The F Word [1/?]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 17:33:32 UTC
Anon had to fill this. Massive bonus points to anyone who gets the title, and the reference to it.
Whenever America popped round, it was bound to end in tears.
Well... not that England would ever let on. He usually just had a yell at him. Sure if they ended up debating something really serious, and a few insults got thrown, then there would be a little bit of sniffling echoing around the house for the next hour or so...
But it was mainly just yelling.
Which was why Francis was not surprised to hear all the way from his house England screaming at the top of his lungs about how much of an opinionated, nasty bastard America was.
“I’ll show you!” he bellowed as the US walked out the door, laughing and playing catch with a blackened scone, “I’ll show EVERYONE!!!”
As America continued to just laugh, England shook with anger.
“... Yeah, keep walking, FUCKER!”
As he closed the door again, Arthur could swear he heard a tiny fairy voice giggle ‘smooth’.
Snatching up the phone, England tore though his address book, until he found what he was looking for. A manic glint shone in his green eyes, and, grinning, he dialled the number.
“Ramsey! Look, you fucker, I need a favour.”
---
“Hey, America,” Canada leant over to whisper to his brother during the next world meeting, three days later, “Where’s England?”
America’s eyes flew to the empty chair, and he felt guilt a heavy weight of guilt and worry settle in his stomach.
“I-I don’t know,” he whispered back.
“Is he ok? Did you guys have a fight?” Matthew asked, gently.
“I kinda insulted his cooking again...” America admitted.
Canada looked stern.
“Aw, come on, you know what his food is like!”
“America, you should be nicer to him about it, you know all the times he’s stomached those greasy burgers for you.”
America blinked, “I thought he liked that sort of food.”
Matthew rolled his eyes, “Just make sure he’s all right.”
“I’m sure he’s just sulking somewhere,” America scoffed, sliding down into his chair and folding his arms, but that didn’t stop him grabbing his jacket and running out of the conference hall at the end of the meeting.
---
“Oh, all right, thanks for the tip-off, Matthew,” Arthur smiled, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, “No, that’s great, in fact, he should be just in time. For what? Oh, never you mind. See you soon.”
Hanging up, Arthur cracked his knuckles. It was showtime.
The F Word [2/?]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 17:38:18 UTC
“Arthur?” America yelled, banging on the door, “Arthur, open up! Are you still upset about your food? I’m sorry you suck so bad, it’s not your fault! ... Sorta.”
America was so busy pounding and yelling that he nearly punched Arthur in the face when the door was swung open.
“Art!” he sighed in relief, but quickly regained composure, “Ha! I knew you would just.. be.. sulking-hey, what’s with the get-up?” Alfred motioned to the black tie suit and gloves England was wearing, complete with cute little black bow tie, and a white cloth folded neatly over his arm.
“I think considering the situation,” Arthur replied, cheeks going pink and frowning slightly, “You are the one who is a little underdressed.”
“Huh? Did I miss something?” Alfred looked like a puppy with a headache, “Oh, it’s not Canada day again already, is it? He completely killed me last time I forgot...”
“No, you dolt!” Arthur went even pinker and stepped aside, “I’ve made you dinner. I’m your waiter for this evening.”
America paled slightly, “No, really, England, it’s ok! I ate before I came, you know! Stuffed with burgers, I couldn’t possibly...”
“Alfred.”
America looked at the stern face of his elder, the bright green eyes that were staring him down for his defiance, but with a drop of hurt hidden amongst the authority.
“I... fine,” the American sighed, allowing Arthur to take his jacket and lead him through to the dining room, which looked stunning.
The dark-wood ornamentation on the coving was shimmering in the light of the candles sitting on the table, resting on top of a plain white tablecloth along with beautiful fine china and crystal, that Alfred swore Arthur must have been hoarding with the crown jewels, soaking up their sparkle for a hundred years at least.
Arthur pulled out Alfred’s chair for him, so he sat down, trying not to feel ill already.
You’re a hero, he reminded himself, you can stomach anything. Even this. Right?
He gulped as England uncorked a bottle of wine and poured him some.
“Are you ready for your starter?” Arthur asked, politely, and America nodded, resigning himself to at least a week of antacids.
While he was still wallowing in self-pity and wondering how many meetings he was going to miss, England re-entered holding a plate and set it down in front of him.
“A warm goat’s cheese salad with walnut dressing and apple vinaigrette,” Arthur announced, sounding proud.
America cringed and opened a cautious eye at the platter, which he then gawked at.
The presentation was good, all symmetrical and fanning out from the central piece of circular cheese resting on top of a similarly circular piece of toasted bread that was a light gold. The greens in the salad looked luscious and the little pieces of walnut and apple sprinkled over it finished the sort of dainty look the salad had.
“It’s for eating, not for staring at.”
“Huh? R-right,” Alfred picked up his fork and Arthur held his breath in anticipation as the man balanced some of the meal on the end of the silver spines and took it into his mouth with a small chink as the metal brushed his teeth.
Arthur’s heart stopped as a pair of soft American lips closed around the fork, sending a chill up his spine that morphed into an annoying heat in face that he tried to will away, but he couldn’t stop staring as the fork was slid from those lips, pulling at the plump pink skin.
Alfred’s eyes widened as he chewed, succulent flavours exploding all over his tongue.
Before he had finished swallowing Arthur interrupted.
“Do you like it?”
America was silent, staring at his plate, while Arthur stared at him, tingling with anticipation for Alfred’s approval.
After another few wordless seconds, Arthur’s heart began to sink.
The F Word [3/?]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 17:43:28 UTC
“My God, Arthur! Did you actually make this!?” Alfred turned to look at the flushed Brit.
“Yes, I did,” Arthur replied, looking away.
“It’s... amazing,” Alfred breathed.
Arthur snapped his face back to look at him, “What?”
But America had continued tucking into his starter.
