The United Nations had many secrets. One of the best kept from the general public was the personification of every nation on the planet. However, one of the worst kept secrets in the United Nations was the United States of America's unrequited lust (or love) for one United Kingdom.
Or at least, Matthew reflected, that's what it seemed like. Alfred Jones's (rather pathetic) attempts at wooing Arthur Kirkland had become so bad, that it had spawned a new form of entertainment for the assembled nations. Namely, that of betting on the pair. According to Switzerland's latest memo, the Pot had now reached a half million Euros.
Matthew felt it was immensely unfair he wasn't allowed to place any bets. After all, who was it that had to clean up the mess every time Arthur unknowingly shot Alfred's attempts down? Who was it who had to listen to Arthur rant about Alfred's stupidity?
He did.
And damnit he deserved that half a million Euros.
And the last time Arthur had called, frothing mad and ranting, he'd been in the middle of finally getting his hands back on Francis and Gilbert for the first time in months. Matthew was rarely, if ever, rude to his former Colonial Master, but that had been one of the rare times that Matthew lost his temper and yelled at Arthur. Arthur had been left speechless, and he had gone on to have a rather pleasent weekend, even if Francis and Gilbert would occasionally start snickering in the middle of sex and hadn't that been humiliating enough?
(Matthew made a mental note to buy more lube, and maybe purchase some more rope because nothing burned a little like hearing your lovers start snickering while you were buried balls deep in one of them. He was going to make them regret it. He figured with enough rope, lube and maple syrup he could take over the world.)
Matthew watched as around him, the gathered nations of the world eagerly awaited the next installment of "America Tries and Fails to Get England to Notice Him." Today's episode it appeared would involve tea and scones; perhaps Alfred could be taught. On second thought, the tea was in a bag form, and both it and the scones were from Starbucks. Lovely. It seemed like, once again, Alfred would be shot down, wind up drunk and surly at his house, and he'd be fielding drunken phone calls from England.
Did the Gods just hate him in particular or was it something he'd done?
Prussia leaned over. "Ten bucks says England goes on a rant about how stale the tea is."
France predictably shook his head. "Non, it will be about the scones. L'angterree has no taste left."
"Dude! Tea! Stale tea - the Brit's going to pop!"
"Scones!"
"You're both wrong you know," Matthew muttered into the desk. Odd. He could have sworn there hadn't been a pair of thick leather gloves there a moment ago.
Alfred eyed the cup of tea with a sense of foreboding. This had to work - he'd gotten the tea fresh that morning, it was Earl Grey, the scones were fresh, and he'd made sure to get to the meeting early enough to beat Arthur.
Surely this would be it was enough to get a smile out of his cranky counterpart? Alfred would have gone to Matthew for help...But the last time he'd asked Matthew for his advice on his Arthur Issue(s) had been shortly after 1812, and the resulting conversation had been less then thrilling.
"Are you insane," Matthew had yelled at his twin over the crackling fire and sounds of battle. "You broke from England, from Arthur! And you want to do what to him now?! Have you lost your mind, eh?"
"No.” Alfred had yelled back, “I just..," Alfred had said," I just want Arthur to smile again! I want to see him happy and relaxed like he used to be!"
"Well maybe you should have thought about that before you broke his heart. And really? Leave me out of it eh!"
After decades of him begging for help, it had finally been an amused Francis who'd offered a few words of advice. "Woo him, mon ami," Francis confided. "Our l'angeterre, he is, how do you say, oh yes, stubborn. Woo him, show him you can be his pillar without chaining him." Thus, with a few more helpful hints on how one woos a cranky Englishman, Alfred had commenced his campaign.
Two hundred years later, it still wasn’t going very well.
It wasn't his fault! He'd tried. Really hard, too! He sent Arthur flowers, wild flowers he'd picked from the prairies and fields of his farm lands and seen them returned with scathing notes. His attempt at musically wooing Arthur hadn't quite flopped, - it had led to the Beatles coming over. But the Beatles were kinda cool and whatever, so maybe that hadn't gone as badly as he'd thought? Arthur had been confused and then insulted when he'd built the man a McDonalds so he wouldn't have to cook. The sweet sun-tea had gotten tossed out the window and he'd gotten lectured on the proper method of making, and drinking, tea.
