[Part 11] USUK - Dusty Road Curvature - Part 8
anonymous
July 9 2010, 07:44:56 UTC
Arthur, for once, is patient and just bends over to pick up more clothes, and he can see the sweat beginning to bead at his forehead. Alfred wants to kiss him-hasn’t kissed him in weeks, and here he was, standing right there and yet it was as if they were strangers, or Arthur was simply his nanny.
“I need to wash my car, I guess,” Alfred decides at last, because he’s looking away-looking at anything that isn’t (beautiful) Arthur, and settling on his car, parked beside Arthur’s. They’re both dusty, but Alfred’s looks worse for wear. “It’s dirty.”
“Everything here is dirty,” Arthur says conversationally and Alfred almost has the balls to suggest that they do something really, really dirty. He already knows what Arthur would say (“We’ve already stripped all the sheets in the house, you ninny.”) and is already thinking up creative places they could have sex that wouldn’t dirty the sheets or shatter Arthur’s ill-conceived notions of propriety.
“Want to wash ‘em with me? We can do yours, too.”
Arthur shrugs, clipping up a pair of jeans that aren’t startlingly embarrassing.
“Fine.”
---
After nearly three hours of washing laundry, all of Alfred’s wardrobe is fluttering in the unsatisfying summer breeze. It’s later in the afternoon, so the hottest part of the day is passed and Alfred even went inside and made some iced tea earlier (the only kind of tea he was good at, according to Arthur) so already the afternoon was progressing in a promising way. And it seems that Arthur is not in the mood for work, at least until he deems Alfred’s home livable. Alfred downs the rest of his sweating glass and places it on the railing of his porch as he jumps off onto the soft crackle of pebbles he uses for a driveway instead of pavement. He licks his dry lips, watches Arthur tip his head back and drink the iced tea, watches his adam’s apple bob, watches the sweat clinging to his skin. He’s at least shucked his tie, and his button-down is opened to the breeze, exposing his undershirt stretched over his chest.
“God, why won’t you change?” Arthur groans when he opens his eyes and sees Alfred approaching him, embarrassing outfit and all.
Alfred scoffs, or at least pretends to. “I’m already sweaty and I’m about to wash a car. Might as well keep the crappy clothes on.”
The sun is casting long shadows across the warm expanse of his yard, but the breeze offers no respite-muggy, humid, and hot. Alfred cannot breathe, cannot swallow-perhaps because Arthur is pushing the hair back from his forehead with both hands, sighing softly and staring at the cars with such morose determination it was as if he was staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Come on,” Alfred jokes, “It’ll be fun.”
He deposits a sponge in Arthur’s hand and drops down the bucket he’d filled with suds and water. He holds the hose in his other hand. The sun is not as high so he doesn’t feel as bad using the water as he sprays at his car first, some of the spray splattering across Arthurs’ rental car’s windshield. Arthur waits patiently, arms folded, face neutral.
Arthur doesn’t move until Alfred has finished hosing down the car, and then he steps forward, wiping at the car windows with deliberate care, using the sponge to wipe away the dirt, dunking it in the water when necessary, but so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t notice Alfred following after him, swallowing the thick lump in his throat and aching to touch him.
“Christ, it really is dirty, isn’t it?” he hears Arthur mutter as the older nation bends over to clean at a hubcap, caked in mud. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, his lip turning upwards in displease and it is probably the cutest thing Alfred has seen all day. Alfred turns away, scrubbing at the side mirror with the look of ultimate concentration. He is a car-cleaning master. There is nothing to ruin his concentration and his prowess. And then Arthur says, “It’s hotter than blazes out here.”
[Part 11] USUK - Dusty Road Curvature - Part 9
anonymous
July 9 2010, 07:45:32 UTC
And in the mirror Alfred can see Arthur straightening, tugging at the collar of his undershirt, pulling it and pushing it over his chest, causing the fabric to billow in his efforts to fan himself. Just when he thought his mouth couldn’t get dryer-
Arthur scoops up his glass of iced tea and presses it against his forehead, closing his eyes as he let the sweating glass slide against his forehead and cheek, the ice cubes in the glass clinking together with the small movements.
Alfred turns around and stares at him.
And then sprays him with the hose.
The squawk of alarm is so rewarding that Alfred doesn’t really mind when Arthur flails in surprise and throws the entirety of his ice tea soaring directly into his face. He feels sticky and sweaty, but it’s well worth it to see the way the white undershirt clings to Arthur’s chest.
“You little fucker-!”
“I was cooling you off,” Alfred protests, laughter in his voice as Arthur charges towards him, wielding his sponge like a weapon. Laughing hysterically, Alfred runs away and Arthur gives chase. They circle around the truck in a stalemate, neither able to outrun the other, though when Alfred starts to get further away, Arthur just turns around and they reverse directions and continue to miss one another.
Until Arthur throws the sponge at him and it is stupidly well-aimed. Alfred sputters as he takes in a mouthful of sponge. He hears Arthur’s footsteps, doesn’t hear laughter but knows that Arthur is amused and Alfred is laughing and that is what mattered-
Hears the clink of the hose and turns in time to have Arthur spray in him in the face with the lukewarm water-warm, then cold. It’d been sitting in the sun, and now the water was free from the tube and hitting Alfred full on the face, and against his chest. His pink-white shirt is clinging to him and he doesn’t care.
“It’s a good thing you have more clothes to change into,” Arthur says, in deadly seriousness, as he finally releases the onslaught of water, cradling the hose as if it were a precious weapon.
Alfred throws the sponge at him and he ducks. He tries to spray Alfred again and what results is Alfred’s ducking and rolling behind the truck as Arthur tries to spray him from the otherwise of the vehicle, angling the water to arch over the truck and hit him. Alfred is laughing, giddy, knows he’ll never get used to laughing with Arthur (even if Arthur is trying his hardest not to laugh).
“It’s evaporation, Arthur!” Alfred calls. “The sun will get the water out of your clothes and you’ll feel much cooler.”
“The sun is setting.”
