This is probably one of the only stories I've written in this fandom for which I haven't promised a sequel--so naturally, this is the sequel I'm doing. After some time apart, my face and palm have been reunited and are going at it like facepalming is about to be outlawed.
Anyhow, Writernon sort of thinks anyone who was content with the original fill might not want to read this. There is more to the story (there is always more), but the ending to the original fill is a perfectly good ending. I mean, I may be ruining it.
Sorry for the annoying intro notes. If you're still with me--here we go.
ticking clocks (1/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 05:45:49 UTC
The door has barely shut behind Arthur when he hears, unmistakably in Alfred's voice, "He's here!" Arthur doesn't have to scan the hotel bar to find them as it's nearly empty, mid-afternoon, too late for lunch and too early for happy hour. He raises his hand in greeting, smiling at the gathered Nations before shifting his smile to Alfred, who has risen from the table and is crossing to him.
Arthur drops his bag to accept the hug Alfred flings round him. Alfred feels warm, flushed and already vibrating, his body humming a promise. Before Alfred can flirt or put into words what his hot, hard cock against Arthur's hip is already saying-before Alfred can open his smiling mouth to speak, Arthur whispers, "I don't want to tell them."
Stepping out of the hug, Alfred smiles at Arthur. His smile is quick, it's easy and bright and beautiful. Yes, Alfred smiles quickly, but not so quickly that Arthur doesn't catch the flicker in his eyes. Arthur thought about it the whole way here, how to tell Alfred he isn't ready to tell anyone else about them yet, and he's been thinking especially of how Alfred's eyes would flicker when Arthur said it. "I'm sorry," Arthur says, watching Alfred's eyes for another flicker even though he knows Alfred never double-flickers.
Alfred's eyes smile like his mouth now. "It's not important," Alfred says, his words as quick as his smile, and Arthur wonders if Alfred, too, has been planning what to say; if Alfred knew he would have to have something to say here. "You're here now, that's what matters." He smiles again. "I've missed you, and I-I'm really happy you're here now." It's almost a stammer, not quite a flicker, and Arthur wonders what the gap means, what the words are that Alfred had to skip because of what Arthur's just said to him.
"Anyhow," Alfred says cheerfully, bending to pick up Arthur's bag, "come have a drink with us now that you're here!" When they get to the pushed-together tables, Alfred sets the bag down against the wall and says, "My round."
"You bought the last one," Ludwig points out, starting to rise, but Alfred laughs him off, pressing lightly on his shoulder to keep him in his seat.
"Same again for everyone, right?" Alfred says to the others, hardly waiting for confirmation before he turns to Arthur. "What'll you have? You must be dehydrated from the flight-do you want some water?"
It strikes Arthur that Alfred doesn't want him to think Alfred wants him drunk. He doesn't answer straightaway.
"Water?" Gilbert-who shouldn't even be here, but who frequently shows up for the parties even though he's not allowed in the meetings themselves-sounds well insulted. "He'll have a pint!"
Arthur hesitates. His eyes meet Alfred's. "I-yes, I suppose one won't hurt."
Alfred's smile is unreadable as he says, "Great, back in a jiff!"
Resisting the urge to watch Alfred go, Arthur takes the empty seat Antonio pushes out for him and soon finds himself enmeshed in a most serious discussion about footie. When a pint glass appears on the table in front of him, he interrupts himself to say, "Cheers," realizing only in the middle of his next sentence that it likely was Alfred who set it there. When the opportunity comes to look round, Arthur sees Alfred leaning against the wall, chatting with his brother. There was a time Arthur's heart would get inflamed when he saw them close like that, but now he finds the heat only warms him. With a private smile, he turns back to nurse his pint.
ticking clocks (2/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 05:47:26 UTC
Enough time has passed by the next time Arthur looks round that the bar has started to fill up. Alfred is still stood against the wall with Matthew, and now Feliciano goes over to them with Ludwig and Gilbert in tow. Arthur abandons his seat and his second pint glass, still half-full, and goes over as well, arriving just in time to hear Gilbert say, "We're going to ditch this lot."
"We're going dancing!" Feliciano elaborates. "Want to come?" He turns so his smile includes Arthur.
