[APH] 1:1
Title: 1:1
Genre: Romance, humor.
Pairings: USxUK
Rating: NC-17 / M
Warnings: Language, smut, un-beta'd... sports.
Summary: The Revolution wasn't the last time England and America met face to face on a field. 2010, South Africa. Ending up tied during the first half of the game wasn't as bad as it seemed, but Arthur had a more personal score to settle during halftime.
ENGLAND VS. UNITED STATES
.
.
.
"Don't come crying when I kick your ass, fair and square!"
"A load of rubbish! You and your people should stick to playing your own little pathetic games. Football is a sport for men, real men; and I don't mean that idiotic American version that's more of a testosterone battle than anything. This requires talent, skill, balance and strategy!"
"Yeah well, soccer's for sissies!" Trust the American to always come up with something witty to say.
"And yet there you stand in your uniform, ready to run out into the field in front of the entire bleedin' world! Suck it up, Alfred. You had your chance to back down and you didn't; now you face the consequences. Be ready to weep, dear lad."
Alfred huffed and puffed out his chest in indignation. Alright, the uniform wasn't the manliest thing in existence; who in their right minds wore shorts and knee-high socks? But hot damn he made it look good. The cleats had thrown him off balance at first, but after a few practice games he'd learnt to deal with them. For security reasons the coach had told him to remove his glasses, making him look infuriatingly younger. It had made Alfred feel more unbalanced still, but the look on Arthur's face when he saw him made up for it, big time. He was starting to think Arthur had pedophilic tendencies.
The Brit also looked the part; more than Alfred really. The girlish uniform, as Alfred had referred to them, suited him well. Maybe it was a European thing. Still, the white pants were loose enough and short enough to allow the American a good glimpse of his legs. Incredible how someone so slender and fragile looking could also be well built. Some of Arthur's muscles were rising to the fore as he warmed up on the spot, the tension snapping his tendons into place. He looked strong. And God help him, Alfred could think of a few good ways of getting Arthur to put those muscles to better use.
When the crowd roared to life, they knew it was time. Both teams stood side by side, waiting for the signal to spill into the field. Alfred turned his brightest grin to Arthur who was patting one of his boys on the shoulder. "May the best country win."
"Worry not, boy. I will."
"You're so fucking full of yourself."
"Just giving you a taste of your own medicine." Arthur flashed him a smug smile, flexing his body in a final warm-up exercise.
"If you're so confident, I'll tell you what, Iggy."
"Hmm?"
"Whoever wins gets to top." If there was any doubt about what Alfred had meant, the way he undressed Arthur with his eyes was enough. "So I hope you brought the lotion, for your sake."
"Very considerate. That way it won't hurt when I… score a goal." The American opened his mouth to retort, but just then they were gestured to take the field.
The national anthems were sung while the crowd continued their roaring. Their colors sported and flown with pride and competitiveness. The lights overhead were near blinding for a short moment, but their eyes adjusted quickly. Moments later, both America and England stood face to face as they exchanged their flags, both glaring, both smug. The game wasn't the only thing they were looking forward to now.
They finally parted, taking their own sides; while Alfred did so, he mouthed something that made Arthur want to laugh the moment he read his lips. You are goin' down, old man. That boy never could accept that no one could beat him at his own game. A shame, but all the more fun.
A kick later, and the game was on.
If the match could be described in one word, it would have to be aggressive. Both teams were relentless, intense; if not a bit too overboard. England's defense was impenetrable, their offense not too far behind. Arthur flew across the field with a sure and powerful run, his balance enabling him to move in a way that set the laws of physics to shame. He'd make it out standing in a fresh tangle of three different pairs of legs with the ball in his favor, and he made sure to flaunt it openly.
Alfred's head was everywhere but in the game. It was when the roar of fans erupted to a pitch loud enough to hurt his ears that he noticed with great horror that England had scored. Arthur had scored, and they were only three minutes into the game. It was an embarrassment as he watched the older blonde get tackled by his team as they cheered and hugged and slapped each other's shoulders. One of them went far enough to plant a kiss on Arthur's cheek loud enough that made Alfred want to slap the stupid grin off his face.
Fine then. It takes two to tango, and he was sure as hell he wasn't just going to stand down and let England snatch the win. The United States was not going to go home with his tails between his legs. No fucking way. Time to turn up the heat. And that he did.
Minutes later, the crowd went wild again, but this time, it was Alfred's turn to be attacked by his own team. There was nothing he couldn't achieve with a little bit of pressure. He flashed his widest grin at Arthur, fistpumping the air with a holler. Arthur gave him the middle finger with an equal grin.
The game was on again, and it didn't matter how many times America tried to score, England continued to block. And vice versa. Arthur's team had constant dominion of the ball, and it was beginning to make the American sweat. It was England's turn to turn up the heat. They were being too sloppy.