Alfred might have given up, except that giving up meant two things. One, Arthur would not be in his bed, wearing his collar, and having every single one of his desires, needs. and wants fulfilled by one true blue American hero. Two, all of that would be taking place, but there would be a Russian villain taking his place as the starring Dom. And really, that was unacceptable.
Even if Alfred on occasion found the interfering Russian villain rather alluring.
Alfred sighed as the object of his desires marched in and glared at this morning's offering, pushing it aside with a pen and a disgusted look.
Alls he wanted was to curl up around Arthur sometimes, drag a blanket over them and stay there, wrapped together in silence;, warmth and comfortable while the rest of the world went on around them. He wanted to stay there and let the smaller nation's smell permeate his senses; to touch, caress and sooth the pale skin. He wanted to lick it, kiss it. Would Arthur taste of tea? Or maybe it would be the tang of salt, from Arthur's beloved ocean.*
Other times the image of Arthur in black leather and shiny metal loops occupied his thoughts. Would he sneer even as he opened his mouth and sucked Alfred in? Would he close his eyes and moan as Alfred ran a flogger over the raised welts on his back? Or maybe he would shiver and arch into his hand as he turned the other man's ass a brilliant red - red to match his blush. How would the other react to wearing a plug, teasing and taunting, all the while denied the ability to come?
But most of all, Alfred wanted to see the blond Englishman beneath him, gasping and begging as Alfred licked and kissed and sucked and bit every piece of skin he could reach. He wanted to see the endless green eyes go dark with want and liquid with desire for him.
Alfred wanted to do bad, terrible, nasty things to Arthur. He wanted to do sweet and gentle things to him. He wanted to the right to his body. , He wanted to be able to proclaim to the world, that, while the United Kingdom stood proud and independent, Arthur Kirkland belonged to Alfred F Jones's.
A part of him was heart brokenheartbroken every time Arthur didn't get that;. d Didn't seeget that Alfred wanted him and was trying hard to win him. Alfred might be an untrained, inexperienced oaf, who didn't even have the right to so much as look at the Imperial British Hhouse's finest Rose, but he did anyways, and even dared to dream of putting his dirty rough hands on Arthur’s body., but damnit. It hurt. He knew that Arthur could have any nation he wanted, but he wanted to be that nation - the only nation Arthur wanted in his bed.
And oh hey, he was getting the Death Glare from Arthur now.
*(Alfred knew what Cara and Matthew tasted like from all the times they'd gotten drunk together, from the fights to the celebrations. Cara was the sun and heat of a hot Mexican day, tempered with the cool and bloody shock of her jungles' secrets. Matthew was the taste of the first true frost, sweetly laced with sugar and sharply harsh with the wind. He'd never quite worked up the nerve to ask his siblings what he tasted like, too afraid of what the answer might be. He'd asked Francis what he'd tasted like in all innocence during his Revolution.; He hadn't meant it to be a pick up line, but hey, a first time is a first time, right? For the record, Francis hadn't tasted of anything really - just sweat and blood and thinly veiled sex and violence.)
Alfred was glaring at him again. Nervously Arthur checked his notes, straightened his shirt, lifted his chin and glared right back. He had been the British Empire, thank you very much, and he would not be intimidated by an upstart nation. Except when he was in his dreams, but who could know about that?
What on earth did that lad want now? He was already supporting his foolish wars, sorry, ‘operations’, in the Middle East. Arthur had personally sat down with the head of BP and pointed out to the man that, while yes, profits are nice, one did not casually write off safety concerns. Especially when said safety concerns might affect one's nation's object of very distant affections. Might be bad for one's continued health and all that. He'd been rather pleased when the man had gone pale and stammered out an agreement. It was always nice to know he still had the old Imperial touch.
He groaned to himself when he saw Yao's latest scheme to get the Asian Houses declared international treasures. Really, hadn't they gone over this last time?
Alfred's fingers were drumming impatiently on the table. Arthur leaned back in his chair and eyed those fingers and hands. Strong fingers, long in the bone, connecting to large, lean and callused palms. A worker's hands, the hands of someone who knew what it was like to work and work hard for a living. Those hands had built a nation, tamed the wilds and sent men to the moon.
Those hands were some of the few Arthur had never felt on himself before.
In his dreams he hears Alfred drawling out in his slow, honey sweet southern voice, asking him, "What do you want?" even as those hands spark over his body, demanding responses from him. There are nights when he wakes in a cold sweat, all but desperate for the American, and the only thing that stops him is his pride.