“Ifh amafingth,” Alfred repeated through a mouthful, “I cannofth beweeive fhis! Fwuck!”
“Don’t talk with your mouthful,” Arthur replied, indignantly, but he smiled in a self-satisfied matter, “And do eat a little more slowly, I have to go put the finishing touches to your main.”
Alfred took a gulp of wine and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, making Arthur roll his eyes and make muttered comments about uncouth Americans as he went back to the kitchen.
America’s chewing slowed for a moment as he watched the older nation leave. He hadn’t ever seen England look so... he flushed a delicate pink, handsome. And this side of him that could actually cook, and goddammit, cook well?
Maybe it was the candlelight, maybe it was the suit, maybe it was the food, but Alfred didn’t care. He just wanted more.
As he took another mouthful of explosive flavours, his hand gripped the handle of his fork, tightly.
And this was just the starter.
Alfred was scraping stars into the remains of the vinaigrette with his knife when Arthur returned with another dish, making him sit up straight. England inwardly smiled, noticing the wide-eyed look Alfred was giving... him? No, he was looking at the plate, he must be.
“The Main, Salmon en Croute with herbed Jersey Royal potatoes and asparagus,” Arthur removed the first plate and replaced it with the second, where the salmon and vegetables sat steaming.
“Looks delicious,” Alfred grinned, taking up his fork already.
“Hold your horses, Yank,” Arthur smiled gently and picked up one of the china jugs closer, “Hollandaise sauce for the salmon?”
“Wow, Arthur, you’ve got this all covered! I’d love some,” he caught Arthur’s eyes, making them both flush red and turn back to the plate where Arthur poured some of the slightly thick.. creamy... white... sauce.
Fuck.
America hoped to God he wasn’t breathing as fast as it felt, letting his gaze dance up those sleek gloved hands, catching site of some of the pale skin underneath Arthur’s cuffs, diamond cufflinks glittering slightly in the candlelight.
Arthur pulled away quickly, pink and very aware of the eyes that were watching him so intently.
“Thank you,” America sat up a little straighter and ran a hand through his hair.
“More wine?” Arthur asked, hurriedly, holding up a new bottle of dry German white that was sure to further accentuate the taste of the salmon.
“Maybe just a little, I want to be able to enjoy this fully.”
Arthur nearly slipped with the bottle when he heard that, and a pair of firm hands found his. America had to suppress the shudder than ran up his spine when he felt England’s hands through the cool leather.
“Got it?” he laughed.
“Yes, thank you,” England replied, shortly, pulling away and pouring his wine.
Alfred prepared a small mouthful of the food as Arthur stepped back, picking up the first plate again and gripping its edges tightly, still eager for the American to like what he had prepared.
England tried really hard not to watch his lips this time, stealing glances at his blue eyes, but as those lips, those damned lips curled together to blow gently and almost sensuously onto that mouthful...
This time, Alfred noticed what England was watching. And boy, was he going to give him something to watch.
The F Word [4/?]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 17:51:00 UTC
Opening his mouth, he placed the fork inside, teasing off the salmon, pastry and asparagus with his teeth, and arching up slightly to meet the fork as it left his mouth, catching the tips of the metal in his lips.
Alfred wanted to put on a bit of a show, but his next move was genuine. Colours and lights were flaring-up in his mouth and in his mind, and he let out a moan that made an already pink Briton flush a deep and incriminating red.
“Oh my GOD!” Alfred cried, turning to look at Arthur, who subconsciously leant back a little, startled by the look in the American’s eyes, “Arthur, oh, Arthur, this is glorious.”
That smile, those half-lidded blue eyes as endless and clear as the sky, the tiniest drop of Hollandaise sauce just below his lip, and the unmistakeable need in Arthur’s heart that wanted Alfred to say his name like that again, right into his ear, pressed up against him...
“I’mgladyoulikeitI’llgetpuddingstarted,” he garbled, turning on his heel and rushing out, much to the other’s dismay.
Alfred couldn’t complain, though, it truly was delicious. No other country’s food could stand up to this. It was amazing, rich and succulent, cooked to perfection...
Arthur heard Alfred moan again from the dining room and heat danced in his stomach, tingling dangerously low, forcing him to support himself by resting his back on the wall next to the door.
He closed his eyes, trying to even his breathing, but another moan, a lower, more sensual one sent his eyes flying open again, but by the time he could focus properly, Arthur couldn’t tell whether it had been real, or his imagination.
Hold it together, he told himself, firmly, letting the cool air of the fridge skirt around him as he reached out the dessert wine, Just one more course to go, just one.
Alfred, however, didn’t want it to end. Looking around, he made sure that Arthur wasn’t about to come bursting in before he picked up the plate and gave it a cautious lick.
Then he waited for a second, until it seemed that fate was on his side, so he began to ravish the warm china with his tongue.
Arthur had the dessert tray balanced on his fingers, wanting to look a bit more professional through his red face. When he pushed open the door, however, he nearly dropped it.
Earlier, (be that hours, or hundreds of years) Arthur would have yelled profusely at Alfred for doing such an unrefined thing as licking the crockery, but Arthur found himself enthralled as the pink tongue slid over the smooth white surface, catching every stray bit of creamy sauce, lapping it up in such a concentrated and needy effort. Arthur forgot to breathe, his hearing was heightened, he could almost feel the vibrations up America’s throat with every slightly breathy noise he made.
Panting slightly, Alfred put the plate back down. He sort of wished he hadn’t rushed, but he didn’t want to get caught by Arthur in case he yelled at him.
Something felt off, America concluded, and he looked round to the door into the kitchen.
Aw, shit.
America saw genuine shock in Arthur’s eyes as he stood there, tray balanced expertly on one hand, another bottle of wine in the other, and so he leapt to his own defence, “I just really enjoyed it and wanted to finish all of it off, you know? Waste not, want not, or whatever the heck you used to say to me.”