“Not for a few hours-we’ve got until at least ten before we have to worry about that,” Alfred says, peeking out from behind the truck bed only for Arthur to pull the trigger on the hose and spray Alfred in the face. Alfred laughs, sputters, and ducks away.
“I can’t believe-I was only meant to be here for a few hours at most! And yet here I am doing all your chores for you…”
“Aww, come on, babe, you know you love spending time with me!” Alfred crows and snickers as Arthur bends on the other side of the car and sprays under the car, hitting his feet. Alfred yelps and scampers away, giggling despite himself.
What commences is a water war, of course. Alfred pulls numerous odd shapes in his attempts to dodge Arthur’s monopoly on the hose-and they’re wasting water and for once it seems as if Arthur is not concerned for propriety as he indulges in this war with savage determination, seemingly unwilling to rest until Alfred is soaked to the bone. The sun is hot and hanging in the sky, so both are, inwardly, thankful for the water to cool them off. Alfred’s car is still rather dirty, and now has water spots on it from the sun drying it before they could wipe it down properly.
[Part 11] USUK - Dusty Road Curvature - Part 10
anonymous
July 9 2010, 07:46:12 UTC
“Dance for me, pretty boy,” Arthur says with a smirk as he sprays at Alfred and Alfred continues to dodge and roll and do his best to avoid him. But he’s laughing, and his glasses have water-spots and he doesn’t care because Arthur is chuckling, just slightly, and it’s like music to him.
And in a blast of heroism, Alfred lunges into the truck bed, takes one little leap, and lands on the side of the truck where Arthur is. Arthur’s mouth opens to speak, points the hose at him, but there’s no time before Alfred has his sponge, saturated with dirty, cold water, shoved down Arthur’s back. Arthur gasps, loudly, and wriggles, squirming and trying to get the sponge out. Alfred seizes his prize with a confident laugh, holding the hose over his head in his victory. He has the satisfying moment of watching Arthur’s eyes widen just as Alfred lowers the hose and sprays it directly in his face, keeping the pressure lax so it wouldn’t hurt him from the short distance.
Arthur sputters.
“Okay, okay,” he gasps as Alfred continues to spray him, dancing away from Arthur when he makes an attempt to swipe the hose back. “Okay! You win!”
At once the hose stops spraying Arthur and Alfred is grinning, face flushed and clothes waterlogged. Arthur isn’t much better, and Alfred likes to think his cheeks are red from holding in his laughter, not from the baking sun.
“I hope we didn’t get the laundry,” Arthur says, ever the practical soul, as he wipes at his forehead, trying to get the water and sweat out of his eyes. He licks his lips, looks as if he will laugh and doesn’t. He’s looking at the laundry.
Alfred rolls his eyes. “That’s what the sun’s for, Artie.”
“Don’t call me that,” Arthur says, without venom. He shrugs out of his button-down, now soaked to the bone and see-through. Alfred watches the way Arthur’s muscles ripple, just for a moment, and then focuses on the slant of Arthur’s shoulders as he shakes out his shirt, trying to banish the extra water. He tosses it aside, away from the cars, and lets it fall on the ground-it’s dirty, he’ll wash it later-and pulls off his undershirt.
Alfred really hadn’t expected to see a half-naked Arthur today, but he certainly is not complaining. Arthur is pretty without a shirt on. Alfred feels himself swallow around the sudden lump in his throat, has so much he wants to say and doesn’t.
“Let’s finish your truck, shall we? We still have mine to do,” Arthur says, and he only looks a little agitated-mostly amused. Alfred is still grinning like an idiot, hasn’t stopped grinning like an idiot all day practically.
“Aye, aye, Captain!” Alfred says, and even salutes, collecting the sponge on the ground and dunking it in the water. “Hey, fill this up, it’s almost empty.”
Instead of filling the bucket, Arthur picked up the hose and sprayed at Alfred’s back. Alfred yelped in surprise, squirming away and ducking behind the hood of the truck.
“Hey!”
“I apologize,” Arthur says, with no hint of apology. “Take that shirt off.”
“I’ll get burnt,” Alfred whines.
“You and I both know you won’t, golden boy,” Arthur says, and Alfred thinks (hopes) he isn’t imagining that hint of affection in Arthur’s voice, even as he continues to spray at Alfred until the taller nation relents and tugs the white-pink shirt off over his head. “If anyone, it’ll be me who burns.”
He definitely isn’t mistaking the way that Arthur watches Alfred as Alfred takes off his shirt, and he is not mistaken when Arthur’s eyes linger on his chest, trace down the lines of his body before drifting away, focusing pointedly on the truck. Maybe Arthur had missed him as much as Alfred had missed Arthur-and is just too proud to say. They are both too proud.
Alfred tosses his shirt aside and flashes his winning smile at Arthur. Arthur focuses on the truck.
[Part 11] USUK - Dusty Road Curvature - Part 11
anonymous
July 9 2010, 07:46:41 UTC
They finish Alfred’s truck well enough, without any further interruption. Arthur wipes it down with the sponge and Alfred follows him with the hose, spraying it clean. Together, they fetch some towels to wipe it dry and at the end, Alfred, with his hands on his hips and looking quite pleased, announces it looks perfect.
Arthur’s shoulders are starting to turn pink and Alfred thinks it’s really nice to look at. The day is still humid, but the sun isn’t as high in the sky and in the distance Alfred can hear the quiet cricket song. The sky, instead of blinding from the sun, is fading to a gentle dark blue and Alfred looks up at the sky with a small smile. When he looks over at Arthur again, he finds that Arthur is watching him.
“My car, then?”
“It’s cute, did you choose it?” Alfred asks with a snicker as he sprays down Arthur’s car. It’s not nearly as dirty, so it won’t take as long to clean. Arthur rolls his eyes and sponges at the windshield.
“No.”
It is a dusty old Honda with a hatchback, a dark green. It is a nice car, though not nearly as awesome as Alfred’s truck, Alfred decides.
“You’re getting pink on the back of your neck,” Alfred says as he finishes spraying down the car, a quarter of an hour later. The car took far less time than the truck, but this is because washing the cars has gotten boring and both want to go inside (though the prospect of doing more laundry isn’t very appealing either).