It was amusing and all too awe-inspiring; seeing England play the way he did. For someone who chatted with fairies, believed in unicorns, embroidered most of his time and excessively drank tea, he was playing like a man. If there was one thing that didn't change since England's Empire days, was the fact that he took no prisoners. That and that he was still one hell of a competitive son of a bitch.
Arthur was a bit annoyed by his goalie's blunder, letting Alfred score a win so freely, and being reduced to a scrambling git at that. If the ball was going in, then at least take the fall with dignity. He would have to have a chat with the coach afterwards. That was one mistake he wouldn't allow a second time, not if they were aiming for the World Cup. Chances were slim; he admitted it, even if it was just their first match. The team wasn't as well knit as they were supposed to be, but he'd be damned if he didn't give it his all. His boys had trained hard, he wasn't about to let them down that easily. Besides, as long as he saw France's ass eliminated, he'd be one joyful son of a gun.
For fans the matches usually take a while, but when in the game, you tend to lose track of time quite easily. Like just then when the whistle blew. Halftime. Lucky for him, Alfred thought, there were a few things he needed to run by his team. Like the fact that they lacked leadership and organization; they needed a hero on the lead! And dang it, he'd see to it. He'd see to winning the second half of the game. And topping the heck out of Arthur, but that was a plus, and he was sure his teammates didn't want to know about his love life.
Even inside the locker-room the temperature was freezing. Arthur took off his shirt for a moment when the rapidly cooling sweat began to make him feel disgusting. His body was still radiating heat like crazy, but a shower was out of the question. Not only will it unwind his muscles, he didn't have the time for it. He needed to discuss strategy. First though, he needed a towel. Wandering off as quickly as possible into the back room where the lockers were, he unlocked his and took out a small white hand towel.
"If I would've known sports got you this keyed up, I would have taken you on one on one a long time ago." Alfred's voice came from the door and Arthur could feel those blue eyes devouring him from behind.
"A bit of competitiveness always brings out the not-so-gentlemanly side of me, dear boy. Anything physical tends to do that." The Briton's accent sounded fuller, heated. He tried to ignore the sudden arousal that came with being alone with Alfred in a room by focusing on cleaning off the sweat. The American stopped him, however, by snatching away the offending article. "Do you mind?"
"Such a waste of sweat that would be, Iggy. You look manly that way. I like it."
"This coming from the lad who, just forty-five minutes ago, was distressed about wearing a girlish uniform?"
"If fits you! I mean, you're small, compact… tight… hot…"
"You're getting off the subject." Arthur had to chuckle then as he faced Alfred, fisting a bit of his jersey and pulling him down into a kiss. "Not that I would mind. But halftime will be over soon, and we can't risk being unable to walk, much less run."
The American smoothed his lips gently, tasting the saltiness that was Arthur. An unusual taste for him, but it was sexy. "Easy then. I screw you; that way I still win. Rightfully."
"Fuck you, Alfred. Besides, I scored first, which means, rightfully, I get to do so."
"Deal was whoever wins! Don't come changing the rules now." The last of Alfred's complaint was drowned out when Arthur kissed him again with a bit more force. It was nearly bruising; wet lips brushing hungrily against each other. The Englishman pulled a few inches away in order to lick Alfred's lips, the corners, and then the full length of them, taking in the salty sweetness that was uniquely him. The younger blonde let his mouth fall open, giving his boyfriend all the access he needed. Seconds seemed like hours as they battled for dominance; tongues swiveling in a heated exchange of saliva, teeth clanking against teeth, a bite every here and there. Alfred was the first to break away with a, "Damn…"
Arthur's answer? He shoved the taller male against the cold lockers, grounding their hips together teasingly. They had no time for this, but it was too freaking fun to let it pass up. And too delicious to watch, especially how Alfred's pants were so bluntly tented. "If only you knew how fuckable you look."
"If it's anything like you, then yeah, I'd totally do myself. Now, less talking, more fucking." The American was nearly humping his leg in a desperate plea.
"I'm afraid we have no time, boy…" Another smothering kiss. If it were up to him, he'd be content with just kissing Alfred senseless. But he was still young, and he was starting to believe that the lad would never be rid of the raging hormones stage.
"Aw, come on, Arthur. A quick blowjob at least? I'll return the favor." He taunted in a singsong voice.
Green eyes scrutinized him seriously for a moment. "Turn around."
"What?"
"Just do it." Alfred obliged.
Turning around, he leaned against his forearms and heard Arthur shuffle behind him. He twisted his head and watched as the Englishman dropped to his knees before turning his head to rest against the cold material again. Looking down at him for too long would only make his neck stiffen, and that was a big no-no at the moment.