Arthur couldn’t say anything. The tingling feeling in his stomach was having a party as it shot lower down, and he knew he would have to get out of there very soon. Especially if America didn’t get rid of that last little bit of sauce on his nose.
He cleared his throat and strode over, placing the wine down first, freeing a hand to move the main course plate away, replacing it with a black tray where a tall martini glass and a tall glass jug sat.
“P-pudding,” Arthur tried to sound announcing again, but it ended up as a breathy explanation, “Honey rice pudding with pear and Rioja jam.”
“Beautiful,” Alfred grinned, no longer addressing the food.
The F Word [5/?]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 17:56:36 UTC
“Would you like some dessert wine?” Arthur looked at a space of thin air just to the right of America’s face, trying not to flush too red again.
“Mmm, I think so, actually. Let’s bring out all those flavours, Arthur,” Alfred whispered, putting a spread hand up onto the table, “All those flavours that are lying, just beneath the surface.”
Arthur fumbled pathetically with the unopened bottle, making Alfred chuckle, lowly.
“Here,” he stood and stepped behind Arthur, making the Englishman’s knees threaten to give out entirely, “Let me help you.”
Alfred took Arthur’s hands, slotting his fingers through the other’s so the tips of his fingers could feel the cool, moist surface of the glass.
Arthur leant his head back slightly, exposing more of his neck to the American, who took to sliding their hands up the neck of the bottle.
“Yeah, I see the problem here,” Alfred whispered, placing one of his hands with Arthur’s over the cork, “It’s just a little stuck,” he chuckled again, stepping a little closer to Arthur’s back, breath tickling that deliciously exposed neck, “You have to be firm with it,” he wrapped his hand tightly with Arthur’s around the neck of the bottle, listening intently to the speed of his breaths, “Then, do you know what you’ve got to do?”
England closed his eyes and leant back further, resting into America’s chest, shaking his head, “What?”
“Pull,” came the murmured reply, and his hands were gripped tighter, “Tell me when you’re ready, Arthur.”
Oh God, there it was, his name, with America pressed up against him, those lips so close to brushing the skin on his neck. Arthur’s pants now seemed to be getting far too small, he had staved off being hard for far too long this dinnertime, and now he was being taken over.
No. Arthur thought, suddenly. This wasn’t over yet.
“Now,” he replied, and America helped him force the cork from the end of the bottle of sweet red.
America sat back down quickly before Arthur could look at him, and England didn’t need a second guess as to why, so he leant dangerously close to pour the wine, making a conscious effort this time, biting his lip and putting a gloved hand on the table for support.
As he put the bottle back down onto the table, Arthur turned to look at Alfred, leaning closer.
Alfred’s heart leapt, and he was sure his vital regions were cheering too, begging to be freed. Just a little closer, those lips on his, please, Arthur...
He felt something soft brush his nose and his eyes shot open, having barely noticed that they had closed.
“You had sauce on your nose,” Arthur announced, flouncing back off into the kitchen, napkin in hand.
Alfred looked at the martini glass of rice pudding, and the jug of extra honey behind it.
A smile spread across his lips. One of those items was mocking him, it would pay. The other would be much more useful.
Arthur collapsed up against the wall again, pulling on his collar and running his hands through his hair.
“Hey, Waiter,” came a call from the dining room.
Arthur looked down at himself and swore.
“What is it?” he called back, sounding annoyed.
“Just get back in here,” came the commanding yet entrancing reply, “Come sit with me.”
Alfred didn’t like getting messed around with, Arthur knew that. This would be payback, somehow, but he just had to follow that voice.
Deciding it wasn’t too noticeable, and that he would be able to sit, Arthur rushed back in and sat down a seat away from Alfred’s place at the head of the table.
“Don’t you want to sit a little closer?” Alfred purred, “You’re so eager to get my reaction first-hand.”
Arthur grumbled, but slid one seat down.
“Isn’t that better,” Alfred sighed, putting a hand on Arthur’s knee, making him jump and sit back into his chair, “I can see your face from here, so you can see mine.”
“W-will you just eat it!” Arthur demanded, noticing that the rice pudding was untouched.
England could have sworn he heard him chuckle ‘you asked for it’, but nevertheless, Alfred picked up the dainty silver spoon and scooped some of the pudding onto it.
A spoon, America decided, had much more potential for exploitation.
The F Word [6/?]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 18:04:00 UTC
He closed his lips so far around the end it was almost the handle, and he pulled it out slowly, painfully slowly, before pushing it back in again and twisting it over, leaning onto the table with his elbows as he pulled it out, swallowing the sweet and rich pudding.
He moaned again, and England gripped the edges of the table, almost panting now.
Alfred couldn’t take much more, either. He took another spoonful, and another, moaning into each one, sometimes because it was unexpectedly delicious again, other times just so he could open one eye slightly and see the flustered Englishman sat so close.
Soon, there was only one mouthful left, and America scraped it out slowly, before looking straight at England, who sat up, suddenly aware of his red face, and how he had been gawking at America as he ate.
“Here,” America held out the spoon, “It’s your masterpiece, you might as well try some of it.”
Arthur gulped and leant forward, closing his eyes.
Alfred guided the spoon into his mouth, watching as the other’s rosy lips captured the smooth metal where his own mouth had been not a moment before. Pulling it out, America was breathless, watching as England mimicked his earlier performance, arching up into the spoon until he was facing skyward.
Alfred licked his lips as the muscles in England’s throat danced, pushing the pudding down.
When Arthur turned his face back to meet him, there lay just a tiny piece that had escaped, white and milky, and in the centre of England’s lower lip.
Alfred couldn’t take it any longer. He grabbed England’s waist, hauling him onto his lap, capturing his lips in a ferocious kiss that England returned, plunging his tongue into his mouth and a fierce battle for dominance ensues.
