is stretching you and pulling you apart and making you breathless, choking, bizarrely unstable.
Roderick grips you harder, sighing out like he is Atlas holding up the world.  It is not a peaceful sigh.  "[Name]…relax.  You're really tight," he mutters, bumping his hips into yours in a tiny, miniscule thrust.  The movement had you gripping the edge of the counter hard, your knuckles a stark white.  His words drizzled through your brain like a slow, rainy day and you inhaled shakily.  It's hard to relax when he's got himself pushed into you from behind, but already you can feel the dull drill of pleasure begin to replace the pain.  So you focus on relaxing the muscles of your abdomen, then your shoulders, your hips, and when you hear your lover give a pleased, relieved noise, you know you're successful.
"Is that better?" you hear yourself ask.  Your voice is coated and heavy, and blurs your words together.  You feel Roderick's fingers clench and flex against your thighs.  You feel the rumble of his hum reverberate through his chest and into your back.  Then he mutters a low, "Better," that also coated and heavy and blurred, like he's just swallowed an ocean of salt water.
You press your cheek against the countertop and nod.  He bumps a thrust into your hips again, and this time it creates a beautiful symphony of shivers just beneath your skin.  His next thrust takes him almost fully out of you, and when he pushes himself back in, it's with that rough-but-gentle firmness and it makes you want to come, so badly.
"'S good," you murmur against the wood, pushing your ass back to meet his thrusts.  Your eyes flutter and your breaths become sharp pants that lilt through the stacked atmosphere, melding around the other sounds in the room: the slap of skin, the quiet inhalations of your lover, the gentle scratch of your nails, the subtle-barely-heard tick of the kitchen clock.  You stare at a red smudge that your lipstick left behind on the countertop, then you close your eyes and relax, relax, relax into the sensation of making love.
It's a coarse sensation, bleak even.  And it feels different when you can't see Roderick's face, when you can't watch his emotions tumble and spill from his expression.  But it is enough to feel his hands caving in around your skin, the tops of his thighs burning against the backs of yours, the stiffness of him infiltrating the very essence of you.  It's enough, and when his pace suddenly rushes forward, faster and hotter, you know that it's enough for him, too.
He lets out a strangled sort of moan that sinks right into your flesh and makes you swallow hard.  Then his thumb is brushing over the top of your clit and you feel yourself arch up, moan breathlessly, because God that feels good and when he does it again you can't breathe anymore, only drown.  And when he keeps touching you, keeps hitting you perfectly with every thrust, it's really no surprise that your orgasm rears and slams into you.  And watching you come lets off a domino effect and makes Roderick swear and push harder, spilling himself into you with a soft groan.
You moan again into the wood, because he doesn't stop thrusting.  The pleasure stings right through you and makes you tremble, collapse.  Roderick's arms lurch forward to hold you up, his length still deep inside you.  It takes a long moment to get your bearings back, and then you're chuckling and pushing yourself up, and he's pulling out of you, turning you around, and jerking you firmly against him.
"Did you like it?" he asks a while later as he threads his finger through your hair.  You smile against his neck and hum, "Mm.  But I like seeing your face more."  He pauses a moment, then chuckles, "So you do like it when I'm repetitive."  And when you shrug and grin, he rolls his eyes.  "Unbelievable…" he mutters, but drags you closer anyway and squeezes you into his arms.
You hum, a cadence that drops, drags against his shoulder.  Then you murmur, "Roderick…let's go to the bedroom and be repetitive again, hmm?"  And, well, there's really only one answer to a suggestion like that, and he doesn't let you down.

~~~