Arthur's hands massaged Alfred's calves for a moment, gently releasing the tension out of them before moving his open palms up. The fabric of the socks bothered a bit, but nothing too severe. He could nearly feel and see the power trapped within those legs, and the thought alone made him shiver. They were no strangers to each other's bed, but England was sure America hadn't unleashed his full potential on him yet. It made him hard just thinking about what Alfred could do to him under the right mood.
Hands continued their journey upward, squeezing and teasing the bit of skin not covered by either socks or pants. He would have slid them under the navy-blue shorts, but Alfred was bigger than he was which meant that they were a bit tighter on him. Instead, he pressed and fondled through the fabric, reaching between the younger's legs in order to grope at the protruding shaft. Alfred could only moan in delight.
The elastic band resting at the hollow of Alfred's back was pulled down low enough, along with his underwear, to expose those perfectly round butt cheeks. Arthur caught a giggle, but the moment he ran the tip of his tongue along the crevice of his arse, it was turned into a low moan. He repeated the action time and time again, each time pressing his tongue a bit deeper between the soft mounds until he finally reached his destination. Once Alfred let go of a little choked groan, Arthur used his hands to part his cheeks and tease the tight pink ring. He had to remind himself though, that no penetration was allowed. Not until after the game was over. But whenever did he care for rules? Sometimes when it came to sports, one just had to get dirty. Besides, he doubted his tongue would do much harm anyway.
"Fuck! A-Arthur, you might want to… hurry this up!"
"Shut up and let me get you off." When he was younger, he would have slapped the Brit for ordering him around, but now, now it made him harder. "This is taking more effort than I bargained for…" Arthur used one hand to hold the mounds apart as he continued to kiss and lick, his other one slid under the shirt and trailed up the American's back as far as he could reach. Alfred instinctively bucked his hips for relief. He ended up plunging his hand inside his pants and stroking himself as the Englishman unleashed blissful torture on his senses.
Both of Arthur's hands suddenly stopped their ministrations and Alfred nearly whimpered, but they once again gripped his thighs, even if they did it for an entirely different reason. With amusement shinning his baby blues, the American watched as the Briton slid between his legs and ended up sitting in front of him, head at the level of his groin. In order to point that out, Alfred bucked his hips, the blunt end of the tent brushing Arthur's cheek. Green eyes gleamed in return and their owner wasted no time as he began to mouth the erection through the cloth. The locker was so cold it stung against his bare back, but he'd survive. Sliding a hand down his own pants, Arthur pumped himself at a leisurely pace, biting and suckling at the fabric inches away from his face.
"You're… such a kinky a-asshole." Alfred managed to groan out as a few drops of drool escaped the edge of his lips.
Arthur released a throaty moan as he stole a glance at the clock hanging on the wall behind Alfred. Fuck. "And you fucking like it."
"Like it? I fucking love it. A-As long as… ungh… uhyeahmore… as long as you're my… kinky asshole." For half a second he lost his train of thought when Arthur yanked down the pants and took in the meat entirely into his mouth. He didn't emphasize too much on blowing him, just a bit of a tease. Noisy kisses, fleeting licks, a nip at the sacks underneath. That was all it took and Alfred was already a writhing mass of saliva, sweat and precum. He looked up at him with a devilish grin, his eyes holding so many promises and so much heat, but also a fondness that left the American breathless.
Arthur loved him; in a much different way than he did when Alfred was young. But it was still love. The majority of the times he wanted to kick the shit out of him due to his stupidity and exaggerated optimism, but he adored the man above him. Maybe a bit of competitiveness was good for them, made Arthur not want to treat him like porcelain. And the other way around. He could ride out the aggressiveness, and make sure the younger blonde enjoyed every last bit of it.
Alfred groaned when the warmth left him again, and he hazily looked up to see Arthur get back on his feet and kiss him like he meant it. He tasted his essence on his lover's lips and smiled. Not that he was being narcissistic, but Alfred loved how he tasted. "Halftime over?" His voice was breathy, heavy with lust and need and raw sex. Arthur nearly came on the spot, but didn't. Instead, he slid the pants lower. "T-Thought we couldn't… take it this far…"
"We won't." The Englishman sounded surprisingly calm. Nudging down his own pants, he pumped his shaft for a moment before placing it between Alfred's thighs, and moved his hips the same way as if embedded in him. It would never be the same, but it brought a new feeling that was just as pleasant. It was almost feathery; as he slid his erection in-between Alfred's legs, brushing against the scrotum and the underside of the other's length. "Ah… mind… closing your legs there, lad?"
Soft thighs clenched down Arthur's shaft, nearly making him cry out. He forgot himself for a moment, and bucked rather widely against the pressure, but every time he did, he'd slide completely out. It wasn't the best sex he'd had, or the most comfortable, but it'd have to do. "Keep this up… and we won't finish in time…" Alfred added mildly, a bit shaky and desperately needing release. He reached back and gave Arthur a few strokes before gesturing him towards the bench. His breath was hitched as he spoke. "Some good ol' fashion stroking will get us off, eh?"