Hands and fingers tore and fumbled with buttons and zips, a desperate race to finally feel the other’s skin, dying to feel their touch, letting fingers and lips roam and stroke all over the other.
America’s hand tore away England’s pants, freeing his throbbing erection.
“Oh, Arthur,” Alfred gasped, “All this for me?”
“Y-you wanker!” Arthur gasped, hooking his arms around America’s neck and his legs around his waist.
Alfred stood up, holding onto Arthur and pushed the crockery and china off the table, saving only one thing before placing the panting Englishman onto the tablecloth and pinning down his wrists, ignoring the loud and indignant noises about priceless china coming from below him.
“Stay like that,” Alfred growled, before sucking fiercely on his neck, making England cry out.
America then pulled off the last of his clothing, and the rustle of his trousers was music to Arthur’s ears, then he picked up the jug of honey and climbed onto the table, straddling England and making him gasp when their members touched. Then he held down Arthur’s wrists to stop him from moving and...
“Alfred!!” Arthur squeaked, as the cool honey dripped over his torso. The American chuckled and began licking, sucking and nipping, teasing the skin from Arthur’s neck, pausing to suck at his nipples, eliciting more gasps and moans before moving all the way down his stomach, sliding off the table to lean over it, weight on his palms either side of Arthur’s hips, and then...
“ALFRED!” Arthur cried his name gain and gripped the tablecloth tightly.
He held down England’s hips to stop him from bucking as he bobbed up and down, taking in more and more of Arthur’s hot length, swirling over the head with his tongue, and listening intently to his name being cried, louder and louder every time.
Before Arthur could come, he pulled away, earning himself a frustrated scream, but he pulled Arthur up and flipped him over, brushing against his thighs and making the Englishman gasp.
“I want you,” Alfred growled in his ear, gripping one of his hands tightly, and running a finger up his inner thigh.
“We need to get to that drawer,” Arthur pointed over the room to a small cabinet.
Alfred wrapped Arthur around him and raced over to the cabinet, spurred on by Arthur grinding their hips together and moaning loudly.
Fumbling with the drawer, he tore it open and grabbed the bottle of lubricant, racing back over to the table and dumping Arthur onto his front again, but kissing the back of his neck by way as an apology.
The F Word [7/8]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 18:09:20 UTC
As Arthur lay there, panting, Alfred poured some of the cool liquid out onto his fingers.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes!” Arthur yelled back, so hard now that it hurt.
With one hand on his hip, Alfred pushed his first finger in, making Arthur shudder and push himself up on his palms.
“You’ve still got those gloves on,” Alfred growled into Arthur’s neck, sliding another finger in.
“Y-you love it, dirty bastard,” Arthur panted back, “Only you could turn a civilised dinner into a sex-fest!”
Alfred shoved a third finger in, making Arthur cry out and grip the tablecloth.
America pressed kisses up England’s neck as he slowly began to move his fingers in and out. Arthur’s pants lost their gasping ferocity so he pulled out slowly and poured more lube onto his hands, pinning Arthur in place against the table with his thighs, and the other nation was sure that if Alfred had moved away he would fall, knees and legs weak, and his arms that were trying to prop himself up were visibly shaking.
Coating himself liberally, Alfred shivered with the coolness of the liquid before moving into position, taking Arthur’s hips in his hands. There was a moment of stillness where Arthur leant back into Alfred’s chest, feeling the light sheens of sweat on his back and the American’s torso mix, sliding them together.
“Fucker, do it!” Arthur gasped, slamming a palm into the table.
Without any warning, Alfred rammed in, crying out in unison with Arthur.
He was so tight and hot, it felt so good, it was all he could do not to start pounding the Englishman into the table right then and there.
“Arthur,” he pressed kisses up his neck, “Arthur, are you all right?”
Arthur’s eyes shot open, the pain fading. He had everything he wanted, he had Alfred, whispering his name like that, so hot, inside him, taking him, so close to him...
“Move, fucker!” Arthur bucked his hips backwards violently and they both cried out again.
“You asked for it,” America growled, smirking into the crook of England’s neck.
He pulled out, then pushed back in, slowly at first, then picking up pace.
Arthur didn’t know whose shouts were whose, they didn’t care how loud they were, how much more of the crockery was smashing into the floor with every needy thrust that drove England’s thighs into the table, sure to leave bruises. America was kissing and licking at his neck, taken higher with every movement, the music of England’s shouts music to his ears, he had wanted this, he didn’t know how long for but he had.
Then Alfred moved slightly and Arthur screamed louder when he thrust in, thick member brushing the sensitive spot inside him that was aching for release. The next thrust hit it head on, sending jolts of electricity sparking up Arthur’s spine to where Alfred’s lips and teeth were caressing and scratching.
Alfred sensed the raw want in Arthur’s cries of his name, and he grasped his cock firmly, making Arthur moan his name more lowly before he began pumping, trying his best to keep the rhythm with his slightly sloppy thrusts.
The F Word [8/8]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 18:12:02 UTC
Colours and sounds got brighter, the taste of the honey and Arthur’s length became tangier and sweeter on his tongue, the world spun faster as he kept time to the rhythm of their unmistakable need, a release for this dreadful, heavenly tension, fingers slipping on the pre-cum that was slickening Arthur underneath his fingers.
They came together, screaming out each other’s names, still thrusting and riding out the stars and white hot bliss, that was coursing through their veins and spilling out of them.
Arthur collapsed forwards onto the table, head still spinning.
“Arthur,” Alfred whispered, leaning over to his ear, caressing his hips.
Arthur grunted and bit his lip as Alfred eased himself out before collapsing onto the table on his back beside him.
Looking around, Arthur was appalled, the room was a mess. A load of fine china smashed onto the floor, the contents of 3 different bottles of wine were steadily imprinting immovable stains into the carpet. The tablecloth and everything on it was coated in a splattering of an unsightly white liquid, that had even managed to get onto some of the chairs, standing out starkly against the dark wood furniture.