Arthur barely manages to stifle his sixth yawn of the hour. "Jet lag," he apologizes.
Alfred yawns as well, then looks a little surprised and says, "I think I might call it a night, too." The others try to persuade him to go, anyhow: Gilbert teases him that he can't seriously be considering turning in before his brother does, giving Matthew's hair a fond ruffle even as he says it; and Feliciano tells him he'll wake up once he starts moving on the dance floor. But Alfred only grins and tells them to go on without him, to make up for his absence-or try to-with their own antics, to come back with wild stories for him. "You can tell me about it at breakfast tomorrow.
Ivan and Francis join the dancers and Arthur wonders if Alfred will be persuaded after all. He goes to retrieve his bag from the corner and, though he's yawning again, settles into his chair for a few more swallows as Alfred gets dragged off. The lager is bitter on his tongue, though, so he pushes the glass away and says his good nights.
As he walks through the hotel lobby to the lifts, he sees Alfred coming in from outside. Alfred's on course for the lifts as well, so Arthur waits for him there.
"Hello again!" Alfred grins brightly.
Arthur smiles back, says, "Hello," and it's like the rest of the evening didn't happen; it's just the two of them standing there and smiling at each other. When a lift arrives, Arthur pushes the button for his floor; he doesn't ask Alfred what floor he's on. As soon as the doors close behind them, as soon as they start upwards with a soft whirrr, Alfred moves into Arthur.
"Alfred, no." Arthur pushes him back with words and a look more surely than if he'd raised his hand to Alfred. Alfred backs off at once. Leaning on the opposite wall, hands behind him on the rail, he flashes Arthur a smile but Arthur sees the flicker. He hates it, seeing Alfred like that, the shame and doubt. They've only been with each other again for a few hours, they've not said more than a dozen words to each other, and Arthur's already caused that flicker twice; Arthur thinks he is the one who should be ashamed, not Alfred.
The lift arrives at Arthur's floor and they walk next to each other, not touching, down the hallway to his room. As he swipes the keycard, Arthur looks over his shoulder and says, "It was only the security cameras-"
"I know," Alfred says quickly. "Sorry, wasn't thinking; stupid." He smiles again. Arthur pushes the door open and goes inside. When the weight of the door remains against his hand, he looks over his shoulder and sees Alfred still standing in the hallway. "I know you're tired," Alfred says when their eyes meet, "so I'll see you later, okay? Just call my room when you're up?"
"I thought you were sorry," Arthur says.
Alfred's brow knits. "I am..." Uncertainty stains the edges of his smile.
"Then don't you think you should get in here and apologize on your knees?"
ticking clocks (3/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 05:51:07 UTC
Doubt is stricken from Alfred's smile. He's inside, on his knees and reaching for Arthur before Arthur has secured the lock, his hands at Arthur's belt buckle even as Arthur turns round. Drawing down Arthur's trousers and boxers, Alfred lets out a soft sound of frustration at Arthur's shoes. He laces them, lifting Arthur's feet one at a time as he helps Arthur step out of his clothing. Naked from the waist down now, Arthur feels oddly exposed in his shirt and jacket, more so than if he were completely naked. But Alfred doesn't undress him further. He wraps his hand around the base of Arthur's cock, kneeling up as he licks to moisten the shaft, kisses the head; takes Arthur into his mouth at last, sucking slow and gentle.
Arthur strokes Alfred's hair and Alfred glances up, his soft, soft mouth sucking Arthur. "You don't seem very sorry," Arthur says, smiling as he winds Alfred's forelock round his fingers. Sucking slow and soft, Alfred smiles around Arthur's cock. The sight of it, Alfred's smiling mouth moving in lazy, teasing strokes on his cock, makes Arthur's knees buckle. He leans back on the door for support, still looking at Alfred who is looking at him, just holding Arthur in his mouth now and licking the underside. The forelock slips free as Arthur's fingers slide through Alfred's hair to the back of his head. "A little more apologetic, please, Alfred," Arthur says, cradling Alfred's head with both hands.