“Told you,” was all Arthur says.
Alfred rolls up the hose, turning off the water supply and spraying the last of the water onto the ground so the hose is empty. He whistles slightly as he does so, coiling up the hose before heading back over to where Arthur has the hatchback open, pulling out a bag-searching for clean clothes.
“You can use some of mine, if you need to,” Alfred says, leaning against the side of the car and watching Arthur.
Arthur nods, absently, then shakes his head. “Hm? No. No, I’ll be alright, Alfred.”
Alfred watches him, swallows thickly. His bare chest. The way his pants sag in just the right kind of way, exposing the slight roundness of his belly. The way his hair falls in his eyes. His pink shoulders and back of his neck. A few freckles.
“God,” Alfred breathes.
Arthur looks up at him, and zips up his bag. “What?”
“Fuck,” Alfred says, feels desperate, feels the heat wearing on his senses, feels weak from having Arthur right there, seeing him, hearing him, wanting to touch him-
He watches Arthur’s neck again as he swallows, watches his adam’s apple bob.
Alfred pushes Arthur and with a squawk Arthur splays out on the back of the car, over where he’d put his luggage, over where the back seats are folded down. It’s flat. Arthur is flat on his back, staring up at him with a slightly bemused expression and Alfred knows he’s done for. It’s over.
“Fuck,” he says again, breathes, drinks in the sight of Arthur-only Arthur. “I have to-I-um. Arthur. I need-”
His fingers are shaking, press down Arthur’s chest. Arthur stares at him, wide-eyed but not repulsed (why would he be repulsed, anyway?) and watching him with quiet wonderment.
“Alfred,” Arthur breathes, and his chest is heaving and his heart is fluttering and he’s staring up at him.
“I-” Alfred begins, chokes. His fingers curl around Arthur’s waistband. He fumbles with the button.
[Part 11] USUK - Dusty Road Curvature - Part 12
anonymous
July 9 2010, 07:47:08 UTC
The look of understanding dawns on Arthur’s face and Arthur gasps. Then his eyes narrow, not in anger, but rather in an economic mindset. “Yes. Yes. Fuck, get them off.”
So he had wanted him. The issue of pride aside, Alfred perks up. Arthur’s voice is tight with need, but he is not begging. Arthur never begs. It isn’t quite an order, either, though-almost a command. It’s enough to make Alfred shiver and close his eyes.
Alfred is never one for grace, and all semblance of grace is gone as he fumbles, his movements jerky and needy and wanting-Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…
“You are a horrible boyfriend,” Alfred decides. He’s still fumbling, and Arthur looks as if he is on the verge to rip them off himself.
“How do you figure that?”
“You should have jumped me the moment you got here, damn you,” Alfred says, with no venom.
Arthur snorts, tangles his fingers in Alfred’s hair. His head tilts to the side, his expression reading more curious than anything else and god damn it how could Arthur be so cute when he was half-naked and sprawled out like that?
And when he looks down at Arthur, or rather Arthur angles Alfred’s head using the fingers in his hair so that their eyes lock and Alfred isn’t focusing on undoing Arthur’s belt. And Arthur is smiling in that way that Alfred still hasn’t gotten used to and never will, even after all this time. It makes the butterflies return, makes him feel like melted butter. His heart always thuds, and his ears sometimes ring. He feels like he’ll never stop feeling so stupid and smitten and jittery and giddy. Not when Arthur was looking up at him like that, expression almost soft. Then Arthur drops a hand just so he can hook his fingers in the belt loops of Alfred’s water-sogged, ridiculous jeans and pull him up into the car’s back with him. It was like a car crash-he couldn’t look away from Arthur. He didn’t want to look away. Arthur woke up the quietest parts of himself, made him think and do ridiculous things, wanted to say all the sappy shit he never would say against ever curve of Arthur’s skin.
“You’re an idiot,” Arthur decides, still smiling. Then he gently sits himself up, eyes on Alfred’s mouth and Alfred’s lips part, expectantly. “My lovely.”
And there’s the pet names he’d been hoping for. Alfred feels his stomach drop and wonders if Arthur knows what effect Arthur has on him as Arthur kisses him and Alfred kisses him back. Arthur’s mouth is not soft, never is soft, but he kisses Alfred and Alfred goes about kissing him the way he does with everything in life-impatience, nerves, and breathtaking (sometimes misplaced) certainty. Definitely like melted butter. Arthur kisses him and Alfred hungrily returns the kisses, wants to sink down and away and always, always, always-
[Part 11] USUK - Dusty Road Curvature - Part 13
anonymous
July 9 2010, 07:47:37 UTC
And it’s been so long but the kiss feels like it did weeks ago, years ago, what he’d imagined it would feel like before it was even a possibility. It’s different every time but yet exactly the same each time, but changed so little that it feels like such a long time they’ve been kissing and Alfred groans because damn he misses kissing Arthur. He groans into Arthur’s mouth, can feel the curvature of Arthur’s smile, tastes like dust, as Alfred parts his mouth and Arthur’s tongue slides into his mouth, scraping across his teeth. It’s as if he’s been starving for him, and perhaps he had been-Alfred had been starving for him. He wouldn’t quit-he won’t quit. He wraps his arms around Arthur, a hearty feat since Arthur is sprawled across the floor of the car with gentle certainty.
Alfred thinks I’m an idiot because the other shoe hasn’t fallen, won’t fall. Arthur wants him, always wants him. He kisses him. He lets Arthur kiss him. Alfred laughs against his mouth, giddy, so giddy. He presses his chest against Arthur’s, balances his weight on his hands so as not to crush the precious cargo beneath him, feels their legs tangle together, feet hanging out of the car.
Alfred thinks again I’m such an idiot and is content to fall away into Arthur forever but Arthur is pulling away and why was he doing that-
Arthur pulls away, raising his eyebrows in that stupid way of his, still smiling in that heart-stopping, gut-flopping way. It should be a crime for Alfred to find him so damned attractive because in reality he isn’t the most attractive person ever-far from it. But the color of the car matches his eyes and that should count for something, right?