Arthur could only nod. They stumbled awkwardly towards the metal bench and the both of them hissed when they sat down, a leg on either side of the long seat. It was nearly painful; the coldness against their heated skins, but it only served as further stimulation. They sat face to face, so close they were nearly straddling each other, and they couldn't help but grin. After a relevantly sloppy kiss, they managed to bring their hips a bit closer, their shafts touching teasingly before Alfred caught a good hold of them and chaffed them together a bit more roughly. "Bleedin' fuck!"
"You're always so loud… geez…" Arthur bit his lip. "Ouch!"
"Don't complain about something when you enjoy it, fucker."
"I'm rubbing off on you, Iggy."
"Right now, I wish you were." The Briton bucked his hips to let him know what meant. "Hurry up and make me come." And that was one goal they both wanted. Both their hips were near erratic as they tried to find release, but it just wasn't enough. They just wanted to plunge into each other's depths and plow the fuck out of them, but not yet. They couldn't do that now. They had to settle for miserably stroking and it was nowhere near enough. Or maybe it was. It lacked the intensity if being buried, but it was bringing them closer to orgasm by each ticking second. It was an erotic experience all on its own. "Fuck, Alfred… Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Arthur swore to the top of his lungs as he leaned back, using his arms as balance and Alfred half stood up, half leaned over him. It was a strange position, but the American had more control of his hips and could move both faster and chafe deeper. He was nearly lying on top of the Briton.
"Ung, gah! It's not enough… Arthur… it's not enough!" Alfred nearly wept; but it still felt so fucking good. His mouth was slack; some more drool dripping onto Arthur's pale chest, making it gleam deliciously. Blue eyes stared in rapt fascination at the Englishman's chest as if it was the first time he had noticed it. With plenty of effort, he leaned down and sucked on one of the pert nipples. Arthur was reduced to yelling a new string of profanities, and shortly after, Alfred couldn't understand crap of what he was saying. Definitely had to be Old English.
From there on, everything was but a blur. Alfred heard people, but Arthur was too far gone to notice. Or maybe he did notice, and just didn't care. Their careless thrusting was just past the point of erratic but something triggered them both. Perhaps it was the whistle in the near distance, or the fact that the door to the room had slammed open. Whatever it was, it made Arthur come, and along that yell in reckless abandon. The milky substance that shot out stained the American's dark jersey all too nicely, and caught some of his own chest too. That was enough to trigger Alfred's own splendid finish, his language just as colorful as his lover's as he did. They ended up collapsing on the bench, entangled and partly nude, touching whatever they could reach and kissing like there was no tomorrow. It was beautiful. At least to them, anyways.
The other two men that stood by the door didn't seem too convinced.
"Kirkland! Jones! What the hell is this?"
Alfred nearly jumped out of his bones as he fell from the bench, Arthur not so far behind as he tried to jump up but failed miserable. He ended up entangling himself and falling flat on his face. "Sir! I am so terribly sorry!" The Englishman tried to pull on his best innocent mask, but his coach wasn't buying.
"Arthur, I think you misunderstood what the term halftime means."
"Ah, yes, my apologies." Arthur had the decency to blush as he fixed his pants and reached out for his shirt. So much for getting rid of the sweat…
"Put your shirt on and get out there."
He did as he was told. As for Alfred; his coach glared at him. "I ain't even going to waste my breath on you. Tell one of the guys to tell you what's what and get your ass out there."
"Yeah. But I'm gonna need a clean jersey…"
"You're supposed to be at each other's throats! Not each other's pants!" The English coach was yelling at Arthur. If he hadn't been running late already, Arthur would have punched him.
"Hey, we were just trying to get in the zone! Isn't that what the FIFAs all about? You know… Say no to racism, let the world come together, football for hope, make love not war… and stuff?" Alfred tried to reason, but the glare he received only got him adjusting his socks and running out the door. Arthur close on his heels.
"I swear, if this little rendezvous causes me a win, I'm gonna kill that kid." The American coach said through clenched teeth, stomping angrily out the door.
"My good man, it'll be a miracle if any of them scores now." The Briton tapped the other's shoulder in compassion; and oh how right he was.
A/N: Aw, yeah. I miss the World Cup. Not even gonna lie. For all those who didn't catch the match last summer, well, let's just say England was outraged by the US's goal; or better said, they were outraged by their own goaly. Greene was the culprit of what was probably the biggest flub during the entire FIFA 2010. To be honest, I wasn't particularly proud with England's performance during the entire Cup; my boys were just all over the place. X'D Now, enough me ranting out about sports. Hope you guys enjoyed!