Alfred smiles wider before he starts sucking again, really sucking, hard, like he's starving, as if he's been starved; his cheeks hollow and needful, desperate sounds come from deep in his throat, from deeper than he's taken Arthur. Arthur watches Alfred's mouth on his cock, his lips soft and tight around it, his mouth so hot, so wet; Arthur watches Alfred but Alfred's not watching back, he's just letting Arthur look at him; Arthur watches Alfred's mouth, and the need on Alfred's face does as much for Arthur as the physical sensation of Alfred's soft, tight, hot, wet mouth.
He can't stand it, the sight, the sensation. Body tensing and weakening, he falls back, letting the door catch him. One hand splays flat against the door, the other still in Alfred's hair, moving with Alfred's head as Alfred's mouth fucks him, as he fucks Alfred's mouth. Arthur's full weight is on the door, his hips rising off and slapping back as Alfred's mouth makes love to him, licking, sucking, swirling, stroking, slick, hot, wet, more, always, please, yes-
Since Arthur is supported by the door and he's not standing, not really, he can raise his foot and not fall. So he moves his foot to Alfred's lap and toes Alfred's erection. Alfred shudders; his shudder vibrates through his body everywhere, in his mouth, on his tongue and onto Arthur's cock. Moan muffled by Arthur's cock lodged in his throat, Alfred shudders but doesn't come, nearly loses the rhythm but recovers. Taking his hand from Arthur's hip, he gently sets Arthur's foot back to the floor.
"Want to make you feel it, too," Arthur grinds out softly, moving his foot back to Alfred's lap. Alfred's hand follows, but only to undo his fly this time. Careful as he adjusts his angle on Arthur's cock, he kneels up and cups his hand under Arthur's foot as he wriggles out of his jeans as far as he can. Frustration strangles in his throat, unwilling to relinquish Arthur's cock, and he reaches for Arthur's other hand, wordlessly urging Arthur to hold his head so Arthur can fuck his mouth while Alfred uses his own hand now to tug his jeans down past his knees. He settles back, hands resting on Arthur's thrusting hips as he spreads his legs for Arthur's probing foot. Arthur obliges, kneading Alfred's balls, running callused toes along his shaft.
Moaning continuously around Arthur's cock, Alfred deepthroats him insistently, convulsively, begging for it without words, begging with each convulsion, each pleasurable spasm; begging for Arthur's orgasm, for Arthur's come. And when it starts the part of Arthur that can still think, thinks that when Alfred is asking so nicely, Arthur shouldn't give so violently; but Arthur's body isn't thinking, isn't considerate or considering; Arthur's body is convulsing, shuddering and thrusting and jerking, coming in violent spurts.
ticking clocks (4/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 05:53:35 UTC
Alfred takes it. He keeps his mouth on Arthur, keeps swallowing, trying to hold on, tensing against the gyrations of his body as he tries to suck all of Arthur's come from his cock. When Arthur is done, Alfred leans back, arching and bracing himself on the floor behind him, legs spreading wider, head falling back, openmouthed, moans of supplication still inarticulate, louder now without Arthur's cock down his throat. A strand of come and saliva connects Arthur's cock to Alfred's mouth, snaps and falls, clings to Alfred's face.
Arthur puts his foot flat on the floor and sinks down himself to kneel between Alfred's legs. One hand coils around Alfred's cock, the other reaches for the cord of come. He tries to wipe the come from Alfred's face as he begins stroking Alfred's cock but smears it instead. He rubs deliberately, massaging his come into Alfred's skin as he strokes Alfred's cock.
Shaking with desire, Alfred is not quite incoherent; he is just coherent enough to beg to be fucked, now, please. Arthur wants to ask if Alfred can hold on for him but he knows, feels in the pulsations of the cock in his hand, that Alfred is too desperately close, that Alfred can barely wait fifteen seconds never mind fifteen minutes for Arthur to get hard again. Arthur doesn't know where the desperation comes from but he wants to give Alfred what he needs, to ease the desperation as much as to give pleasure.
