Hello! Here I am with this, my first published UKUS story! Though most of the time I prefer them in a father/son/brotherly relationship, sometimes I just can't resist the smut...
People need to write punk!England and grunge!America more. They're so fun~
This probably takes place somewhere around 1991-1992.
This is very much PWP, and there's some sexy use of belts and pant chains, so yeah.
Arthur knew all about fads. Especially fads regarding music. He remembered clearly the excitement from the 1960s, the onset of the so-called "British Invasion." The curled sneers of Mick Jagger and the clean cut faces of The Beatles that drove even his prim constancy a little wild.
So Arthur understood better than anyone why a certain Alfred F. Jones was acting in such a way, given the rise of America's newest musical trend-the so called "grunge" genre. But it didn't mean that Arthur liked it.
America's attitude had begun to get more and more frustrating since the beginning of the year. He'd just come out of the Cold War as the only superpower, he'd been recently embroiled in conflicts in the Middle East, and his economy was downturned, but still, Alfred was refusing to recognize that any of that was going on. He'd arrive at meetings disheveled and disorganized (yes, more than usual) with bored eyes and none of his usual exuberance and zeal. He wouldn't speak to anybody, not Japan, not Lithuania, not Arthur, not anyone.
But, worse than Alfred's neglect of his duties, in Arthur's opinion, was the American's neglect of them. That irked Arthur most of all, especially since they had just become an item a few months ago, after years and years and years of straining sexual tension.
The problem was that Alfred hardly ever took Arthur seriously, even recently when he had hinted not too subtly that the two be intimate. In general, he behaved as a stubborn, rebellious teenager who blew off authority-even if that authority figure was ready to please every single one of his hormonal needs. While this was not much different from the way Alfred had acted ever since the 1700s, the fact that Alfred had even given up arguing with his former caretaker stunned the Brit. Whenever Arthur tried to lecture Alfred, the American would simply roll his eyes and walk away without a word.
He eventually decided that it was useless to try to knock some sense into Alfred as a parental figure. He had to try a different approach. He eventually decided that, if he wanted Alfred back out of his depressed funk, he would have to try a more physical approach. To show him up, rebel to rebel.
England knew what he had to do, even if it went against his more polite and gentlemanly instincts.
So he'd courteously asked for a brief leave from the Prime Minister, and boarded a plane (with passengers packed in like salted kippers in a tin) to America's Northwest, a suitcase packed with all of his "necessities."
He'd changed in the airport bathroom immediately upon his arrival in Seattle, and sure, he'd gotten plenty of looks in the terminal and on the bus, but all it took was a crooked sneer to make people quickly look the other way.
So now he stood in front of Alfred's door in the hallway of a dingy apartment complex in downtown Seattle, jingling as he shifted from foot to foot and knocked fervently upon Alfred's door until the rings on his fingers pressed into the skin.
"Alfred! Alfred, yew bloody asshole, open the fucking door!"
The doorknob clicked and rattled and then the door swung open. Arthur retracted his hands and placed them squarely on his hips, puffing out his chest and putting on his best, toothy scowl. He shook his head so more of his ratty dyed hair fell into his eyes.
The door revealed a disheveled America, a sight that made England inwardly cringe. His blonde hair was more overlong than it had been a few months ago, greasy and stringy and clinging to his face. The normally fresh and youthful face was slathered with a disconcerting stubble that grew in patches on his chin and cheeks. He was dressed in what looked like a rumpled grey sweater under a blue patterned flannel shirt, with a tattered pair of jeans hanging loosely from his hips and dragging on the floor. His precious glasses, which were normally touched with the utmost care, were smudged and scratched. Arthur marveled how Alfred could see out of them.
The American looked less than pleased to see him and made to slam the door in Arthur's face, but the Brit stuck a booted foot past the threshold and grabbed the door with a gloved hand.
"Th'fuck do you want?" Alfred growled, looking Arthur up and down, "And what the fuck are you wearing?"
Arthur, in fact, had dug through his closet back in England and tore out the dusty old DIY clothing that had been packed away since the 1970s. The normally prim and well dressed Brit was now clad in a crinkled leather jacket and a pair of tight matching pants, encircled by a studded belt. He wore a thick metal chain with a padlock over his tattered black shirt. His hair was matted and clumped with a handful of green hair dye, sticking up like a duck's feathers. Piercings were threaded through the cartilage of his ears and nose.
Arthur licked his lips nervously as America looked him over, wondering if the ruse was a little too overdone.
Okay, moment of truth. If Arthur didn't take control from the get go, all of this would be useless.
So he reached up with two roughly gloved hands, placed them on Alfred's face, and pulled the American down into a tense and punishing kiss.
Alfred flinched and pulled back but Arthur snaked a hand around Alfred's head and fisted tightly into his hair. He pushed himself up against Alfred, sending both of them staggering into Alfred's room.
The ratty, dark apartment smelled of sweat and smoke and grime and coffee. It was filthy and disgusting, much more so than any of Alfred's other homes, like the quaint Virginian estate that Arthur had been to numerous times.
Alfred kept trying to pull away from him, whining a little in protest, hands pushing at Arthur's chest. But the Brit would be having none of that, not after all that he'd been through for this. He'd even rethreaded his ears with piercings, and hell if he was going to leave without having Alfred appreciate it.
Once they were close enough he shoved Alfred onto the ratty futon that was pushed in the corner of his cluttered room, the American wincing as he landed hard on his tailbone.
"Iggy, fucking stop it—"
Arthur put on his best lopsided sneer as he knelt on the futon between Alfred's legs, hands clenching into both of his thighs. He captured Alfred's mouth again, thrusting deep inside as he shrugged off his leather jacket and casted it onto the floor. His hands returned to Alfred's sides, slipping under his sweater and feeling up his stomach and hips, pinching at the bit of extra weight accumulated there.