Genre: Romance, humor.
Pairings: USxUK
Rating: NC-17 / M
Warnings: Language, smut, un-beta'd... sports.
Summary: The Revolution wasn't the last time England and America met face to face on a field. 2010, South Africa. Ending up tied during the first half of the game wasn't as bad as it seemed, but Arthur had a more personal score to settle during halftime.
ENGLAND VS. UNITED STATES
.
.
.
"Don't come crying when I kick your ass, fair and square!"
"A load of rubbish! You and your people should stick to playing your own little pathetic games. Football is a sport for men, real men; and I don't mean that idiotic American version that's more of a testosterone battle than anything. This requires talent, skill, balance and strategy!"
"Yeah well, soccer's for sissies!" Trust the American to always come up with something witty to say.
"And yet there you stand in your uniform, ready to run out into the field in front of the entire bleedin' world! Suck it up, Alfred. You had your chance to back down and you didn't; now you face the consequences. Be ready to weep, dear lad."
Alfred huffed and puffed out his chest in indignation. Alright, the uniform wasn't the manliest thing in existence; who in their right minds wore shorts and knee-high socks? But hot damn he made it look good. The cleats had thrown him off balance at first, but after a few practice games he'd learnt to deal with them. For security reasons the coach had told him to remove his glasses, making him look infuriatingly younger. It had made Alfred feel more unbalanced still, but the look on Arthur's face when he saw him made up for it, big time. He was starting to think Arthur had pedophilic tendencies.
The Brit also looked the part; more than Alfred really. The girlish uniform, as Alfred had referred to them, suited him well. Maybe it was a European thing. Still, the white pants were loose enough and short enough to allow the American a good glimpse of his legs. Incredible how someone so slender and fragile looking could also be well built. Some of Arthur's muscles were rising to the fore as he warmed up on the spot, the tension snapping his tendons into place. He looked strong. And God help him, Alfred could think of a few good ways of getting Arthur to put those muscles to better use.
When the crowd roared to life, they knew it was time. Both teams stood side by side, waiting for the signal to spill into the field. Alfred turned his brightest grin to Arthur who was patting one of his boys on the shoulder. "May the best country win."
"Worry not, boy. I will."
"You're so fucking full of yourself."
"Just giving you a taste of your own medicine." Arthur flashed him a smug smile, flexing his body in a final warm-up exercise.
"If you're so confident, I'll tell you what, Iggy."
"Hmm?"
"Whoever wins gets to top." If there was any doubt about what Alfred had meant, the way he undressed Arthur with his eyes was enough. "So I hope you brought the lotion, for your sake."
"Very considerate. That way it won't hurt when I… score a goal." The American opened his mouth to retort, but just then they were gestured to take the field.
The national anthems were sung while the crowd continued their roaring. Their colors sported and flown with pride and competitiveness. The lights overhead were near blinding for a short moment, but their eyes adjusted quickly. Moments later, both America and England stood face to face as they exchanged their flags, both glaring, both smug. The game wasn't the only thing they were looking forward to now.
They finally parted, taking their own sides; while Alfred did so, he mouthed something that made Arthur want to laugh the moment he read his lips. You are goin' down, old man. That boy never could accept that no one could beat him at his own game. A shame, but all the more fun.
A kick later, and the game was on.
If the match could be described in one word, it would have to be aggressive. Both teams were relentless, intense; if not a bit too overboard. England's defense was impenetrable, their offense not too far behind. Arthur flew across the field with a sure and powerful run, his balance enabling him to move in a way that set the laws of physics to shame. He'd make it out standing in a fresh tangle of three different pairs of legs with the ball in his favor, and he made sure to flaunt it openly.
Alfred's head was everywhere but in the game. It was when the roar of fans erupted to a pitch loud enough to hurt his ears that he noticed with great horror that England had scored. Arthur had scored, and they were only three minutes into the game. It was an embarrassment as he watched the older blonde get tackled by his team as they cheered and hugged and slapped each other's shoulders. One of them went far enough to plant a kiss on Arthur's cheek loud enough that made Alfred want to slap the stupid grin off his face.
Fine then. It takes two to tango, and he was sure as hell he wasn't just going to stand down and let England snatch the win. The United States was not going to go home with his tails between his legs. No fucking way. Time to turn up the heat. And that he did.
Minutes later, the crowd went wild again, but this time, it was Alfred's turn to be attacked by his own team. There was nothing he couldn't achieve with a little bit of pressure. He flashed his widest grin at Arthur, fistpumping the air with a holler. Arthur gave him the middle finger with an equal grin.
The game was on again, and it didn't matter how many times America tried to score, England continued to block. And vice versa. Arthur's team had constant dominion of the ball, and it was beginning to make the American sweat. It was England's turn to turn up the heat. They were being too sloppy.