Arthur puts his arm round Alfred, palm and fingers flush against the curve of Alfred’s back. As he brings Alfred out of his arch, Arthur's hand slips under Alfred’s shirt, pressing to his heated skin, keeping him upright as the other hand tugs Alfred’s shirt upwards. Alfred lifts his arms obediently, helpfully; leaning forward a little more, he holds himself up so Arthur can use both hands to pull Alfred’s shirt off overhead. Alfred’s hands come together as Arthur tosses his shirt aside. His fingers interlace above his head, which falls back as he arches, hips thrust forward in offering-no demand, just supplication. He’s splayed out as far as he can, to the limit that the jeans around his knees will allow, twisting in the confines, his twisting too fluid to be twisted; twisting, spiraling out, splaying out in spirals.
Arthur looks at Alfred like that, at his beautiful, needful display, and he wants to spiral out with Alfred, inside him. He reaches for himself even though he knows it’s too soon for him, he needs more time-time Alfred can't wait for in this instance-and Alfred knows, too. "Please," Alfred moans, looking at Arthur from under his lashes, eyes unfocused with need, his hand over Arthur's on Arthur's softened cock. "Doesn't have to be your cock, just, please, inside me, need you, please, Arthur, please..."
So Arthur eases Alfred onto his back, unfolds Alfred’s legs, strips off the jeans, and pulls Alfred's hips into his lap as the rest of Alfred lies on the floor. Arthur gathers the traces of come from his own cockhead and reaches across Alfred’s body to feed them to Alfred, letting Alfred coat his fingers thoroughly with each lick and suckle. His fingers slide slickly into Alfred, in and out of Alfred. Alfred is pliant and writhing in Arthur's lap, contracting around Arthur's fingers, sucking them in deeper. Arthur pulls Alfred up a little more, lifts Alfred's hips, one leg hooked over Arthur's shoulder so Arthur can reach up, all the way up inside Alfred; Arthur's stroking Alfred inside and out, stroking his arse, his cock. He wishes he had more hands because he wants to stroke Alfred's face, his belly, his wrists, his thighs; he wants to touch Alfred everywhere but makes do with stroking up inside Alfred's arse, stroking along his cock, Alfred's hand curled over Arthur's as it moves there.
ticking clocks (5/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 05:54:43 UTC
Alfred's so close, more than close, his breath ragged, his body vibrating so hard his pleasure is fracturing; and Arthur stops. He unhooks Alfred's leg and withdraws his fingers. Alfred moans in protest-but then Arthur pulls Alfred up to him and holds him close as he reaches behind to stroke inside Alfred again. Only a few strokes and Alfred is coming, shuddering and crying out. Arthur muffles him with a kiss. He knows Alfred is too far gone to kiss back so he only puts his mouth over Alfred's to swallow his sounds, his orgasm-and then Alfred's tongue licks at Arthur's. He turns his head, breathless for a moment as he rests against Arthur, still straddling his lap. Arthur's fingers slip from Alfred's arse and his palm comes to rest in the small of Alfred's back. Alfred shudders again, small, quiet.
Arthur's hand slows and stills on Alfred's cock. Their hands are filled with Alfred's come; the come that slid through Arthur's fingers was caught by Alfred's. Alfred releases Arthur's hand now, careful to hold his come-coated fingers away from Arthur as he uses his other hand to bring Arthur's to his mouth so he can lick Arthur's fingers clean. Then he smiles, tongue flicking out to swipe the remnants from his own mouth.
Arthur smiles back, tries to stifle a yawn, doesn't entirely succeed. Alfred laughs. "It's okay, I know you must be wiped, old man." Before Arthur can protest either the appellation or the sentiment, Alfred says, "I think I'll have a shower. Call me when you're up, okay?"
"Alfred," Arthur says. Don't go. "You don't-do you want to shower here?" Arthur asks.
"Yeah, okay," Alfred says, his tone casual, his smile anything but.
They get to their feet, and Alfred's off to the shower before Arthur can even kiss him.
Arthur hasn't even really kissed Alfred yet, he realizes, and he wants to; he wants to really kiss Alfred. He takes off the rest of his clothing as he hears the water start, goes to the bed, and lies down to wait for Alfred.