Not kissing Arthur kind of sucks, but the lack of kissing means the leeway for more interesting things, and Arthur’s earlier not-begging-but-almost-command to get his pants off. So he sets about doing just that.
“We’re in public,” Arthur reminds.
“Whatever, we’ll hear someone coming before they hear us,” Alfred says with hurried dismissal, now content with his mission to Get Arthur Naked.
Arthur closes his eyes as Alfred yanks off Arthur’s shoes, socks, and his pants. He tosses them, somewhere, not too far. Over his shoulder-out of sight, out of mind. And his eyes are only on Arthur. His fingers twitch, shift, press. He pulls down Arthur’s briefs, palms Arthur’s cock in his hand and sucks it into his mouth before he can second-guess himself.
Arthur hisses out a quiet litany of syllables and makes a soft grunting sound that, from anyone else, would have been horribly unattractive but because it is Arthur and it’s Arthur here with him everything he does is amazing and Alfred is beside himself. It’d been too long.
He wants to tell Arthur how much he misses him when he’s gone, how much he wants to stay with him-but it’s too sappy. Too much. He doesn’t want the other shoe to drop, doesn’t want the day to come when Arthur realizes that there’s something that makes them incompatible (there has to be something-name something that isn’t, at least), waiting for a reason why Arthur can’t love him anymore. He doesn’t want it to come. He wants to love Arthur forever.
Arthur is breathing through his nose, and the air is thick and heavy and humid. His lungs constrict, he sucks on Arthur’s cock, takes more of him in-and gags slightly when Arthur’s cockhead strikes the back of his throat. He swallows more, tries to relax his throat, holds down Arthur’s hips to keep him from thrusting painfully up into his mouth.
Arthur is gasping, and the sound is like a drug. It’s almost too much for Alfred-Arthur’s muscles jumping beneath his fingers, coarse hairs scratching against his nose. The sounds. The sounds are too much. Arthur, all for being proper and a gentleman, never says anything he doesn’t think through clearly, unless someone has enraged him into a screaming fit. But making indecent noises, sharp inhales and quiet groans and the quiet keens of Alfred and Yes, yes, my dear.
[Part 11] USUK - Dusty Road Curvature - Part 14
anonymous
July 9 2010, 07:48:17 UTC
Alfred is painfully hard in his wet jeans and damn does he hate free-balling like anything else on earth, but at that moment he’s thankful for how easy it is to pull down the zipper and pull himself out, stroking in time to the sucks he gives Arthur, passing his tongue along the underside, swirling around Arthur’s head with gentle precision. His hand is less gentle, pounding up and down along his cock.
“God,” Arthur gasps. Alfred watches him through his eyelashes, sucks harder on the cock, trying to send the older man into incoherency. Arthur’s moans are filthy and though it’s not in the house, Alfred knows he’s getting his wish to make things even dirtier than the laundry and the cars.
He sucks Arthur in harder, deeper, focusing on his tongue and only then remembering to keep his teeth in check, only just managing to keep them out of the way but Arthur either doesn’t notice or likes it, because his head is thrashing from side to side and he’s moaning for Alfred, only Alfred, bucking up despite the hold on his hips keeping him there. He presses his cheek to the car’s carpet, lets out one little cry, and his mouth sags open as Alfred’s mouth fills with the salty taste of Arthur’s cum. Arthur’s body shudders hard, once, then twice, and he arches up, his legs taut and body quivering like a bow that’d just released an arrow.
He drinks him in, sucks him dry until he is weak and spent and flaccid and lets it slip from his mouth, licking his lips. He mutters something against Arthur’s quivering inner thigh, pressing a haphazard kiss.
“I missed you,” he breaths before he can stop himself, but his voice is so breathless and Arthur’s breath so ragged, it’s likely that the older nation didn’t hear him-and that’s for the best. He presses his face into the soft skin at the junction between Arthur’s hip and thigh, kissing at the sweaty skin there, tastes more salt. His mouth tastes of Arthur, his ears are pounding and ringing from Arthur’s sounds, listens to Arthur’s greedy, shuddering breaths.
It’s all he needs, too, and with one last jerk of his hand, he comes, feels his orgasm hit him almost as a surprise as he jerks into his hand, clenching his eyes tight and breathing out words he’s too embarrassed to say under normal circumstances into the expanse of Arthur’s skin. He lies there, panting loudly into Arthur’s skin.
Arthur lets him come down and then he strokes his fingers through Alfred’s hair. Quietly, in a tired voice, he says, “Come here, darling.”
Alfred obliges, pushing himself up and crawling over Arthurs’ prone, naked body, pressing soft kisses against his sweating skin along the way. The air is too thick, too humid. And he feels so warm inside, with Arthur. Arthur.
“Do you need me to…?” Arthur murmurs, looking sated but concerned, lifting his hand to drag it down Alfred’s chest.
Alfred grins, giddy, despite himself, his face flushed red. “Already took care of that, ha ha… Um.”
Arthur’s face is surprised before it ripples away to quiet amusement, and he strokes the hair from Alfred’s face. Alfred nuzzles into the hand, eyes fluttering.
“… You’re not wearing anything underneath those ridiculous jeans are you?” Arthur says, attentions all in the wrong (or possibly right) places.
[Part 11] USUK - Dusty Road Curvature - Part 15 (end)
anonymous
July 9 2010, 07:49:00 UTC
“Jesus,” Arthur curses, then rolls them so it’s Alfred on the floor of the car and Arthur pressing over him, kissing at his chin and his jaw and his nose. Alfred tries to push his head up, brushes his nose against Arthur’s and Arthur chuckles. “Alright, alright,” he whispers, and presses closer, resting his forehead against Alfred’s. “Alright, my lovely.”
“Yeah,” Alfred breathes, feels his heart flop again. He’ll never get used to it, as long as he lives. He never wants to be used to it.
“I would have come sooner,” Arthur says, after a long pause. “I hadn’t realized you’d missed me.”
Alfred sputters and whispers, “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
Arthur strokes his fingers through Alfred’s hair. “I heard.”
