Ah, hello there, loverlies~ I haven't written a fic in quite a while…but I now have this lovely and uncomplicated (really, if you're looking for plot twists, this won't have it—however, if you're looking for lots of UST and eventual hot smut? Ehehehe.) muse due to the new music my lovely-lovely-lovely wife Crystal showered me with, and have been inspired to write some lovely USUK, since I feel this Hetalia fandom is getting bored with canon and moving to the more…extreme pairings as of late. Hopefully, there are still loyal USUK shippers out there, like myself! /waves foam finger in the air!
Anyway. So, I hope you like this little ficlet that I came up with at 1 o'clock in the morning (until 4 o'clock, so I am a very tired camper) just last night after a Harry Potter marathon. (My first multi-chap—be proud of me!) There will be smut, eventually, and it'll be my first attempt in a long, long, long time. Wish me luck. /crosses fingers and mutters to self, "It can't be that hard...penis goes there and job is done!"
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia nor any of the characters used, and I sure don't own Shawn Desman's song "Something Stupid" or Shayne Ward's song "No Promises."
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"So why do I feel like I'm livin' a lie?
Something in your eyes
is tellin' me to stop and think twice
and I just can't decide.
So don't say you love me unless you mean it,
'cause I might do something stupid—
like believe it, like believe it."
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Alfred had always been quite the inquisitive child, but when it mattered the most, the most obvious things flew right over his pretty little head.
He supposed that was how he was even in this...predicament in the first place, he reasoned warily as the man he'd once seen as a father figure pressed hot kisses to his exposed neck and ground invitingly against his leg. Why else would it have taken this for him to realize that maybe Arthur had wanted in his pants perhaps for as long as he'd wanted in Arthur's?
Though—America winced at that—no, he hadn't wanted in England's pants as much as he'd just wanted to be with the older man. His feelings had grown from when he was a mere boy, too young to understand what was really bonding him to his caretaker, to a lust in his young, awkward stage between adulthood and childhood, and recently—in the past century, to something he might even call love, if he had to give it a name at all. Oh, Alfred wished he could take Arthur for his own, that was for sure, but not like this. He had not ever wanted it to be like this. Damn Hollywood for the hopeless romantic streak in him that he knew would be the death of him.
The before mentioned lusty nation rocked his hips against Al's and let out a breathless moan—"God, I want you so bad, Al..."— that ghosted hotly over his tender skin, causing him to shiver in arousal despite himself, but also breaking him from his thoughts. Alfred sucked in a sharp breath as the drunk (he'd tasted the alcohol on his lips as they clashed against his own as a greeting when he'd opened the door) man nipped lightly at him, and pushed Arthur away gently, but firmly before things got out of hand. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out without jumping the smaller man himself. His heart ached something terrible as England's, dare he say, beautiful emerald eyes burned up at him, asking why, and tried again to clasp his lips to America's, whose willpower was being put to the test as he pushed the smaller man away yet again. Denying him.
Frustrated, Arthur broke out of Alfred's strong grip and staggered back a few steps, cursing, obviously unsteady on his feet due to the alcohol that had even driven him to his ex-charges doorstep. Or at least, that is what he told himself, being the stubborn English gentleman he was, though even he knew the truth. And the truth was that England did have more romantic feelings for the certain blond heartthrob standing so guiltily in front of him. (What was that git guilty of? Arthur was the one crossing into the forbidden and uncharted waters.) Of course, Arthur would never voice these feelings, because he knew the grudge that stood between them was unyielding and too much for him to pass by—he did not want to renew the old scars that he wished he could forget or revisit the raw heartbreak of the Revolution. He had not wanted Alfred to not have freedom and happiness and prosperity, he had simply wanted and loved the git too much to let him go.
But that was just it—America did not love England, and never would, so the poor nation was left to brood in his booze and his apparent hatred to even glance up and notice the looks the younger one was really casting him—and had been casting him for the past hundred years or so. No, it was too much for his old, tired heart to bear, so he ignored Francis's observing eye and remarks—"Oh, mon cher, I do believe you're both in over your heads."—because when had Arthur ever given the perverted frog's advice much thought anyway?