But Arthur turned and looked at the still panting American lying beside him, and smiled, letting himself get lost in the fuzzy, blissful afterglow.
“Your cooking,” America chuckled, looking over at Arthur and making him blush and stop smiling, “Is fucking awesome.”
Arthur smiled and shivered as Alfred ran a hand over his face, gently. “So, dinner tomorrow?” Alfred ventured.
“I’ll cook,” Arthur smirked.
“It’s a date,” Alfred sighed, leaning closer and kissing Arthur gently.
HUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINAHUMINA...*you have left OP anon both exceedingly horny hungry, and have broken her brain with sheer hotness*
Holy mother of cheesecake, I love you! Marry me, anon!(oh, damn, no, I seriously am hungry now...I'll have what they were having...)
Whenever America popped round, it was bound to end in tears.
Well... not that England would ever let on. He usually just had a yell at him. Sure if they ended up debating something really serious, and a few insults got thrown, then there would be a little bit of sniffling echoing around the house for the next hour or so...
But it was mainly just yelling.
Which was why Francis was not surprised to hear all the way from his house England screaming at the top of his lungs about how much of an opinionated, nasty bastard America was.
“I’ll show you!” he bellowed as the US walked out the door, laughing and playing catch with a blackened scone, “I’ll show EVERYONE!!!”
As America continued to just laugh, England shook with anger.
“... Yeah, keep walking, FUCKER!”
As he closed the door again, Arthur could swear he heard a tiny fairy voice giggle ‘smooth’.
Snatching up the phone, England tore though his address book, until he found what he was looking for. A manic glint shone in his green eyes, and, grinning, he dialled the number.
“Ramsey! Look, you fucker, I need a favour.”
---
“Hey, America,” Canada leant over to whisper to his brother during the next world meeting, three days later, “Where’s England?”
America’s eyes flew to the empty chair, and he felt guilt a heavy weight of guilt and worry settle in his stomach.
“I-I don’t know,” he whispered back.
“Is he ok? Did you guys have a fight?” Matthew asked, gently.
“I kinda insulted his cooking again...” America admitted.
Canada looked stern.
“Aw, come on, you know what his food is like!”
“America, you should be nicer to him about it, you know all the times he’s stomached those greasy burgers for you.”
America blinked, “I thought he liked that sort of food.”
Matthew rolled his eyes, “Just make sure he’s all right.”
“I’m sure he’s just sulking somewhere,” America scoffed, sliding down into his chair and folding his arms, but that didn’t stop him grabbing his jacket and running out of the conference hall at the end of the meeting.
---
“Oh, all right, thanks for the tip-off, Matthew,” Arthur smiled, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, “No, that’s great, in fact, he should be just in time. For what? Oh, never you mind. See you soon.”
Hanging up, Arthur cracked his knuckles. It was showtime.
Reply
America was so busy pounding and yelling that he nearly punched Arthur in the face when the door was swung open.
“Art!” he sighed in relief, but quickly regained composure, “Ha! I knew you would just.. be.. sulking-hey, what’s with the get-up?” Alfred motioned to the black tie suit and gloves England was wearing, complete with cute little black bow tie, and a white cloth folded neatly over his arm.
“I think considering the situation,” Arthur replied, cheeks going pink and frowning slightly, “You are the one who is a little underdressed.”
“Huh? Did I miss something?” Alfred looked like a puppy with a headache, “Oh, it’s not Canada day again already, is it? He completely killed me last time I forgot...”
“No, you dolt!” Arthur went even pinker and stepped aside, “I’ve made you dinner. I’m your waiter for this evening.”
America paled slightly, “No, really, England, it’s ok! I ate before I came, you know! Stuffed with burgers, I couldn’t possibly...”
“Alfred.”
America looked at the stern face of his elder, the bright green eyes that were staring him down for his defiance, but with a drop of hurt hidden amongst the authority.
“I... fine,” the American sighed, allowing Arthur to take his jacket and lead him through to the dining room, which looked stunning.
The dark-wood ornamentation on the coving was shimmering in the light of the candles sitting on the table, resting on top of a plain white tablecloth along with beautiful fine china and crystal, that Alfred swore Arthur must have been hoarding with the crown jewels, soaking up their sparkle for a hundred years at least.
Arthur pulled out Alfred’s chair for him, so he sat down, trying not to feel ill already.
You’re a hero, he reminded himself, you can stomach anything. Even this. Right?
He gulped as England uncorked a bottle of wine and poured him some.
“Are you ready for your starter?” Arthur asked, politely, and America nodded, resigning himself to at least a week of antacids.
While he was still wallowing in self-pity and wondering how many meetings he was going to miss, England re-entered holding a plate and set it down in front of him.
“A warm goat’s cheese salad with walnut dressing and apple vinaigrette,” Arthur announced, sounding proud.
America cringed and opened a cautious eye at the platter, which he then gawked at.
The presentation was good, all symmetrical and fanning out from the central piece of circular cheese resting on top of a similarly circular piece of toasted bread that was a light gold. The greens in the salad looked luscious and the little pieces of walnut and apple sprinkled over it finished the sort of dainty look the salad had.
“It’s for eating, not for staring at.”
“Huh? R-right,” Alfred picked up his fork and Arthur held his breath in anticipation as the man balanced some of the meal on the end of the silver spines and took it into his mouth with a small chink as the metal brushed his teeth.
Arthur’s heart stopped as a pair of soft American lips closed around the fork, sending a chill up his spine that morphed into an annoying heat in face that he tried to will away, but he couldn’t stop staring as the fork was slid from those lips, pulling at the plump pink skin.
Alfred’s eyes widened as he chewed, succulent flavours exploding all over his tongue.
Before he had finished swallowing Arthur interrupted.
“Do you like it?”