Alfred grunts, then turns his head away, closing his eyes. He swallows thickly as Arthur nuzzles against his neck. He tilts his head, pressing his cheek against Arthur, and Arthur stills, stays like that. He can hear the breath in his ear, feel it wafting over his sticky skin. He breaths out a small sigh, feels content and perfectly relaxed for the first time in a long time.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Well. You’re here now.”
Alfred does not think he can control his own limbs, and he refuses to admit he’s cuddling with Arthur (though that’s totally what’s happening). So he enjoys just lying there, half-naked, with Arthur.
Arthur sighs. Ever the pessimist, he mutters into Alfred’s hair but with no intention of getting up anytime soon, “We’ll never get the laundry done at this rate.”
Re: [Part 11] USUK - Dusty Road Curvature - Part 15 (end)
anonymous
July 9 2010, 09:55:23 UTC
Oh anon, I loved the aching uncertainty woven throughout this. I need to rest my poor aching eyes before rereading and making a real (possibly even intelligent?) comment, but this really was lovely. Thanks for sharing, my dear. <3
And yeah, maybe a bit obvious, but it just makes us love you more. ... May I just declare you the master of writing emotions well already? <3
Heh. ReCaptcha says "quick next". Even Captcha wants more of your fic. ;D
Re: [Part 11] USUK - Dusty Road Curvature - Part 15 (end)
anonymous
July 9 2010, 23:15:22 UTC
IT'S INCREDIBLE!! Just today I was washing my car inside my garden and of course I was all wet (I love play with water^^). And so I just thought: "Well, it would be so great see some Hetalia's characters trying to wash a car, but ending up splashing each other." And "POOF!!" my desire became reality!! And with my favorite pairing too!!! And with SMUT!!! (Epic win!!) XDDDD Maybe one of Iggy's fairy was listening to me...this is a miracle!!^^
Anyway I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS!! It's perfect! THANK YOUUUUUUU!!!!!!!XD
“I need to wash my car, I guess,” Alfred decides at last, because he’s looking away-looking at anything that isn’t (beautiful) Arthur, and settling on his car, parked beside Arthur’s. They’re both dusty, but Alfred’s looks worse for wear. “It’s dirty.”
“Everything here is dirty,” Arthur says conversationally and Alfred almost has the balls to suggest that they do something really, really dirty. He already knows what Arthur would say (“We’ve already stripped all the sheets in the house, you ninny.”) and is already thinking up creative places they could have sex that wouldn’t dirty the sheets or shatter Arthur’s ill-conceived notions of propriety.
“Want to wash ‘em with me? We can do yours, too.”
Arthur shrugs, clipping up a pair of jeans that aren’t startlingly embarrassing.
“Fine.”
---
After nearly three hours of washing laundry, all of Alfred’s wardrobe is fluttering in the unsatisfying summer breeze. It’s later in the afternoon, so the hottest part of the day is passed and Alfred even went inside and made some iced tea earlier (the only kind of tea he was good at, according to Arthur) so already the afternoon was progressing in a promising way. And it seems that Arthur is not in the mood for work, at least until he deems Alfred’s home livable. Alfred downs the rest of his sweating glass and places it on the railing of his porch as he jumps off onto the soft crackle of pebbles he uses for a driveway instead of pavement. He licks his dry lips, watches Arthur tip his head back and drink the iced tea, watches his adam’s apple bob, watches the sweat clinging to his skin. He’s at least shucked his tie, and his button-down is opened to the breeze, exposing his undershirt stretched over his chest.
“God, why won’t you change?” Arthur groans when he opens his eyes and sees Alfred approaching him, embarrassing outfit and all.
Alfred scoffs, or at least pretends to. “I’m already sweaty and I’m about to wash a car. Might as well keep the crappy clothes on.”
The sun is casting long shadows across the warm expanse of his yard, but the breeze offers no respite-muggy, humid, and hot. Alfred cannot breathe, cannot swallow-perhaps because Arthur is pushing the hair back from his forehead with both hands, sighing softly and staring at the cars with such morose determination it was as if he was staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Come on,” Alfred jokes, “It’ll be fun.”
He deposits a sponge in Arthur’s hand and drops down the bucket he’d filled with suds and water. He holds the hose in his other hand. The sun is not as high so he doesn’t feel as bad using the water as he sprays at his car first, some of the spray splattering across Arthurs’ rental car’s windshield. Arthur waits patiently, arms folded, face neutral.
Arthur doesn’t move until Alfred has finished hosing down the car, and then he steps forward, wiping at the car windows with deliberate care, using the sponge to wipe away the dirt, dunking it in the water when necessary, but so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t notice Alfred following after him, swallowing the thick lump in his throat and aching to touch him.
“Christ, it really is dirty, isn’t it?” he hears Arthur mutter as the older nation bends over to clean at a hubcap, caked in mud. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, his lip turning upwards in displease and it is probably the cutest thing Alfred has seen all day. Alfred turns away, scrubbing at the side mirror with the look of ultimate concentration. He is a car-cleaning master. There is nothing to ruin his concentration and his prowess. And then Arthur says, “It’s hotter than blazes out here.”
Reply
Arthur scoops up his glass of iced tea and presses it against his forehead, closing his eyes as he let the sweating glass slide against his forehead and cheek, the ice cubes in the glass clinking together with the small movements.
Alfred turns around and stares at him.
And then sprays him with the hose.
The squawk of alarm is so rewarding that Alfred doesn’t really mind when Arthur flails in surprise and throws the entirety of his ice tea soaring directly into his face. He feels sticky and sweaty, but it’s well worth it to see the way the white undershirt clings to Arthur’s chest.
“You little fucker-!”
“I was cooling you off,” Alfred protests, laughter in his voice as Arthur charges towards him, wielding his sponge like a weapon. Laughing hysterically, Alfred runs away and Arthur gives chase. They circle around the truck in a stalemate, neither able to outrun the other, though when Alfred starts to get further away, Arthur just turns around and they reverse directions and continue to miss one another.