Re: ticking clocks (5/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 16:13:44 UTC
That is genuinely a relief to hear. I sort of have this mapped out in my head but I'm not sure if I'm throwing too much at them (learning how to be together in private AND deciding whether or not to be together in public). So I'm thinking that over--and in any event, I'll do my best not to let you down! Thank you for reading.
Re: ticking clocks (5/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 07:45:48 UTC
Sequel to one of my favourite USUK fics, really? I think I love you, authornon <3
Oh, these two ;A; Even if they're together now, there's so much unsaid, it hurts. And I wish I could say something more to this, cause it's wonderful, but I'm still wibbling in my bed, thinking I must be dreaming.
Re: ticking clocks (5/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 16:15:44 UTC
Thanks so much, Anon! *blushes and grins* I'm really happy to read your comments because that's how I feel about them (so much unsaid between them), but I didn't know if that would be interesting or if it was preferable to leave them at that first breakthrough at the end of "Amsterdam." So I feel reassured now.
Re: ticking clocks (5/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 09:14:01 UTC
Ohhh, a sequel to my favorite. I have the feeling these two are going to make me terribly sad before this is finished, but I love it too much to not follow!
Re: ticking clocks (5/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 16:18:14 UTC
Ah, it's so tempting to spill what I have planned for them! But it's better to focus on writing it instead of telling you about it, right? Thanks so much for reading. ♥
Re: ticking clocks (5/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 11:47:05 UTC
:D Ahhhh 'anon' I haven't even finished the first part yet (sorry have to go soon) and I can tell we're in for a good ride. ♥ Thanks for writing more! :D
...will the other sequels still see the light of day, though?
Re: ticking clocks (5/?)
anonymous
July 14 2010, 16:22:49 UTC
I know, I'm...not very good at being anon here at the moment, am I. *looks suitably sheepish* Thank you for reading! ♥
Oh, yes! At least one sequel will happen, for I have been promised art and as you may or may not know, I am an absolute and utter whore for fanart. Also, there are two storyverses I really enjoy playing in and one sequel that is pretty much written and just needs to be typed/polished, if only I can find the headspace for it again.
Take the above with a grain of salt, for although I am genuine in my intentions, my follow-through or lack thereof sometimes turns me into quite the liar... orz
Request:
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=14344970
England confesses his feelings to America while being drunk.
Original Fill:
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10456.html?thread=14546904#t14546904
This is probably one of the only stories I've written in this fandom for which I haven't promised a sequel--so naturally, this is the sequel I'm doing. After some time apart, my face and palm have been reunited and are going at it like facepalming is about to be outlawed.
Anyhow, Writernon sort of thinks anyone who was content with the original fill might not want to read this. There is more to the story (there is always more), but the ending to the original fill is a perfectly good ending. I mean, I may be ruining it.
Sorry for the annoying intro notes. If you're still with me--here we go.
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Arthur drops his bag to accept the hug Alfred flings round him. Alfred feels warm, flushed and already vibrating, his body humming a promise. Before Alfred can flirt or put into words what his hot, hard cock against Arthur's hip is already saying-before Alfred can open his smiling mouth to speak, Arthur whispers, "I don't want to tell them."
Stepping out of the hug, Alfred smiles at Arthur. His smile is quick, it's easy and bright and beautiful. Yes, Alfred smiles quickly, but not so quickly that Arthur doesn't catch the flicker in his eyes. Arthur thought about it the whole way here, how to tell Alfred he isn't ready to tell anyone else about them yet, and he's been thinking especially of how Alfred's eyes would flicker when Arthur said it. "I'm sorry," Arthur says, watching Alfred's eyes for another flicker even though he knows Alfred never double-flickers.
Alfred's eyes smile like his mouth now. "It's not important," Alfred says, his words as quick as his smile, and Arthur wonders if Alfred, too, has been planning what to say; if Alfred knew he would have to have something to say here. "You're here now, that's what matters." He smiles again. "I've missed you, and I-I'm really happy you're here now." It's almost a stammer, not quite a flicker, and Arthur wonders what the gap means, what the words are that Alfred had to skip because of what Arthur's just said to him.
"Anyhow," Alfred says cheerfully, bending to pick up Arthur's bag, "come have a drink with us now that you're here!" When they get to the pushed-together tables, Alfred sets the bag down against the wall and says, "My round."