America was silent, staring at his plate, while Arthur stared at him, tingling with anticipation for Alfred’s approval.
After another few wordless seconds, Arthur’s heart began to sink.
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“Yes, I did,” Arthur replied, looking away.
“It’s... amazing,” Alfred breathed.
Arthur snapped his face back to look at him, “What?”
But America had continued tucking into his starter.
“Ifh amafingth,” Alfred repeated through a mouthful, “I cannofth beweeive fhis! Fwuck!”
“Don’t talk with your mouthful,” Arthur replied, indignantly, but he smiled in a self-satisfied matter, “And do eat a little more slowly, I have to go put the finishing touches to your main.”
Alfred took a gulp of wine and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, making Arthur roll his eyes and make muttered comments about uncouth Americans as he went back to the kitchen.
America’s chewing slowed for a moment as he watched the older nation leave. He hadn’t ever seen England look so... he flushed a delicate pink, handsome. And this side of him that could actually cook, and goddammit, cook well?
Maybe it was the candlelight, maybe it was the suit, maybe it was the food, but Alfred didn’t care. He just wanted more.
As he took another mouthful of explosive flavours, his hand gripped the handle of his fork, tightly.
And this was just the starter.
Alfred was scraping stars into the remains of the vinaigrette with his knife when Arthur returned with another dish, making him sit up straight.
England inwardly smiled, noticing the wide-eyed look Alfred was giving... him? No, he was looking at the plate, he must be.
“The Main, Salmon en Croute with herbed Jersey Royal potatoes and asparagus,” Arthur removed the first plate and replaced it with the second, where the salmon and vegetables sat steaming.
“Looks delicious,” Alfred grinned, taking up his fork already.
“Hold your horses, Yank,” Arthur smiled gently and picked up one of the china jugs closer, “Hollandaise sauce for the salmon?”
“Wow, Arthur, you’ve got this all covered! I’d love some,” he caught Arthur’s eyes, making them both flush red and turn back to the plate where Arthur poured some of the slightly thick.. creamy... white... sauce.
Fuck.
America hoped to God he wasn’t breathing as fast as it felt, letting his gaze dance up those sleek gloved hands, catching site of some of the pale skin underneath Arthur’s cuffs, diamond cufflinks glittering slightly in the candlelight.
Arthur pulled away quickly, pink and very aware of the eyes that were watching him so intently.
“Thank you,” America sat up a little straighter and ran a hand through his hair.
“More wine?” Arthur asked, hurriedly, holding up a new bottle of dry German white that was sure to further accentuate the taste of the salmon.
“Maybe just a little, I want to be able to enjoy this fully.”
Arthur nearly slipped with the bottle when he heard that, and a pair of firm hands found his. America had to suppress the shudder than ran up his spine when he felt England’s hands through the cool leather.
“Got it?” he laughed.
“Yes, thank you,” England replied, shortly, pulling away and pouring his wine.
Alfred prepared a small mouthful of the food as Arthur stepped back, picking up the first plate again and gripping its edges tightly, still eager for the American to like what he had prepared.
England tried really hard not to watch his lips this time, stealing glances at his blue eyes, but as those lips, those damned lips curled together to blow gently and almost sensuously onto that mouthful...
This time, Alfred noticed what England was watching. And boy, was he going to give him something to watch.
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Alfred wanted to put on a bit of a show, but his next move was genuine. Colours and lights were flaring-up in his mouth and in his mind, and he let out a moan that made an already pink Briton flush a deep and incriminating red.
“Oh my GOD!” Alfred cried, turning to look at Arthur, who subconsciously leant back a little, startled by the look in the American’s eyes, “Arthur, oh, Arthur, this is glorious.”
That smile, those half-lidded blue eyes as endless and clear as the sky, the tiniest drop of Hollandaise sauce just below his lip, and the unmistakeable need in Arthur’s heart that wanted Alfred to say his name like that again, right into his ear, pressed up against him...
“I’mgladyoulikeitI’llgetpuddingstarted,” he garbled, turning on his heel and rushing out, much to the other’s dismay.
Alfred couldn’t complain, though, it truly was delicious. No other country’s food could stand up to this. It was amazing, rich and succulent, cooked to perfection...
Arthur heard Alfred moan again from the dining room and heat danced in his stomach, tingling dangerously low, forcing him to support himself by resting his back on the wall next to the door.
He closed his eyes, trying to even his breathing, but another moan, a lower, more sensual one sent his eyes flying open again, but by the time he could focus properly, Arthur couldn’t tell whether it had been real, or his imagination.
Hold it together, he told himself, firmly, letting the cool air of the fridge skirt around him as he reached out the dessert wine, Just one more course to go, just one.
Alfred, however, didn’t want it to end. Looking around, he made sure that Arthur wasn’t about to come bursting in before he picked up the plate and gave it a cautious lick.
Then he waited for a second, until it seemed that fate was on his side, so he began to ravish the warm china with his tongue.
Arthur had the dessert tray balanced on his fingers, wanting to look a bit more professional through his red face. When he pushed open the door, however, he nearly dropped it.
Earlier, (be that hours, or hundreds of years) Arthur would have yelled profusely at Alfred for doing such an unrefined thing as licking the crockery, but Arthur found himself enthralled as the pink tongue slid over the smooth white surface, catching every stray bit of creamy sauce, lapping it up in such a concentrated and needy effort. Arthur forgot to breathe, his hearing was heightened, he could almost feel the vibrations up America’s throat with every slightly breathy noise he made.
Panting slightly, Alfred put the plate back down. He sort of wished he hadn’t rushed, but he didn’t want to get caught by Arthur in case he yelled at him.
Something felt off, America concluded, and he looked round to the door into the kitchen.
Aw, shit.
America saw genuine shock in Arthur’s eyes as he stood there, tray balanced expertly on one hand, another bottle of wine in the other, and so he leapt to his own defence, “I just really enjoyed it and wanted to finish all of it off, you know? Waste not, want not, or whatever the heck you used to say to me.”