Until Arthur throws the sponge at him and it is stupidly well-aimed. Alfred sputters as he takes in a mouthful of sponge. He hears Arthur’s footsteps, doesn’t hear laughter but knows that Arthur is amused and Alfred is laughing and that is what mattered-
Hears the clink of the hose and turns in time to have Arthur spray in him in the face with the lukewarm water-warm, then cold. It’d been sitting in the sun, and now the water was free from the tube and hitting Alfred full on the face, and against his chest. His pink-white shirt is clinging to him and he doesn’t care.
“It’s a good thing you have more clothes to change into,” Arthur says, in deadly seriousness, as he finally releases the onslaught of water, cradling the hose as if it were a precious weapon.
Alfred throws the sponge at him and he ducks. He tries to spray Alfred again and what results is Alfred’s ducking and rolling behind the truck as Arthur tries to spray him from the otherwise of the vehicle, angling the water to arch over the truck and hit him. Alfred is laughing, giddy, knows he’ll never get used to laughing with Arthur (even if Arthur is trying his hardest not to laugh).
“It’s evaporation, Arthur!” Alfred calls. “The sun will get the water out of your clothes and you’ll feel much cooler.”
“The sun is setting.”
“Not for a few hours-we’ve got until at least ten before we have to worry about that,” Alfred says, peeking out from behind the truck bed only for Arthur to pull the trigger on the hose and spray Alfred in the face. Alfred laughs, sputters, and ducks away.
“I can’t believe-I was only meant to be here for a few hours at most! And yet here I am doing all your chores for you…”
“Aww, come on, babe, you know you love spending time with me!” Alfred crows and snickers as Arthur bends on the other side of the car and sprays under the car, hitting his feet. Alfred yelps and scampers away, giggling despite himself.
What commences is a water war, of course. Alfred pulls numerous odd shapes in his attempts to dodge Arthur’s monopoly on the hose-and they’re wasting water and for once it seems as if Arthur is not concerned for propriety as he indulges in this war with savage determination, seemingly unwilling to rest until Alfred is soaked to the bone. The sun is hot and hanging in the sky, so both are, inwardly, thankful for the water to cool them off. Alfred’s car is still rather dirty, and now has water spots on it from the sun drying it before they could wipe it down properly.
Reply
And in a blast of heroism, Alfred lunges into the truck bed, takes one little leap, and lands on the side of the truck where Arthur is. Arthur’s mouth opens to speak, points the hose at him, but there’s no time before Alfred has his sponge, saturated with dirty, cold water, shoved down Arthur’s back. Arthur gasps, loudly, and wriggles, squirming and trying to get the sponge out. Alfred seizes his prize with a confident laugh, holding the hose over his head in his victory. He has the satisfying moment of watching Arthur’s eyes widen just as Alfred lowers the hose and sprays it directly in his face, keeping the pressure lax so it wouldn’t hurt him from the short distance.
Arthur sputters.
“Okay, okay,” he gasps as Alfred continues to spray him, dancing away from Arthur when he makes an attempt to swipe the hose back. “Okay! You win!”
At once the hose stops spraying Arthur and Alfred is grinning, face flushed and clothes waterlogged. Arthur isn’t much better, and Alfred likes to think his cheeks are red from holding in his laughter, not from the baking sun.
“I hope we didn’t get the laundry,” Arthur says, ever the practical soul, as he wipes at his forehead, trying to get the water and sweat out of his eyes. He licks his lips, looks as if he will laugh and doesn’t. He’s looking at the laundry.
Alfred rolls his eyes. “That’s what the sun’s for, Artie.”
“Don’t call me that,” Arthur says, without venom. He shrugs out of his button-down, now soaked to the bone and see-through. Alfred watches the way Arthur’s muscles ripple, just for a moment, and then focuses on the slant of Arthur’s shoulders as he shakes out his shirt, trying to banish the extra water. He tosses it aside, away from the cars, and lets it fall on the ground-it’s dirty, he’ll wash it later-and pulls off his undershirt.
Alfred really hadn’t expected to see a half-naked Arthur today, but he certainly is not complaining. Arthur is pretty without a shirt on. Alfred feels himself swallow around the sudden lump in his throat, has so much he wants to say and doesn’t.
“Let’s finish your truck, shall we? We still have mine to do,” Arthur says, and he only looks a little agitated-mostly amused. Alfred is still grinning like an idiot, hasn’t stopped grinning like an idiot all day practically.
“Aye, aye, Captain!” Alfred says, and even salutes, collecting the sponge on the ground and dunking it in the water. “Hey, fill this up, it’s almost empty.”
Instead of filling the bucket, Arthur picked up the hose and sprayed at Alfred’s back. Alfred yelped in surprise, squirming away and ducking behind the hood of the truck.
“Hey!”
“I apologize,” Arthur says, with no hint of apology. “Take that shirt off.”
“I’ll get burnt,” Alfred whines.
“You and I both know you won’t, golden boy,” Arthur says, and Alfred thinks (hopes) he isn’t imagining that hint of affection in Arthur’s voice, even as he continues to spray at Alfred until the taller nation relents and tugs the white-pink shirt off over his head. “If anyone, it’ll be me who burns.”
He definitely isn’t mistaking the way that Arthur watches Alfred as Alfred takes off his shirt, and he is not mistaken when Arthur’s eyes linger on his chest, trace down the lines of his body before drifting away, focusing pointedly on the truck. Maybe Arthur had missed him as much as Alfred had missed Arthur-and is just too proud to say. They are both too proud.
Alfred tosses his shirt aside and flashes his winning smile at Arthur. Arthur focuses on the truck.
Reply
Arthur’s shoulders are starting to turn pink and Alfred thinks it’s really nice to look at. The day is still humid, but the sun isn’t as high in the sky and in the distance Alfred can hear the quiet cricket song. The sky, instead of blinding from the sun, is fading to a gentle dark blue and Alfred looks up at the sky with a small smile. When he looks over at Arthur again, he finds that Arthur is watching him.
“My car, then?”