"You bought the last one," Ludwig points out, starting to rise, but Alfred laughs him off, pressing lightly on his shoulder to keep him in his seat.
"Same again for everyone, right?" Alfred says to the others, hardly waiting for confirmation before he turns to Arthur. "What'll you have? You must be dehydrated from the flight-do you want some water?"
It strikes Arthur that Alfred doesn't want him to think Alfred wants him drunk. He doesn't answer straightaway.
"Water?" Gilbert-who shouldn't even be here, but who frequently shows up for the parties even though he's not allowed in the meetings themselves-sounds well insulted. "He'll have a pint!"
Arthur hesitates. His eyes meet Alfred's. "I-yes, I suppose one won't hurt."
Alfred's smile is unreadable as he says, "Great, back in a jiff!"
Resisting the urge to watch Alfred go, Arthur takes the empty seat Antonio pushes out for him and soon finds himself enmeshed in a most serious discussion about footie. When a pint glass appears on the table in front of him, he interrupts himself to say, "Cheers," realizing only in the middle of his next sentence that it likely was Alfred who set it there. When the opportunity comes to look round, Arthur sees Alfred leaning against the wall, chatting with his brother. There was a time Arthur's heart would get inflamed when he saw them close like that, but now he finds the heat only warms him. With a private smile, he turns back to nurse his pint.
tbc...
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"We're going dancing!" Feliciano elaborates. "Want to come?" He turns so his smile includes Arthur.
Arthur barely manages to stifle his sixth yawn of the hour. "Jet lag," he apologizes.
Alfred yawns as well, then looks a little surprised and says, "I think I might call it a night, too." The others try to persuade him to go, anyhow: Gilbert teases him that he can't seriously be considering turning in before his brother does, giving Matthew's hair a fond ruffle even as he says it; and Feliciano tells him he'll wake up once he starts moving on the dance floor. But Alfred only grins and tells them to go on without him, to make up for his absence-or try to-with their own antics, to come back with wild stories for him. "You can tell me about it at breakfast tomorrow.
Ivan and Francis join the dancers and Arthur wonders if Alfred will be persuaded after all. He goes to retrieve his bag from the corner and, though he's yawning again, settles into his chair for a few more swallows as Alfred gets dragged off. The lager is bitter on his tongue, though, so he pushes the glass away and says his good nights.
As he walks through the hotel lobby to the lifts, he sees Alfred coming in from outside. Alfred's on course for the lifts as well, so Arthur waits for him there.
"Hello again!" Alfred grins brightly.
Arthur smiles back, says, "Hello," and it's like the rest of the evening didn't happen; it's just the two of them standing there and smiling at each other. When a lift arrives, Arthur pushes the button for his floor; he doesn't ask Alfred what floor he's on. As soon as the doors close behind them, as soon as they start upwards with a soft whirrr, Alfred moves into Arthur.
"Alfred, no." Arthur pushes him back with words and a look more surely than if he'd raised his hand to Alfred. Alfred backs off at once. Leaning on the opposite wall, hands behind him on the rail, he flashes Arthur a smile but Arthur sees the flicker. He hates it, seeing Alfred like that, the shame and doubt. They've only been with each other again for a few hours, they've not said more than a dozen words to each other, and Arthur's already caused that flicker twice; Arthur thinks he is the one who should be ashamed, not Alfred.
The lift arrives at Arthur's floor and they walk next to each other, not touching, down the hallway to his room. As he swipes the keycard, Arthur looks over his shoulder and says, "It was only the security cameras-"
"I know," Alfred says quickly. "Sorry, wasn't thinking; stupid." He smiles again. Arthur pushes the door open and goes inside. When the weight of the door remains against his hand, he looks over his shoulder and sees Alfred still standing in the hallway. "I know you're tired," Alfred says when their eyes meet, "so I'll see you later, okay? Just call my room when you're up?"
"I thought you were sorry," Arthur says.
Alfred's brow knits. "I am..." Uncertainty stains the edges of his smile.
"Then don't you think you should get in here and apologize on your knees?"