He is the Imperial British House's finest Rose, its Most Favored, and the embodiment of the United Kingdom. Arthur cannot allow himself to beg for his former colony's physical affections. His pride, the pride of his nation and his House will not allow him to do so no matter how much he wants to curl up and bask in the warmth of that strong body.
It doesn't help that Alfred mocks him constantly. Sending him flowers? What was the boy thinking - had he even realized what the message of those flowers was? Somehow Arthur doubted it very much. And the music, by the Queen, the music! He'd kindly sent over some real musicians to show those Americans what music was meant to be. And he wasn't a bad cook either! Certainly he cooked better then that grease laden, heart attack inducing place. At least his food killed you out right, rather than giving you a slow lingering death. True, he'd been slightly touched by the offer of tea the other year, but the sugar laden, icy beverage he'd gotten had not been the dark, slightly bitter hot brew he'd been looking forwards to.
Even today, Alfred got his small digs in with what looked to be perfectly cooked scones and that wretched fast-food tea. How had he known that Arthur had burned his toast, spilled his tea and generally had a miserable morning?
Did Alfred realize how much those small, ridiculing little gestures hurt? The way each one tore at him, deep inside, in a place he’d thought no one could get to, but somehow the bloody Yankee had managed to find.
Yet he stayed by Alfred's side, supporting all of his foolish notions, especially the wars in the Middle East. He offered what he could, and sometimes what he shouldn't. His London had been attacked in return for the support he gave, he was openly ridiculed by his fellow nations, and yet for the life of him, he could not bear to break away.
Dude, this looks so fantastic; this world feels so rich and well thought-out, and it's incredibly believable. And even knowing England's pessimism, obliviousness, and ability to accidentally crush America's overtures and affections, I seriously didn't expect his theory about America's actions to be so epically wrong. OTL I mean, maybe I should have, but DAMN! (Oblivious, mutually "unrequited" love has never been done better than by this pairing. OTL)
Ah, and all the teasing hints of amazing hotness; I'd complain that you were being a tease, but you're building tension too expertly for me to believe I'm going to be let down! <3 Also, characterization, hell yeah. :D
Oh dear, I forgot to ask: What wildflowers did America make the mistake of sending England? I'm terribly curious, now, but I don't know what wildflowers grow in America. *is ignorant*
The world you just introduced us to is so... beautiful? so rich! I'm really looking forward to knowing more about it.
And Mexican!anon here who normally doesn't like her country as a woman LOVES your characterization of her. And Cara? mm interesting name choice, specially because it's spelled with a "C" which is right don't get me wrong, but is far less common than with "K" *_*
Hmmm if Arthur doesnt want to beg...and America wants him no matter what perhaps they can switch positions? wouldnt that be a surprised XDD and dont we all love pirate england?
Or at least, Matthew reflected, that's what it seemed like. Alfred Jones's (rather pathetic) attempts at wooing Arthur Kirkland had become so bad, that it had spawned a new form of entertainment for the assembled nations. Namely, that of betting on the pair. According to Switzerland's latest memo, the Pot had now reached a half million Euros.
Matthew felt it was immensely unfair he wasn't allowed to place any bets. After all, who was it that had to clean up the mess every time Arthur unknowingly shot Alfred's attempts down? Who was it who had to listen to Arthur rant about Alfred's stupidity?
He did.
And damnit he deserved that half a million Euros.
And the last time Arthur had called, frothing mad and ranting, he'd been in the middle of finally getting his hands back on Francis and Gilbert for the first time in months. Matthew was rarely, if ever, rude to his former Colonial Master, but that had been one of the rare times that Matthew lost his temper and yelled at Arthur. Arthur had been left speechless, and he had gone on to have a rather pleasent weekend, even if Francis and Gilbert would occasionally start snickering in the middle of sex and hadn't that been humiliating enough?
(Matthew made a mental note to buy more lube, and maybe purchase some more rope because nothing burned a little like hearing your lovers start snickering while you were buried balls deep in one of them. He was going to make them regret it. He figured with enough rope, lube and maple syrup he could take over the world.)
Matthew watched as around him, the gathered nations of the world eagerly awaited the next installment of "America Tries and Fails to Get England to Notice Him." Today's episode it appeared would involve tea and scones; perhaps Alfred could be taught. On second thought, the tea was in a bag form, and both it and the scones were from Starbucks. Lovely. It seemed like, once again, Alfred would be shot down, wind up drunk and surly at his house, and he'd be fielding drunken phone calls from England.