“It’s cute, did you choose it?” Alfred asks with a snicker as he sprays down Arthur’s car. It’s not nearly as dirty, so it won’t take as long to clean. Arthur rolls his eyes and sponges at the windshield.
“No.”
It is a dusty old Honda with a hatchback, a dark green. It is a nice car, though not nearly as awesome as Alfred’s truck, Alfred decides.
“You’re getting pink on the back of your neck,” Alfred says as he finishes spraying down the car, a quarter of an hour later. The car took far less time than the truck, but this is because washing the cars has gotten boring and both want to go inside (though the prospect of doing more laundry isn’t very appealing either).
“Told you,” was all Arthur says.
Alfred rolls up the hose, turning off the water supply and spraying the last of the water onto the ground so the hose is empty. He whistles slightly as he does so, coiling up the hose before heading back over to where Arthur has the hatchback open, pulling out a bag-searching for clean clothes.
“You can use some of mine, if you need to,” Alfred says, leaning against the side of the car and watching Arthur.
Arthur nods, absently, then shakes his head. “Hm? No. No, I’ll be alright, Alfred.”
Alfred watches him, swallows thickly. His bare chest. The way his pants sag in just the right kind of way, exposing the slight roundness of his belly. The way his hair falls in his eyes. His pink shoulders and back of his neck. A few freckles.
“God,” Alfred breathes.
Arthur looks up at him, and zips up his bag. “What?”
“Fuck,” Alfred says, feels desperate, feels the heat wearing on his senses, feels weak from having Arthur right there, seeing him, hearing him, wanting to touch him-
He watches Arthur’s neck again as he swallows, watches his adam’s apple bob.
Alfred pushes Arthur and with a squawk Arthur splays out on the back of the car, over where he’d put his luggage, over where the back seats are folded down. It’s flat. Arthur is flat on his back, staring up at him with a slightly bemused expression and Alfred knows he’s done for. It’s over.
“Fuck,” he says again, breathes, drinks in the sight of Arthur-only Arthur. “I have to-I-um. Arthur. I need-”
His fingers are shaking, press down Arthur’s chest. Arthur stares at him, wide-eyed but not repulsed (why would he be repulsed, anyway?) and watching him with quiet wonderment.
“Alfred,” Arthur breathes, and his chest is heaving and his heart is fluttering and he’s staring up at him.
“I-” Alfred begins, chokes. His fingers curl around Arthur’s waistband. He fumbles with the button.
Reply
So he had wanted him. The issue of pride aside, Alfred perks up. Arthur’s voice is tight with need, but he is not begging. Arthur never begs. It isn’t quite an order, either, though-almost a command. It’s enough to make Alfred shiver and close his eyes.
Alfred is never one for grace, and all semblance of grace is gone as he fumbles, his movements jerky and needy and wanting-Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…
“You are a horrible boyfriend,” Alfred decides. He’s still fumbling, and Arthur looks as if he is on the verge to rip them off himself.
“How do you figure that?”
“You should have jumped me the moment you got here, damn you,” Alfred says, with no venom.
Arthur snorts, tangles his fingers in Alfred’s hair. His head tilts to the side, his expression reading more curious than anything else and god damn it how could Arthur be so cute when he was half-naked and sprawled out like that?
And when he looks down at Arthur, or rather Arthur angles Alfred’s head using the fingers in his hair so that their eyes lock and Alfred isn’t focusing on undoing Arthur’s belt. And Arthur is smiling in that way that Alfred still hasn’t gotten used to and never will, even after all this time. It makes the butterflies return, makes him feel like melted butter. His heart always thuds, and his ears sometimes ring. He feels like he’ll never stop feeling so stupid and smitten and jittery and giddy. Not when Arthur was looking up at him like that, expression almost soft. Then Arthur drops a hand just so he can hook his fingers in the belt loops of Alfred’s water-sogged, ridiculous jeans and pull him up into the car’s back with him. It was like a car crash-he couldn’t look away from Arthur. He didn’t want to look away. Arthur woke up the quietest parts of himself, made him think and do ridiculous things, wanted to say all the sappy shit he never would say against ever curve of Arthur’s skin.
“You’re an idiot,” Arthur decides, still smiling. Then he gently sits himself up, eyes on Alfred’s mouth and Alfred’s lips part, expectantly. “My lovely.”
And there’s the pet names he’d been hoping for. Alfred feels his stomach drop and wonders if Arthur knows what effect Arthur has on him as Arthur kisses him and Alfred kisses him back. Arthur’s mouth is not soft, never is soft, but he kisses Alfred and Alfred goes about kissing him the way he does with everything in life-impatience, nerves, and breathtaking (sometimes misplaced) certainty. Definitely like melted butter. Arthur kisses him and Alfred hungrily returns the kisses, wants to sink down and away and always, always, always-
Reply
Alfred thinks I’m an idiot because the other shoe hasn’t fallen, won’t fall. Arthur wants him, always wants him. He kisses him. He lets Arthur kiss him. Alfred laughs against his mouth, giddy, so giddy. He presses his chest against Arthur’s, balances his weight on his hands so as not to crush the precious cargo beneath him, feels their legs tangle together, feet hanging out of the car.
Alfred thinks again I’m such an idiot and is content to fall away into Arthur forever but Arthur is pulling away and why was he doing that-
Arthur pulls away, raising his eyebrows in that stupid way of his, still smiling in that heart-stopping, gut-flopping way. It should be a crime for Alfred to find him so damned attractive because in reality he isn’t the most attractive person ever-far from it. But the color of the car matches his eyes and that should count for something, right?
Not kissing Arthur kind of sucks, but the lack of kissing means the leeway for more interesting things, and Arthur’s earlier not-begging-but-almost-command to get his pants off. So he sets about doing just that.
“We’re in public,” Arthur reminds.
“Whatever, we’ll hear someone coming before they hear us,” Alfred says with hurried dismissal, now content with his mission to Get Arthur Naked.
Arthur closes his eyes as Alfred yanks off Arthur’s shoes, socks, and his pants. He tosses them, somewhere, not too far. Over his shoulder-out of sight, out of mind. And his eyes are only on Arthur. His fingers twitch, shift, press. He pulls down Arthur’s briefs, palms Arthur’s cock in his hand and sucks it into his mouth before he can second-guess himself.