Arthur couldn’t say anything. The tingling feeling in his stomach was having a party as it shot lower down, and he knew he would have to get out of there very soon. Especially if America didn’t get rid of that last little bit of sauce on his nose.
He cleared his throat and strode over, placing the wine down first, freeing a hand to move the main course plate away, replacing it with a black tray where a tall martini glass and a tall glass jug sat.
“P-pudding,” Arthur tried to sound announcing again, but it ended up as a breathy explanation, “Honey rice pudding with pear and Rioja jam.”
“Beautiful,” Alfred grinned, no longer addressing the food.
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“Mmm, I think so, actually. Let’s bring out all those flavours, Arthur,” Alfred whispered, putting a spread hand up onto the table, “All those flavours that are lying, just beneath the surface.”
Arthur fumbled pathetically with the unopened bottle, making Alfred chuckle, lowly.
“Here,” he stood and stepped behind Arthur, making the Englishman’s knees threaten to give out entirely, “Let me help you.”
Alfred took Arthur’s hands, slotting his fingers through the other’s so the tips of his fingers could feel the cool, moist surface of the glass.
Arthur leant his head back slightly, exposing more of his neck to the American, who took to sliding their hands up the neck of the bottle.
“Yeah, I see the problem here,” Alfred whispered, placing one of his hands with Arthur’s over the cork, “It’s just a little stuck,” he chuckled again, stepping a little closer to Arthur’s back, breath tickling that deliciously exposed neck, “You have to be firm with it,” he wrapped his hand tightly with Arthur’s around the neck of the bottle, listening intently to the speed of his breaths, “Then, do you know what you’ve got to do?”
England closed his eyes and leant back further, resting into America’s chest, shaking his head, “What?”
“Pull,” came the murmured reply, and his hands were gripped tighter, “Tell me when you’re ready, Arthur.”
Oh God, there it was, his name, with America pressed up against him, those lips so close to brushing the skin on his neck. Arthur’s pants now seemed to be getting far too small, he had staved off being hard for far too long this dinnertime, and now he was being taken over.
No. Arthur thought, suddenly. This wasn’t over yet.
“Now,” he replied, and America helped him force the cork from the end of the bottle of sweet red.
America sat back down quickly before Arthur could look at him, and England didn’t need a second guess as to why, so he leant dangerously close to pour the wine, making a conscious effort this time, biting his lip and putting a gloved hand on the table for support.
As he put the bottle back down onto the table, Arthur turned to look at Alfred, leaning closer.
Alfred’s heart leapt, and he was sure his vital regions were cheering too, begging to be freed. Just a little closer, those lips on his, please, Arthur...
He felt something soft brush his nose and his eyes shot open, having barely noticed that they had closed.
“You had sauce on your nose,” Arthur announced, flouncing back off into the kitchen, napkin in hand.
Alfred looked at the martini glass of rice pudding, and the jug of extra honey behind it.
A smile spread across his lips. One of those items was mocking him, it would pay. The other would be much more useful.
Arthur collapsed up against the wall again, pulling on his collar and running his hands through his hair.
“Hey, Waiter,” came a call from the dining room.
Arthur looked down at himself and swore.
“What is it?” he called back, sounding annoyed.
“Just get back in here,” came the commanding yet entrancing reply, “Come sit with me.”
Alfred didn’t like getting messed around with, Arthur knew that. This would be payback, somehow, but he just had to follow that voice.
Deciding it wasn’t too noticeable, and that he would be able to sit, Arthur rushed back in and sat down a seat away from Alfred’s place at the head of the table.
“Don’t you want to sit a little closer?” Alfred purred, “You’re so eager to get my reaction first-hand.”
Arthur grumbled, but slid one seat down.
“Isn’t that better,” Alfred sighed, putting a hand on Arthur’s knee, making him jump and sit back into his chair, “I can see your face from here, so you can see mine.”
“W-will you just eat it!” Arthur demanded, noticing that the rice pudding was untouched.
England could have sworn he heard him chuckle ‘you asked for it’, but nevertheless, Alfred picked up the dainty silver spoon and scooped some of the pudding onto it.
A spoon, America decided, had much more potential for exploitation.
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He moaned again, and England gripped the edges of the table, almost panting now.
Alfred couldn’t take much more, either. He took another spoonful, and another, moaning into each one, sometimes because it was unexpectedly delicious again, other times just so he could open one eye slightly and see the flustered Englishman sat so close.
Soon, there was only one mouthful left, and America scraped it out slowly, before looking straight at England, who sat up, suddenly aware of his red face, and how he had been gawking at America as he ate.
“Here,” America held out the spoon, “It’s your masterpiece, you might as well try some of it.”
Arthur gulped and leant forward, closing his eyes.
Alfred guided the spoon into his mouth, watching as the other’s rosy lips captured the smooth metal where his own mouth had been not a moment before. Pulling it out, America was breathless, watching as England mimicked his earlier performance, arching up into the spoon until he was facing skyward.
Alfred licked his lips as the muscles in England’s throat danced, pushing the pudding down.
When Arthur turned his face back to meet him, there lay just a tiny piece that had escaped, white and milky, and in the centre of England’s lower lip.
Alfred couldn’t take it any longer. He grabbed England’s waist, hauling him onto his lap, capturing his lips in a ferocious kiss that England returned, plunging his tongue into his mouth and a fierce battle for dominance ensues.
Hands and fingers tore and fumbled with buttons and zips, a desperate race to finally feel the other’s skin, dying to feel their touch, letting fingers and lips roam and stroke all over the other.
America’s hand tore away England’s pants, freeing his throbbing erection.
“Oh, Arthur,” Alfred gasped, “All this for me?”
“Y-you wanker!” Arthur gasped, hooking his arms around America’s neck and his legs around his waist.