Did the Gods just hate him in particular or was it something he'd done?
Prussia leaned over. "Ten bucks says England goes on a rant about how stale the tea is."
France predictably shook his head. "Non, it will be about the scones. L'angterree has no taste left."
"Dude! Tea! Stale tea - the Brit's going to pop!"
"Scones!"
"You're both wrong you know," Matthew muttered into the desk. Odd. He could have sworn there hadn't been a pair of thick leather gloves there a moment ago.
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Surely this would be it was enough to get a smile out of his cranky counterpart? Alfred would have gone to Matthew for help...But the last time he'd asked Matthew for his advice on his Arthur Issue(s) had been shortly after 1812, and the resulting conversation had been less then thrilling.
"Are you insane," Matthew had yelled at his twin over the crackling fire and sounds of battle. "You broke from England, from Arthur! And you want to do what to him now?! Have you lost your mind, eh?"
"No.” Alfred had yelled back, “I just..," Alfred had said," I just want Arthur to smile again! I want to see him happy and relaxed like he used to be!"
"Well maybe you should have thought about that before you broke his heart. And really? Leave me out of it eh!"
After decades of him begging for help, it had finally been an amused Francis who'd offered a few words of advice. "Woo him, mon ami," Francis confided. "Our l'angeterre, he is, how do you say, oh yes, stubborn. Woo him, show him you can be his pillar without chaining him." Thus, with a few more helpful hints on how one woos a cranky Englishman, Alfred had commenced his campaign.
Two hundred years later, it still wasn’t going very well.
It wasn't his fault! He'd tried. Really hard, too! He sent Arthur flowers, wild flowers he'd picked from the prairies and fields of his farm lands and seen them returned with scathing notes. His attempt at musically wooing Arthur hadn't quite flopped, - it had led to the Beatles coming over. But the Beatles were kinda cool and whatever, so maybe that hadn't gone as badly as he'd thought? Arthur had been confused and then insulted when he'd built the man a McDonalds so he wouldn't have to cook. The sweet sun-tea had gotten tossed out the window and he'd gotten lectured on the proper method of making, and drinking, tea.
Alfred might have given up, except that giving up meant two things. One, Arthur would not be in his bed, wearing his collar, and having every single one of his desires, needs. and wants fulfilled by one true blue American hero. Two, all of that would be taking place, but there would be a Russian villain taking his place as the starring Dom. And really, that was unacceptable.
Even if Alfred on occasion found the interfering Russian villain rather alluring.
Alfred sighed as the object of his desires marched in and glared at this morning's offering, pushing it aside with a pen and a disgusted look.
Alls he wanted was to curl up around Arthur sometimes, drag a blanket over them and stay there, wrapped together in silence;, warmth and comfortable while the rest of the world went on around them. He wanted to stay there and let the smaller nation's smell permeate his senses; to touch, caress and sooth the pale skin. He wanted to lick it, kiss it. Would Arthur taste of tea? Or maybe it would be the tang of salt, from Arthur's beloved ocean.*
Other times the image of Arthur in black leather and shiny metal loops occupied his thoughts. Would he sneer even as he opened his mouth and sucked Alfred in? Would he close his eyes and moan as Alfred ran a flogger over the raised welts on his back? Or maybe he would shiver and arch into his hand as he turned the other man's ass a brilliant red - red to match his blush. How would the other react to wearing a plug, teasing and taunting, all the while denied the ability to come?
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But most of all, Alfred wanted to see the blond Englishman beneath him, gasping and begging as Alfred licked and kissed and sucked and bit every piece of skin he could reach. He wanted to see the endless green eyes go dark with want and liquid with desire for him.
Alfred wanted to do bad, terrible, nasty things to Arthur. He wanted to do sweet and gentle things to him. He wanted to the right to his body. , He wanted to be able to proclaim to the world, that, while the United Kingdom stood proud and independent, Arthur Kirkland belonged to Alfred F Jones's.
A part of him was heart brokenheartbroken every time Arthur didn't get that;. d Didn't seeget that Alfred wanted him and was trying hard to win him. Alfred might be an untrained, inexperienced oaf, who didn't even have the right to so much as look at the Imperial British Hhouse's finest Rose, but he did anyways, and even dared to dream of putting his dirty rough hands on Arthur’s body., but damnit. It hurt. He knew that Arthur could have any nation he wanted, but he wanted to be that nation - the only nation Arthur wanted in his bed.