Arthur hisses out a quiet litany of syllables and makes a soft grunting sound that, from anyone else, would have been horribly unattractive but because it is Arthur and it’s Arthur here with him everything he does is amazing and Alfred is beside himself. It’d been too long.
He wants to tell Arthur how much he misses him when he’s gone, how much he wants to stay with him-but it’s too sappy. Too much. He doesn’t want the other shoe to drop, doesn’t want the day to come when Arthur realizes that there’s something that makes them incompatible (there has to be something-name something that isn’t, at least), waiting for a reason why Arthur can’t love him anymore. He doesn’t want it to come. He wants to love Arthur forever.
Arthur is breathing through his nose, and the air is thick and heavy and humid. His lungs constrict, he sucks on Arthur’s cock, takes more of him in-and gags slightly when Arthur’s cockhead strikes the back of his throat. He swallows more, tries to relax his throat, holds down Arthur’s hips to keep him from thrusting painfully up into his mouth.
Arthur is gasping, and the sound is like a drug. It’s almost too much for Alfred-Arthur’s muscles jumping beneath his fingers, coarse hairs scratching against his nose. The sounds. The sounds are too much. Arthur, all for being proper and a gentleman, never says anything he doesn’t think through clearly, unless someone has enraged him into a screaming fit. But making indecent noises, sharp inhales and quiet groans and the quiet keens of Alfred and Yes, yes, my dear.
Reply
“God,” Arthur gasps. Alfred watches him through his eyelashes, sucks harder on the cock, trying to send the older man into incoherency. Arthur’s moans are filthy and though it’s not in the house, Alfred knows he’s getting his wish to make things even dirtier than the laundry and the cars.
He sucks Arthur in harder, deeper, focusing on his tongue and only then remembering to keep his teeth in check, only just managing to keep them out of the way but Arthur either doesn’t notice or likes it, because his head is thrashing from side to side and he’s moaning for Alfred, only Alfred, bucking up despite the hold on his hips keeping him there. He presses his cheek to the car’s carpet, lets out one little cry, and his mouth sags open as Alfred’s mouth fills with the salty taste of Arthur’s cum. Arthur’s body shudders hard, once, then twice, and he arches up, his legs taut and body quivering like a bow that’d just released an arrow.
He drinks him in, sucks him dry until he is weak and spent and flaccid and lets it slip from his mouth, licking his lips. He mutters something against Arthur’s quivering inner thigh, pressing a haphazard kiss.
“I missed you,” he breaths before he can stop himself, but his voice is so breathless and Arthur’s breath so ragged, it’s likely that the older nation didn’t hear him-and that’s for the best. He presses his face into the soft skin at the junction between Arthur’s hip and thigh, kissing at the sweaty skin there, tastes more salt. His mouth tastes of Arthur, his ears are pounding and ringing from Arthur’s sounds, listens to Arthur’s greedy, shuddering breaths.
It’s all he needs, too, and with one last jerk of his hand, he comes, feels his orgasm hit him almost as a surprise as he jerks into his hand, clenching his eyes tight and breathing out words he’s too embarrassed to say under normal circumstances into the expanse of Arthur’s skin. He lies there, panting loudly into Arthur’s skin.
Arthur lets him come down and then he strokes his fingers through Alfred’s hair. Quietly, in a tired voice, he says, “Come here, darling.”
Alfred obliges, pushing himself up and crawling over Arthurs’ prone, naked body, pressing soft kisses against his sweating skin along the way. The air is too thick, too humid. And he feels so warm inside, with Arthur. Arthur.
“Do you need me to…?” Arthur murmurs, looking sated but concerned, lifting his hand to drag it down Alfred’s chest.
Alfred grins, giddy, despite himself, his face flushed red. “Already took care of that, ha ha… Um.”
Arthur’s face is surprised before it ripples away to quiet amusement, and he strokes the hair from Alfred’s face. Alfred nuzzles into the hand, eyes fluttering.
“… You’re not wearing anything underneath those ridiculous jeans are you?” Arthur says, attentions all in the wrong (or possibly right) places.
Alfred’s grin widens. “Free-ballin’.”
Reply
“Yeah,” Alfred breathes, feels his heart flop again. He’ll never get used to it, as long as he lives. He never wants to be used to it.
“I would have come sooner,” Arthur says, after a long pause. “I hadn’t realized you’d missed me.”
Alfred sputters and whispers, “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
Arthur strokes his fingers through Alfred’s hair. “I heard.”
Alfred grunts, then turns his head away, closing his eyes. He swallows thickly as Arthur nuzzles against his neck. He tilts his head, pressing his cheek against Arthur, and Arthur stills, stays like that. He can hear the breath in his ear, feel it wafting over his sticky skin. He breaths out a small sigh, feels content and perfectly relaxed for the first time in a long time.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Well. You’re here now.”
Alfred does not think he can control his own limbs, and he refuses to admit he’s cuddling with Arthur (though that’s totally what’s happening). So he enjoys just lying there, half-naked, with Arthur.
Arthur sighs. Ever the pessimist, he mutters into Alfred’s hair but with no intention of getting up anytime soon, “We’ll never get the laundry done at this rate.”
(damn character limits!)
Reply
ANON HAVE ALL MY INTERNETS! That is so utterly sinful on a hot day such as this. *goes to the nearest pool and dunk into it*
captcha says: none tows. wtf
Reply
Reply
And yeah, maybe a bit obvious, but it just makes us love you more. ... May I just declare you the master of writing emotions well already? <3
Heh. ReCaptcha says "quick next". Even Captcha wants more of your fic. ;D
Reply
Reply
Did I mention that I love it??
Reply
T-this was just so a;sldkfjsdf ♥
Reply
I'm not sure what, but you definitely win Anon.
Reply
Maybe one of Iggy's fairy was listening to me...this is a miracle!!^^
Anyway I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS!! It's perfect! THANK YOUUUUUUU!!!!!!!XD
Reply
Leave a comment