Sunday, January 20, 2013

An England Lemon -- Synchronized

Character: England

Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: The fact that I haven't written smut in three months.  Gahhhhhhhhgjhsfsjfnjwe

England likes his ladies to be delicate.  He supposes his preference is just another part of his history.  He is used to lace and silken dresses and intricate hairstyles.  He is familiar with the sort of small talk that one uses around a lady in public.
England likes his ladies to be sweet.  That is why he is shocked at the fact that he has fallen for someone who is not delicate and not sweet.
You are fierce.  You attract trouble like its your purpose in life.  And you have an unshakable talent for getting out of said trouble.  You aren't delicate, you don't wear lace unless it’s the mischievous, black kind that remains covered up.  The most intricate hairstyle you've ever worn is a braid.  And you certainly don't talk like one of the ladies Arthur likes.
Which is probably why he's so interested in you to begin with.
"[First Name] [Last Name], reporting for duty sir," the words are spoken in a sort of purr that has Arthur sitting up in his seat.  He takes one look at you and thinks he's seeing stars.  Or the moon.  Or something he doesn't have the imagination to think up even if he tried.
Yes, you like lace.  Not the lace trimmed on a dress, though.  You like the sort of lace that screams out in dark delight as it skirts the edges of pale, creamy thighs.  And you know Arthur likes it too.
Arthur sits back in his seat and watches you.  It has been a long day and he hasn't gotten much done.  The rain that patters against the windowpanes make him sleepy and unsettled.  But now, as he looks at you, the backdrop of it all but consumes him.  It sets his heart on fire and makes the mood drift in and out of sight, like the sort of teasing bliss he craves.
"Don't you have any orders for me, sir?" you wonder, your voice tinted in idleness.  But you do not feel idle and he knows it.  That sort of emotion has been overturned before you'd even made yourself known.  It is a mask of impatience, of desire, of a deep need that resonates through the entire room.
He grins crookedly, his eyes alighting in a rather boyish smile.  A bit of blonde hair falls into his face and he nods.  "I think you'd better come here."  And he watches as you do, every step making the sinful shadows in his eyes darken.
You are not wearing makeup, but your hair has been twisted up into a casual yet elegant style that will soon fall away.  The corset that is tied around your waist is what Arthur focuses on first.  He drags you to him by the ties that form a bow just below your breasts, and waits until you are nestled between his legs before he pulls on them.
"You came at just the right time," he tells you, using one hand to lazily play with the ribbons.  "I was beginning to crave an interruption."
You smirk.  Your knee raises to rest on his chair, pressing against his inner thigh and the tent that is just beginning to form in his trousers.  "This one is very important," you tell him, a different sort of smirk alighting the color of your eyes.  He hums and pulls the last ribbon free, loosening the corset enough to let it slip away.  Your upper half, now bare, makes the shadows in his eyes form ever darker promises.
His hands skirt over you, palming the warm skin of your thighs.  He touches the lace that teases him and tilts his head back to meet your gaze.  You watch him with darkened, lustful eyes that have long since become the object of his dreams, waking or not.
Your hands slowly slip over his and you push his fingers into the sides of the silken lace.  He finishes the action, dragging the fabric down, over you thighs, past your knees, until it is nothing more than a forgotten heap on the floor.  And when you are completely bared for him, when his eyes fully take you in as only a lover's can, you feel yourself aching in a way you only ever get when you're around Arthur.
His hands move again, this time touching your skin without any hindrance of lace or fabric, and you hold back a deep shudder as it creeps along the length of your spine.  But he feels it claim you regardless, and can't help but wish to do the same.
"I think," he says, gently pushing you back so that he can stand, "I think that you'd better get rid of some of these clothes."
He says it as though it is a lustful suggestion, but you treat it as an order.  Your lips edge into another delicious smile and you let him drag you close, pressing your naked form to his fully clothed one.  He looks down at you with almost lazy eyes, but you know for a fact that he is not actually calm.
"Yes, sir," you murmur, and his eyes flash almost dangerously at the sound of it, which is dark and passionate and ever so alluring.  Your hands smooth out over the contours of his chest, taking their time in reaching the buttons of his dress shirt.  Little by little, you loosen it, caressing each button as though it is a piece of Arthur that must be cherished.  And it makes him ridiculously aroused.
When you reach his trousers, you work a little faster.  You like to tease him, but you are suddenly struck down by an intense desire to see him bare.  And so, when you pull his belt from the belt loops, you do it with a slightly hurried pace.
He is already hard, but you are not surprised.  He is easy to turn on and it has been a while anyway.  When the trousers pool at his feet, you palm his erection through his boxers and remain delighted at the reaction that quivers through his body.  He pulls you farther into him and finally, finally gives into the desire he's held back since the moment you stepped into the room.
He kisses you.  His lips angle toward yours and pulls you in deeply, resolutely, firmly.  You can't help but react to him.  You love it when he turns into the desperate mess he is now.  You crave it with every ounce of your being and do not try to resist him.  Instead, you fall.  You fall into his arms and press yourself to his skin and let his mouth ravish you.