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Arthur strokes Alfred's hair and Alfred glances up, his soft, soft mouth sucking Arthur. "You don't seem very sorry," Arthur says, smiling as he winds Alfred's forelock round his fingers. Sucking slow and soft, Alfred smiles around Arthur's cock. The sight of it, Alfred's smiling mouth moving in lazy, teasing strokes on his cock, makes Arthur's knees buckle. He leans back on the door for support, still looking at Alfred who is looking at him, just holding Arthur in his mouth now and licking the underside. The forelock slips free as Arthur's fingers slide through Alfred's hair to the back of his head. "A little more apologetic, please, Alfred," Arthur says, cradling Alfred's head with both hands.
Alfred smiles wider before he starts sucking again, really sucking, hard, like he's starving, as if he's been starved; his cheeks hollow and needful, desperate sounds come from deep in his throat, from deeper than he's taken Arthur. Arthur watches Alfred's mouth on his cock, his lips soft and tight around it, his mouth so hot, so wet; Arthur watches Alfred but Alfred's not watching back, he's just letting Arthur look at him; Arthur watches Alfred's mouth, and the need on Alfred's face does as much for Arthur as the physical sensation of Alfred's soft, tight, hot, wet mouth.
He can't stand it, the sight, the sensation. Body tensing and weakening, he falls back, letting the door catch him. One hand splays flat against the door, the other still in Alfred's hair, moving with Alfred's head as Alfred's mouth fucks him, as he fucks Alfred's mouth. Arthur's full weight is on the door, his hips rising off and slapping back as Alfred's mouth makes love to him, licking, sucking, swirling, stroking, slick, hot, wet, more, always, please, yes-
Since Arthur is supported by the door and he's not standing, not really, he can raise his foot and not fall. So he moves his foot to Alfred's lap and toes Alfred's erection. Alfred shudders; his shudder vibrates through his body everywhere, in his mouth, on his tongue and onto Arthur's cock. Moan muffled by Arthur's cock lodged in his throat, Alfred shudders but doesn't come, nearly loses the rhythm but recovers. Taking his hand from Arthur's hip, he gently sets Arthur's foot back to the floor.
"Want to make you feel it, too," Arthur grinds out softly, moving his foot back to Alfred's lap. Alfred's hand follows, but only to undo his fly this time. Careful as he adjusts his angle on Arthur's cock, he kneels up and cups his hand under Arthur's foot as he wriggles out of his jeans as far as he can. Frustration strangles in his throat, unwilling to relinquish Arthur's cock, and he reaches for Arthur's other hand, wordlessly urging Arthur to hold his head so Arthur can fuck his mouth while Alfred uses his own hand now to tug his jeans down past his knees. He settles back, hands resting on Arthur's thrusting hips as he spreads his legs for Arthur's probing foot. Arthur obliges, kneading Alfred's balls, running callused toes along his shaft.
Moaning continuously around Arthur's cock, Alfred deepthroats him insistently, convulsively, begging for it without words, begging with each convulsion, each pleasurable spasm; begging for Arthur's orgasm, for Arthur's come. And when it starts the part of Arthur that can still think, thinks that when Alfred is asking so nicely, Arthur shouldn't give so violently; but Arthur's body isn't thinking, isn't considerate or considering; Arthur's body is convulsing, shuddering and thrusting and jerking, coming in violent spurts.
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Arthur puts his foot flat on the floor and sinks down himself to kneel between Alfred's legs. One hand coils around Alfred's cock, the other reaches for the cord of come. He tries to wipe the come from Alfred's face as he begins stroking Alfred's cock but smears it instead. He rubs deliberately, massaging his come into Alfred's skin as he strokes Alfred's cock.
Shaking with desire, Alfred is not quite incoherent; he is just coherent enough to beg to be fucked, now, please. Arthur wants to ask if Alfred can hold on for him but he knows, feels in the pulsations of the cock in his hand, that Alfred is too desperately close, that Alfred can barely wait fifteen seconds never mind fifteen minutes for Arthur to get hard again. Arthur doesn't know where the desperation comes from but he wants to give Alfred what he needs, to ease the desperation as much as to give pleasure.