Alfred stood up, holding onto Arthur and pushed the crockery and china off the table, saving only one thing before placing the panting Englishman onto the tablecloth and pinning down his wrists, ignoring the loud and indignant noises about priceless china coming from below him.
“Stay like that,” Alfred growled, before sucking fiercely on his neck, making England cry out.
America then pulled off the last of his clothing, and the rustle of his trousers was music to Arthur’s ears, then he picked up the jug of honey and climbed onto the table, straddling England and making him gasp when their members touched. Then he held down Arthur’s wrists to stop him from moving and...
“Alfred!!” Arthur squeaked, as the cool honey dripped over his torso.
The American chuckled and began licking, sucking and nipping, teasing the skin from Arthur’s neck, pausing to suck at his nipples, eliciting more gasps and moans before moving all the way down his stomach, sliding off the table to lean over it, weight on his palms either side of Arthur’s hips, and then...
“ALFRED!” Arthur cried his name gain and gripped the tablecloth tightly.
He held down England’s hips to stop him from bucking as he bobbed up and down, taking in more and more of Arthur’s hot length, swirling over the head with his tongue, and listening intently to his name being cried, louder and louder every time.
Before Arthur could come, he pulled away, earning himself a frustrated scream, but he pulled Arthur up and flipped him over, brushing against his thighs and making the Englishman gasp.
“I want you,” Alfred growled in his ear, gripping one of his hands tightly, and running a finger up his inner thigh.
“We need to get to that drawer,” Arthur pointed over the room to a small cabinet.
Alfred wrapped Arthur around him and raced over to the cabinet, spurred on by Arthur grinding their hips together and moaning loudly.
Fumbling with the drawer, he tore it open and grabbed the bottle of lubricant, racing back over to the table and dumping Arthur onto his front again, but kissing the back of his neck by way as an apology.
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“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes!” Arthur yelled back, so hard now that it hurt.
With one hand on his hip, Alfred pushed his first finger in, making Arthur shudder and push himself up on his palms.
“You’ve still got those gloves on,” Alfred growled into Arthur’s neck, sliding another finger in.
“Y-you love it, dirty bastard,” Arthur panted back, “Only you could turn a civilised dinner into a sex-fest!”
Alfred shoved a third finger in, making Arthur cry out and grip the tablecloth.
America pressed kisses up England’s neck as he slowly began to move his fingers in and out. Arthur’s pants lost their gasping ferocity so he pulled out slowly and poured more lube onto his hands, pinning Arthur in place against the table with his thighs, and the other nation was sure that if Alfred had moved away he would fall, knees and legs weak, and his arms that were trying to prop himself up were visibly shaking.
Coating himself liberally, Alfred shivered with the coolness of the liquid before moving into position, taking Arthur’s hips in his hands. There was a moment of stillness where Arthur leant back into Alfred’s chest, feeling the light sheens of sweat on his back and the American’s torso mix, sliding them together.
“Fucker, do it!” Arthur gasped, slamming a palm into the table.
Without any warning, Alfred rammed in, crying out in unison with Arthur.
He was so tight and hot, it felt so good, it was all he could do not to start pounding the Englishman into the table right then and there.
“Arthur,” he pressed kisses up his neck, “Arthur, are you all right?”
Arthur’s eyes shot open, the pain fading. He had everything he wanted, he had Alfred, whispering his name like that, so hot, inside him, taking him, so close to him...
“Move, fucker!” Arthur bucked his hips backwards violently and they both cried out again.
“You asked for it,” America growled, smirking into the crook of England’s neck.
He pulled out, then pushed back in, slowly at first, then picking up pace.
Arthur didn’t know whose shouts were whose, they didn’t care how loud they were, how much more of the crockery was smashing into the floor with every needy thrust that drove England’s thighs into the table, sure to leave bruises. America was kissing and licking at his neck, taken higher with every movement, the music of England’s shouts music to his ears, he had wanted this, he didn’t know how long for but he had.
Then Alfred moved slightly and Arthur screamed louder when he thrust in, thick member brushing the sensitive spot inside him that was aching for release. The next thrust hit it head on, sending jolts of electricity sparking up Arthur’s spine to where Alfred’s lips and teeth were caressing and scratching.
Alfred sensed the raw want in Arthur’s cries of his name, and he grasped his cock firmly, making Arthur moan his name more lowly before he began pumping, trying his best to keep the rhythm with his slightly sloppy thrusts.
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They came together, screaming out each other’s names, still thrusting and riding out the stars and white hot bliss, that was coursing through their veins and spilling out of them.
Arthur collapsed forwards onto the table, head still spinning.
“Arthur,” Alfred whispered, leaning over to his ear, caressing his hips.
Arthur grunted and bit his lip as Alfred eased himself out before collapsing onto the table on his back beside him.
Looking around, Arthur was appalled, the room was a mess. A load of fine china smashed onto the floor, the contents of 3 different bottles of wine were steadily imprinting immovable stains into the carpet. The tablecloth and everything on it was coated in a splattering of an unsightly white liquid, that had even managed to get onto some of the chairs, standing out starkly against the dark wood furniture.
But Arthur turned and looked at the still panting American lying beside him, and smiled, letting himself get lost in the fuzzy, blissful afterglow.
“Your cooking,” America chuckled, looking over at Arthur and making him blush and stop smiling, “Is fucking awesome.”
Arthur smiled and shivered as Alfred ran a hand over his face, gently.
“So, dinner tomorrow?” Alfred ventured.
“I’ll cook,” Arthur smirked.
“It’s a date,” Alfred sighed, leaning closer and kissing Arthur gently.
There you have it, Anons. Hope you like, OP.
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Holy mother of cheesecake, I love you! Marry me, anon!(oh, damn, no, I seriously am hungry now...I'll have what they were having...)
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ffffff anon, that was hot!
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