It was amusing and all too awe-inspiring; seeing England play the way he did. For someone who chatted with fairies, believed in unicorns, embroidered most of his time and excessively drank tea, he was playing like a man. If there was one thing that didn't change since England's Empire days, was the fact that he took no prisoners. That and that he was still one hell of a competitive son of a bitch.
Arthur was a bit annoyed by his goalie's blunder, letting Alfred score a win so freely, and being reduced to a scrambling git at that. If the ball was going in, then at least take the fall with dignity. He would have to have a chat with the coach afterwards. That was one mistake he wouldn't allow a second time, not if they were aiming for the World Cup. Chances were slim; he admitted it, even if it was just their first match. The team wasn't as well knit as they were supposed to be, but he'd be damned if he didn't give it his all. His boys had trained hard, he wasn't about to let them down that easily. Besides, as long as he saw France's ass eliminated, he'd be one joyful son of a gun.
For fans the matches usually take a while, but when in the game, you tend to lose track of time quite easily. Like just then when the whistle blew. Halftime. Lucky for him, Alfred thought, there were a few things he needed to run by his team. Like the fact that they lacked leadership and organization; they needed a hero on the lead! And dang it, he'd see to it. He'd see to winning the second half of the game. And topping the heck out of Arthur, but that was a plus, and he was sure his teammates didn't want to know about his love life.
Even inside the locker-room the temperature was freezing. Arthur took off his shirt for a moment when the rapidly cooling sweat began to make him feel disgusting. His body was still radiating heat like crazy, but a shower was out of the question. Not only will it unwind his muscles, he didn't have the time for it. He needed to discuss strategy. First though, he needed a towel. Wandering off as quickly as possible into the back room where the lockers were, he unlocked his and took out a small white hand towel.
"If I would've known sports got you this keyed up, I would have taken you on one on one a long time ago." Alfred's voice came from the door and Arthur could feel those blue eyes devouring him from behind.
"A bit of competitiveness always brings out the not-so-gentlemanly side of me, dear boy. Anything physical tends to do that." The Briton's accent sounded fuller, heated. He tried to ignore the sudden arousal that came with being alone with Alfred in a room by focusing on cleaning off the sweat. The American stopped him, however, by snatching away the offending article. "Do you mind?"
"Such a waste of sweat that would be, Iggy. You look manly that way. I like it."
"This coming from the lad who, just forty-five minutes ago, was distressed about wearing a girlish uniform?"
"If fits you! I mean, you're small, compact… tight… hot…"
"You're getting off the subject." Arthur had to chuckle then as he faced Alfred, fisting a bit of his jersey and pulling him down into a kiss. "Not that I would mind. But halftime will be over soon, and we can't risk being unable to walk, much less run."
The American smoothed his lips gently, tasting the saltiness that was Arthur. An unusual taste for him, but it was sexy. "Easy then. I screw you; that way I still win. Rightfully."
"Fuck you, Alfred. Besides, I scored first, which means, rightfully, I get to do so."
"Deal was whoever wins! Don't come changing the rules now." The last of Alfred's complaint was drowned out when Arthur kissed him again with a bit more force. It was nearly bruising; wet lips brushing hungrily against each other. The Englishman pulled a few inches away in order to lick Alfred's lips, the corners, and then the full length of them, taking in the salty sweetness that was uniquely him. The younger blonde let his mouth fall open, giving his boyfriend all the access he needed. Seconds seemed like hours as they battled for dominance; tongues swiveling in a heated exchange of saliva, teeth clanking against teeth, a bite every here and there. Alfred was the first to break away with a, "Damn…"
Arthur's answer? He shoved the taller male against the cold lockers, grounding their hips together teasingly. They had no time for this, but it was too freaking fun to let it pass up. And too delicious to watch, especially how Alfred's pants were so bluntly tented. "If only you knew how fuckable you look."
"If it's anything like you, then yeah, I'd totally do myself. Now, less talking, more fucking." The American was nearly humping his leg in a desperate plea.
"I'm afraid we have no time, boy…" Another smothering kiss. If it were up to him, he'd be content with just kissing Alfred senseless. But he was still young, and he was starting to believe that the lad would never be rid of the raging hormones stage.
"Aw, come on, Arthur. A quick blowjob at least? I'll return the favor." He taunted in a singsong voice.
Green eyes scrutinized him seriously for a moment. "Turn around."
"What?"
"Just do it." Alfred obliged.
Turning around, he leaned against his forearms and heard Arthur shuffle behind him. He twisted his head and watched as the Englishman dropped to his knees before turning his head to rest against the cold material again. Looking down at him for too long would only make his neck stiffen, and that was a big no-no at the moment.