Arthur puts his arm round Alfred, palm and fingers flush against the curve of Alfred’s back. As he brings Alfred out of his arch, Arthur's hand slips under Alfred’s shirt, pressing to his heated skin, keeping him upright as the other hand tugs Alfred’s shirt upwards. Alfred lifts his arms obediently, helpfully; leaning forward a little more, he holds himself up so Arthur can use both hands to pull Alfred’s shirt off overhead. Alfred’s hands come together as Arthur tosses his shirt aside. His fingers interlace above his head, which falls back as he arches, hips thrust forward in offering-no demand, just supplication. He’s splayed out as far as he can, to the limit that the jeans around his knees will allow, twisting in the confines, his twisting too fluid to be twisted; twisting, spiraling out, splaying out in spirals.
Arthur looks at Alfred like that, at his beautiful, needful display, and he wants to spiral out with Alfred, inside him. He reaches for himself even though he knows it’s too soon for him, he needs more time-time Alfred can't wait for in this instance-and Alfred knows, too. "Please," Alfred moans, looking at Arthur from under his lashes, eyes unfocused with need, his hand over Arthur's on Arthur's softened cock. "Doesn't have to be your cock, just, please, inside me, need you, please, Arthur, please..."
So Arthur eases Alfred onto his back, unfolds Alfred’s legs, strips off the jeans, and pulls Alfred's hips into his lap as the rest of Alfred lies on the floor. Arthur gathers the traces of come from his own cockhead and reaches across Alfred’s body to feed them to Alfred, letting Alfred coat his fingers thoroughly with each lick and suckle. His fingers slide slickly into Alfred, in and out of Alfred. Alfred is pliant and writhing in Arthur's lap, contracting around Arthur's fingers, sucking them in deeper. Arthur pulls Alfred up a little more, lifts Alfred's hips, one leg hooked over Arthur's shoulder so Arthur can reach up, all the way up inside Alfred; Arthur's stroking Alfred inside and out, stroking his arse, his cock. He wishes he had more hands because he wants to stroke Alfred's face, his belly, his wrists, his thighs; he wants to touch Alfred everywhere but makes do with stroking up inside Alfred's arse, stroking along his cock, Alfred's hand curled over Arthur's as it moves there.
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Arthur's hand slows and stills on Alfred's cock. Their hands are filled with Alfred's come; the come that slid through Arthur's fingers was caught by Alfred's. Alfred releases Arthur's hand now, careful to hold his come-coated fingers away from Arthur as he uses his other hand to bring Arthur's to his mouth so he can lick Arthur's fingers clean. Then he smiles, tongue flicking out to swipe the remnants from his own mouth.
Arthur smiles back, tries to stifle a yawn, doesn't entirely succeed.
Alfred laughs. "It's okay, I know you must be wiped, old man." Before Arthur can protest either the appellation or the sentiment, Alfred says, "I think I'll have a shower. Call me when you're up, okay?"
"Alfred," Arthur says. Don't go. "You don't-do you want to shower here?" Arthur asks.
"Yeah, okay," Alfred says, his tone casual, his smile anything but.
They get to their feet, and Alfred's off to the shower before Arthur can even kiss him.
Arthur hasn't even really kissed Alfred yet, he realizes, and he wants to; he wants to really kiss Alfred. He takes off the rest of his clothing as he hears the water start, goes to the bed, and lies down to wait for Alfred.
tbc...
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Those two are so awkward turtle, it's almost heartbreaking, and yet I love it.
/bookmarked and stalking
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Oh, these two ;A; Even if they're together now, there's so much unsaid, it hurts. And I wish I could say something more to this, cause it's wonderful, but I'm still wibbling in my bed, thinking I must be dreaming.
Can't wait for more!
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...will the other sequels still see the light of day, though?
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Oh, yes! At least one sequel will happen, for I have been promised art and as you may or may not know, I am an absolute and utter whore for fanart. Also, there are two storyverses I really enjoy playing in and one sequel that is pretty much written and just needs to be typed/polished, if only I can find the headspace for it again.
Take the above with a grain of salt, for although I am genuine in my intentions, my follow-through or lack thereof sometimes turns me into quite the liar... orz
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♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
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