His name is on your tongue and you whisper it, gently, soulfully, as though it is sacred and commands respect and even reverence.  You breathe it out once, twice, three times more before you realize that you're trying to tell him something.
"Arthur…Arthur…" he doesn't stop because he can't, because his body won't let him and he wouldn't anyway.  You draw back just slightly and he watches with impassioned eyes as your fingers curl along the waistline of his boxers and drag them down, finally, finally freeing every last part of him.
"Arthur…" his hands curve over your hips and drag you into him, bumping your lower bodies in a way he knows makes you crazy with want.  You tilt your head back, lips parting at the sinfully delicious contact, and he does it again, and again and again until you are as breathless as he.
"I want you," you whimper.  Your voice has long since lost its alluring purr.  It is now raw with want, tinted in a sort of primal desire that takes over the entire atmosphere of the room.  "I need you…"
And you do.  You need him like you need the sun, or the air, or sleep or food or a home.  He is your home, and your oxygen, and the one thing that allows you to sleep peacefully.  And so when you tell him again, "I need you," you mean it with every last bitter part of you.  Every part that Arthur has long since accepted.
He lifts you up into his arms, kick away the boxers that still pool at his feet, and bring you down the hall to where he will show you exactly what you mean to him.  Your bedroom is bathed in anticipation by the time he enters it, and your mouths have already begun the start of a delicious evening.
He deposits you on the bed and is quick to follow.  He crawls up your body slowly, lips pressing against your legs as he goes.  He pauses at your knee, looks up at you, and slowly begins to kiss up your thigh.  Your breath catches in your throat the farther up your leg he gets.  Your eyes remain locked with his, tenderly anticipating the pleasure he will soon give you.  And when he reaches your core, Arthur doesn't stop and hesitate.  Those moments are far behind you.
Your back immediately arches into his mouth.  Your eyes snap apart and you instead stare blindly at the ceiling.  A harsh whimper tears through your parted lips as his tongue jerks against you, swirling over your delicate folds in their quest to please.
Your hands shake, and then search for him.  Your fingers curl around his hair just as a moan bubbles from your throat.
He loves this part of you.  He loves when you get this desperate for him, loves it when you arch your back and whisper his name and want him so very badly.  It makes him feel so alive, so happy that he is wanted and loved.
His tongue plunges into you with a newfound determination and you become lost in the swell of bliss that quivers up your body.  His name is tossed from your lips and you sink down, down, deep into the throws of your mind as your passion is unleashed.  You come with a desperate shudder that you feel everywhere, physically and emotionally and mentally.
You sigh deeply, eyes still staring blindly above you by the time Arthur reaches you.  He sends you a lazy, convoluted smirk that has you giggling at the sinful quality of it.  You fold your elbows beneath you and raise yourself up just a little, just enough to kiss him.
And everything starts again.  Everything spirals down, back to reality.  And you remember that Arthur is still very much in need of respite, and you realize that the mere thought of such a thing makes you ache in a new way, stronger now.
So you curl your legs around his waist and push your hips together, watching him react.  He groans against your lips and breaks the kiss, breathing heavy.  His eyes travel down to where you are almost, almost connected, and when he looks into your eyes again, he sees that the dark desire as returned.
And that's what ultimately drives him forward.  His hands curve around your legs and he pulls back, kissing you once more before doing what he has longed to do for what seems like a very long time.  And when he finally slides into you, when he finally takes you, he really does see stars, and the moon, and something else his imagination brings forth that he couldn't possibly explain.
And it is delicious.
And it is phenomenal.
And it is tinged with that edge of despair that has been driven through each and every punctuated craving which has formed this unification.
Arthur lets out a deep, satisfied groan that resonated between you.  He thrusts just as deeply, penetrating you with more than just his physical self.  You mind is in tatters as he rushes into you, stealing away every bit of your desire and turning it into something else, something more important.  And you let him.  You let him because you trust that he will accept you and love you and cherish you.  And he does.
"[Name]…[Name]…I'm gonna, gonna come…ha!"  Arthur is also in tatters.  He is pulsating within you.  You can feel that he is close and you nod, tightening your legs around his waist and pulling him closer.  And with every deep, long thrust he gives, you feel yourself unraveling in a similar manner.
"Arthur!" you cry, your voice loud and unyielding.  But your body yields, to him, and it is this fact alone that makes him follow your example and come.
You ride out your passion together, synchronized.  And when he is completely finished and spent and undone, you accept him into your arms and let him recover and build himself back up.
And he loves this about you, too.  This giving, selfless part of you that doesn't stop to think about yourself.
You may not be delicate.  You may not like frivolous things or wear your hair in elegant styles.  But he has long since decided that he doesn't mind.  He wouldn't change a thing about you.
Together, you close your eyes.  Together, you fall asleep.  Together, you remain.