And oh hey, he was getting the Death Glare from Arthur now.
*(Alfred knew what Cara and Matthew tasted like from all the times they'd gotten drunk together, from the fights to the celebrations. Cara was the sun and heat of a hot Mexican day, tempered with the cool and bloody shock of her jungles' secrets. Matthew was the taste of the first true frost, sweetly laced with sugar and sharply harsh with the wind. He'd never quite worked up the nerve to ask his siblings what he tasted like, too afraid of what the answer might be. He'd asked Francis what he'd tasted like in all innocence during his Revolution.; He hadn't meant it to be a pick up line, but hey, a first time is a first time, right? For the record, Francis hadn't tasted of anything really - just sweat and blood and thinly veiled sex and violence.)
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Alfred was glaring at him again. Nervously Arthur checked his notes, straightened his shirt, lifted his chin and glared right back. He had been the British Empire, thank you very much, and he would not be intimidated by an upstart nation. Except when he was in his dreams, but who could know about that?
What on earth did that lad want now? He was already supporting his foolish wars, sorry, ‘operations’, in the Middle East. Arthur had personally sat down with the head of BP and pointed out to the man that, while yes, profits are nice, one did not casually write off safety concerns. Especially when said safety concerns might affect one's nation's object of very distant affections. Might be bad for one's continued health and all that. He'd been rather pleased when the man had gone pale and stammered out an agreement. It was always nice to know he still had the old Imperial touch.
He groaned to himself when he saw Yao's latest scheme to get the Asian Houses declared international treasures. Really, hadn't they gone over this last time?
Alfred's fingers were drumming impatiently on the table. Arthur leaned back in his chair and eyed those fingers and hands. Strong fingers, long in the bone, connecting to large, lean and callused palms. A worker's hands, the hands of someone who knew what it was like to work and work hard for a living. Those hands had built a nation, tamed the wilds and sent men to the moon.
Those hands were some of the few Arthur had never felt on himself before.
In his dreams he hears Alfred drawling out in his slow, honey sweet southern voice, asking him, "What do you want?" even as those hands spark over his body, demanding responses from him. There are nights when he wakes in a cold sweat, all but desperate for the American, and the only thing that stops him is his pride.
He is the Imperial British House's finest Rose, its Most Favored, and the embodiment of the United Kingdom. Arthur cannot allow himself to beg for his former colony's physical affections. His pride, the pride of his nation and his House will not allow him to do so no matter how much he wants to curl up and bask in the warmth of that strong body.
It doesn't help that Alfred mocks him constantly. Sending him flowers? What was the boy thinking - had he even realized what the message of those flowers was? Somehow Arthur doubted it very much. And the music, by the Queen, the music! He'd kindly sent over some real musicians to show those Americans what music was meant to be. And he wasn't a bad cook either! Certainly he cooked better then that grease laden, heart attack inducing place. At least his food killed you out right, rather than giving you a slow lingering death. True, he'd been slightly touched by the offer of tea the other year, but the sugar laden, icy beverage he'd gotten had not been the dark, slightly bitter hot brew he'd been looking forwards to.
Even today, Alfred got his small digs in with what looked to be perfectly cooked scones and that wretched fast-food tea. How had he known that Arthur had burned his toast, spilled his tea and generally had a miserable morning?
Did Alfred realize how much those small, ridiculing little gestures hurt? The way each one tore at him, deep inside, in a place he’d thought no one could get to, but somehow the bloody Yankee had managed to find.
Yet he stayed by Alfred's side, supporting all of his foolish notions, especially the wars in the Middle East. He offered what he could, and sometimes what he shouldn't. His London had been attacked in return for the support he gave, he was openly ridiculed by his fellow nations, and yet for the life of him, he could not bear to break away.
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Ah, and all the teasing hints of amazing hotness; I'd complain that you were being a tease, but you're building tension too expertly for me to believe I'm going to be let down! <3 Also, characterization, hell yeah. :D
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The world you just introduced us to is so... beautiful? so rich! I'm really looking forward to knowing more about it.
And Mexican!anon here who normally doesn't like her country as a woman LOVES your characterization of her. And Cara? mm interesting name choice, specially because it's spelled with a "C" which is right don't get me wrong, but is far less common than with "K" *_*
Will wait patiently till you update <3
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