Arthur's hands massaged Alfred's calves for a moment, gently releasing the tension out of them before moving his open palms up. The fabric of the socks bothered a bit, but nothing too severe. He could nearly feel and see the power trapped within those legs, and the thought alone made him shiver. They were no strangers to each other's bed, but England was sure America hadn't unleashed his full potential on him yet. It made him hard just thinking about what Alfred could do to him under the right mood.
Hands continued their journey upward, squeezing and teasing the bit of skin not covered by either socks or pants. He would have slid them under the navy-blue shorts, but Alfred was bigger than he was which meant that they were a bit tighter on him. Instead, he pressed and fondled through the fabric, reaching between the younger's legs in order to grope at the protruding shaft. Alfred could only moan in delight.
The elastic band resting at the hollow of Alfred's back was pulled down low enough, along with his underwear, to expose those perfectly round butt cheeks. Arthur caught a giggle, but the moment he ran the tip of his tongue along the crevice of his arse, it was turned into a low moan. He repeated the action time and time again, each time pressing his tongue a bit deeper between the soft mounds until he finally reached his destination. Once Alfred let go of a little choked groan, Arthur used his hands to part his cheeks and tease the tight pink ring. He had to remind himself though, that no penetration was allowed. Not until after the game was over. But whenever did he care for rules? Sometimes when it came to sports, one just had to get dirty. Besides, he doubted his tongue would do much harm anyway.
"Fuck! A-Arthur, you might want to… hurry this up!"
"Shut up and let me get you off." When he was younger, he would have slapped the Brit for ordering him around, but now, now it made him harder. "This is taking more effort than I bargained for…" Arthur used one hand to hold the mounds apart as he continued to kiss and lick, his other one slid under the shirt and trailed up the American's back as far as he could reach. Alfred instinctively bucked his hips for relief. He ended up plunging his hand inside his pants and stroking himself as the Englishman unleashed blissful torture on his senses.
Both of Arthur's hands suddenly stopped their ministrations and Alfred nearly whimpered, but they once again gripped his thighs, even if they did it for an entirely different reason. With amusement shinning his baby blues, the American watched as the Briton slid between his legs and ended up sitting in front of him, head at the level of his groin. In order to point that out, Alfred bucked his hips, the blunt end of the tent brushing Arthur's cheek. Green eyes gleamed in return and their owner wasted no time as he began to mouth the erection through the cloth. The locker was so cold it stung against his bare back, but he'd survive. Sliding a hand down his own pants, Arthur pumped himself at a leisurely pace, biting and suckling at the fabric inches away from his face.
"You're… such a kinky a-asshole." Alfred managed to groan out as a few drops of drool escaped the edge of his lips.
Arthur released a throaty moan as he stole a glance at the clock hanging on the wall behind Alfred. Fuck. "And you fucking like it."
"Like it? I fucking love it. A-As long as… ungh… uhyeahmore… as long as you're my… kinky asshole." For half a second he lost his train of thought when Arthur yanked down the pants and took in the meat entirely into his mouth. He didn't emphasize too much on blowing him, just a bit of a tease. Noisy kisses, fleeting licks, a nip at the sacks underneath. That was all it took and Alfred was already a writhing mass of saliva, sweat and precum. He looked up at him with a devilish grin, his eyes holding so many promises and so much heat, but also a fondness that left the American breathless.
Arthur loved him; in a much different way than he did when Alfred was young. But it was still love. The majority of the times he wanted to kick the shit out of him due to his stupidity and exaggerated optimism, but he adored the man above him. Maybe a bit of competitiveness was good for them, made Arthur not want to treat him like porcelain. And the other way around. He could ride out the aggressiveness, and make sure the younger blonde enjoyed every last bit of it.
Alfred groaned when the warmth left him again, and he hazily looked up to see Arthur get back on his feet and kiss him like he meant it. He tasted his essence on his lover's lips and smiled. Not that he was being narcissistic, but Alfred loved how he tasted. "Halftime over?" His voice was breathy, heavy with lust and need and raw sex. Arthur nearly came on the spot, but didn't. Instead, he slid the pants lower. "T-Thought we couldn't… take it this far…"
"We won't." The Englishman sounded surprisingly calm. Nudging down his own pants, he pumped his shaft for a moment before placing it between Alfred's thighs, and moved his hips the same way as if embedded in him. It would never be the same, but it brought a new feeling that was just as pleasant. It was almost feathery; as he slid his erection in-between Alfred's legs, brushing against the scrotum and the underside of the other's length. "Ah… mind… closing your legs there, lad?"
Soft thighs clenched down Arthur's shaft, nearly making him cry out. He forgot himself for a moment, and bucked rather widely against the pressure, but every time he did, he'd slide completely out. It wasn't the best sex he'd had, or the most comfortable, but it'd have to do. "Keep this up… and we won't finish in time…" Alfred added mildly, a bit shaky and desperately needing release. He reached back and gave Arthur a few strokes before gesturing him towards the bench. His breath was hitched as he spoke. "Some good ol' fashion stroking will get us off, eh?"