"Arthur…"
America's cerulean eyes were hardened to hold back a barely restrained emotion, and England grimaced bitterly, shifting his gaze away to glare resentfully at the wall. He should've known that Alfred wouldn't even have been interested in a quick no-strings-attached fuck. Not with an old, drunk man like him. A pathetic once-was of an Empire. Looks like he'd have one more reason to go back to that shady bar in the nights following his stay in America, he thought cynically, almost laughing sardonically out-loud if it were not terribly out of place. (Because he was really was only even remotely near Alfred's house due to the meeting that had been held in America that day— several more of them scheduled throughout the next week in the same place, so he and the other nations had to book hotel rooms in the idiot nation until they were over. He wouldn't willingly be caught dead near Alfred's house otherwise, God forbid.)
America started again, tripping over his words; clenching and unclenching his fists for a lack of anything better to do with them—he wasn't quite sure how to handle this delicate situation. "A-Arthur, look at me, listen to me, I—"
"Just drop it, you damn insolent git!" England spat spitefully, giving his former colony as cold a look he could in his inhibited state, his icy defenses freezing over and concealing his hurt at the rejection. "You don't want to fuck? Fine! I can go fuck with France instead! He'll take me in with open arms! And," he sneered at Alfred's expression, "legs."
He actually hadn't slept with Francis in quite some time, and wasn't planning on it anytime soon, though Alfred didn't need to know that. His feelings for the damn twat had grown too much for him to even want another's flesh on his unless it was Alfred's own sun-kissed skin. That being said, he was unbearably sexually repressed (the economy was suffering with him, so at least he wasn't alone), after not having been laid for such a lengthy time. A man could only hold out for so long before he broke, and Arthur's patience had snapped as he drowned himself in his liquor and dark fantasies—leading his feet to the one nation he'd wanted for far too long. Only to be faced with the unenviable rejection he'd been expecting, but hoping otherwise.
A flicker of hurt crossed the incompetent gits face at his mocking sneer and cruel words, but Arthur dismissed it as only a drunk man so in love he was willing to hurt the object of his affections to protect both of their hearts (but especially his own, of course) could.
"Arthur—I—" Alfred stopped himself, not entirely sure what he was trying to say, but feeling he had to fill the tense silence between them with something. An apology? An explanation? He owed Arthur neither, for he was not the one barging into his home at 3 A.M. demanding something he couldn't give. But he couldn't bare for him to just leave like that after that—leaving so many strings untied, and so many questions and assumptions up in the air. "I—I don't—I mean—"
England was examining him with those unreadable, dark eyes that frightened America much more than the passionate and lustful, or even the angry and hurt ones had. He could deal with those—but he hated when the older man but up his walls—unbreakable as they were—for he then could get nothing more than a scoff and sneer out of the spiteful man. And he wanted—he needed—he deserved much more than the typical scornful answer after having his heartstrings tugged so violently and played so cruelly like this.
Alfred did not ever want to be used, yet he wished for Arthur to want (love) him. The only thing that held him back from returning Arthur's needy kisses and lusty declarations of want (for it wasn't love England felt for him, he was sure) was the looming disappointment in the morning that he knew he would face if he allowed it to happen. If Alfred were to ever have sex with him, he wanted it to mean something more than just a one-night stand. He needed something more than empty promises. His heart ached for something more than this.
Before he could get out another word, however, Arthur, with his indecipherable mask still firmly in place, turned on his heel and fled out the door that was still hanging open—disappearing into the dark American night; leaving Alfred with heartache much greater than Arthur's hard on.
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"I don't wanna run away,
baby, you're the one I need tonight.
No promises.
Baby, now I need to hold you tight.
I just wanna die in your arms,
here tonight."
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...And this is the real reason for the economic repression. :D
Reviews are the air that feed the fire to the smut at the end of this story.