Arthur could only nod. They stumbled awkwardly towards the metal bench and the both of them hissed when they sat down, a leg on either side of the long seat. It was nearly painful; the coldness against their heated skins, but it only served as further stimulation. They sat face to face, so close they were nearly straddling each other, and they couldn't help but grin. After a relevantly sloppy kiss, they managed to bring their hips a bit closer, their shafts touching teasingly before Alfred caught a good hold of them and chaffed them together a bit more roughly. "Bleedin' fuck!"
"You're always so loud… geez…" Arthur bit his lip. "Ouch!"
"Don't complain about something when you enjoy it, fucker."
"I'm rubbing off on you, Iggy."
"Right now, I wish you were." The Briton bucked his hips to let him know what meant. "Hurry up and make me come." And that was one goal they both wanted. Both their hips were near erratic as they tried to find release, but it just wasn't enough. They just wanted to plunge into each other's depths and plow the fuck out of them, but not yet. They couldn't do that now. They had to settle for miserably stroking and it was nowhere near enough. Or maybe it was. It lacked the intensity if being buried, but it was bringing them closer to orgasm by each ticking second. It was an erotic experience all on its own. "Fuck, Alfred… Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Arthur swore to the top of his lungs as he leaned back, using his arms as balance and Alfred half stood up, half leaned over him. It was a strange position, but the American had more control of his hips and could move both faster and chafe deeper. He was nearly lying on top of the Briton.
"Ung, gah! It's not enough… Arthur… it's not enough!" Alfred nearly wept; but it still felt so fucking good. His mouth was slack; some more drool dripping onto Arthur's pale chest, making it gleam deliciously. Blue eyes stared in rapt fascination at the Englishman's chest as if it was the first time he had noticed it. With plenty of effort, he leaned down and sucked on one of the pert nipples. Arthur was reduced to yelling a new string of profanities, and shortly after, Alfred couldn't understand crap of what he was saying. Definitely had to be Old English.
From there on, everything was but a blur. Alfred heard people, but Arthur was too far gone to notice. Or maybe he did notice, and just didn't care. Their careless thrusting was just past the point of erratic but something triggered them both. Perhaps it was the whistle in the near distance, or the fact that the door to the room had slammed open. Whatever it was, it made Arthur come, and along that yell in reckless abandon. The milky substance that shot out stained the American's dark jersey all too nicely, and caught some of his own chest too. That was enough to trigger Alfred's own splendid finish, his language just as colorful as his lover's as he did. They ended up collapsing on the bench, entangled and partly nude, touching whatever they could reach and kissing like there was no tomorrow. It was beautiful. At least to them, anyways.
The other two men that stood by the door didn't seem too convinced.
"Kirkland! Jones! What the hell is this?"
Alfred nearly jumped out of his bones as he fell from the bench, Arthur not so far behind as he tried to jump up but failed miserable. He ended up entangling himself and falling flat on his face. "Sir! I am so terribly sorry!" The Englishman tried to pull on his best innocent mask, but his coach wasn't buying.
"Arthur, I think you misunderstood what the term halftime means."
"Ah, yes, my apologies." Arthur had the decency to blush as he fixed his pants and reached out for his shirt. So much for getting rid of the sweat…
"Put your shirt on and get out there."
He did as he was told. As for Alfred; his coach glared at him. "I ain't even going to waste my breath on you. Tell one of the guys to tell you what's what and get your ass out there."
"Yeah. But I'm gonna need a clean jersey…"
"You're supposed to be at each other's throats! Not each other's pants!" The English coach was yelling at Arthur. If he hadn't been running late already, Arthur would have punched him.
"Hey, we were just trying to get in the zone! Isn't that what the FIFAs all about? You know… Say no to racism, let the world come together, football for hope, make love not war… and stuff?" Alfred tried to reason, but the glare he received only got him adjusting his socks and running out the door. Arthur close on his heels.
"I swear, if this little rendezvous causes me a win, I'm gonna kill that kid." The American coach said through clenched teeth, stomping angrily out the door.
"My good man, it'll be a miracle if any of them scores now." The Briton tapped the other's shoulder in compassion; and oh how right he was.
A/N: Aw, yeah. I miss the World Cup. Not even gonna lie. For all those who didn't catch the match last summer, well, let's just say England was outraged by the US's goal; or better said, they were outraged by their own goaly. Greene was the culprit of what was probably the biggest flub during the entire FIFA 2010. To be honest, I wasn't particularly proud with England's performance during the entire Cup; my boys were just all over the place. X'D Now, enough me ranting out about sports. Hope you guys enjoyed!