"I-Iggy, don't—" Arthur can hear Alfred's resolve weakening in his protests. He kissed the American down the jawline, making sure the array of piercings in his ear brushed up against America's lips in a tantalizing fashion.
He wanted more though-Alfred wanted more, even if he' was still trying to deny it-so he decideed to take things further.
England tugged off his own tattered black shirt as he pulled off Alfred's flannel shirt and essentially tore away his ratty gray sweater, flinging them both aside to land amidst the jumble of clothes of the American's room.
"Iggy, wait—" Alfred's voice was beginning to abandon his dull monotone as England's hands ran over his chest, making him let out a little squeak.
"A-Arthur—"
There we go, there was the use of his real name, none of those stupid little nicknames. He pushed Alfred down until he's lying completely on the futon, drawing back a little to run his tongue from Alfred's chest to the plane of his stomach, swirling in his belly button before licking over the short fuzzy hair leading below the band of the American's jeans.
Alfred grabbed Arthur's head with both hands, twining into the short blonde locks with an encouraging grunt, trying to force the Brit down further, but that won't do, the American is most certainly not the one in charge here—
Arthur roughly turned Alfred over, pushing him down until his chest pressed against the futon, sensitive nipples rubbing against the rough fabric and making Alfred moan.
If the Brit was going to pull Alfred's out of his self imposed depression, he needed to be rough; he needed to show Alfred who was the real iconoclast here.
Arthur tore the belt chain from Alfred's pants as he grabbed Alfred's arms and pulled them behind his back. Alfred struggled momentarily before the Brit wrapped the chain around both wrists, locking them together.
"Do you like this, boy?" Arthur growled, his awfully fake and rash accent deepening, "Do you like being trussed like a fucking pig?"
Alfred's only response was to whine, which annoyed Arthur. It would be better if Alfred was not making any noise at all-
Another devilish idea entered Arthur's head and he smirked, hands leading downwards to find his belt, unbuckling it and drawing it out of the pant loops with a muffled whistle.
"A-Arthur?" Alfred whimpered a little, trying to turn his head to look at the Brit, "What are you—"
The American was cut off when something hard and leathery and terrible tasting was thrust into his mouth, holding his jaw open. Alfred cringed and made a muffled whined as the gag was pulled back, his teeth digging into the studded leather.
Arthur tugged the belt around Alfred's head, catching some of Alfred's blonde hair as he buckled it tight.
"There, there, love," He ground up against Alfred's ass from behind, groaning, "I'll take care of you."
He strips Alfred quickly, pulling down his ragged jeans and underwear and finally showing off that pearly, round ass to the Brit. Arthur swallowed and ran his hands over the round globes, giving one a casual pinch. He then grabbed Alfred around the waist and grunted as he turned the American onto his back, drinking in the sight for a moment as he settled himself between Alfred's pressed apart thighs.
"Fuckin' beautiful bod," He growled, running his hands up and down Alfred's belly and chest, running a manicured nail over one speckled nipple, making Alfred shudder.
Wearing leather pants, in retrospect, was perhaps not the best idea. Arthur was straining painfully against the crotch at the sight of Alfred so wanton and ready. Finally he couldn't take it anymore, unzipping the tight garments and pulling them and his briefs down to his knees. He could have imagined it, but it sounded like Alfred let out a relieved sigh.
Regardless, he ran with it, bending over Alfred as he pulling his legs apart further, so the cheeks of his ass were better spread.
"So eager to be fucked, aren't yew, lad?" Alfred looked at him, his eyes glimmering with a smirk, and nodded. Arthur laughed, pinching Alfred's nipple and watching as the American threw his his head back with a muffled groan.
Arthur wanted to be rough, but he still didn't want to hurt Alfred, so he quickly sucked his own fingers before slipping them, one by one, into Alfred's hole, rubbing and turning and stretching and relishing as he heard Alfred groan from behind the gag. Wanting more of that sound, he let a finger run over the American's half-hardened length, rough leather of his gloves brushing over Alfred's sensitive skin.
Alfred was blushing furiously, panting breaths whistling through his nose as he bit down harder on Arthur's studded belt. He squirmed insistently, thrusting back on Arthur's fingers and up into his hand in need, trying to rock back and forth even without the use of his arms.
Arthur decided Alfred's ready enough and knew that he was prepared to bursting so he grabbed the back of Alfred's thighs and pressed them up to his chest until Alfred's lower back was lifted off the futon and then he pushed down and in.
"Damn it," the Brit grunted as he stopped momentarily, his own breath hitching, before shoving the rest of the way in, "You are fuckin' incredible, Al—"
America groaned at the feeling of every inch of pulsing dick deep inside of him, moving and twitching and rubbing insistently up against everything.
He tried to tell Arthur to move through to the gag in his mouth, but, finding he can't, he started to writhe and squirm and thrust backwards against the British nation.
"What?" Arthur smirked, reaching down again with his hand to grab at Alfred's length, "Does my little boy want something?"
He didn't wait for an answer because he was sick of his own teasing (and a little sickened by the fact that he called Alfred his "little boy") and instead pulled out of Alfred and sunk back in, rocking in and out, making Alfred whine and writhe and shout beneath him.
The American twisted about, senselessly squirming in the sheets as he felt Arthur move deep deep too deep inside him and hit all the right spots (it seems, no matter how Arthur moves he feels intense pleasure) and groaned at Arthur's leathery hand pumping his cock in time.
If Alfred had ever believed the stereotype of British men he was being proven dead wrong now as Arthur pounded into them relentlessly, completely overwhelming him with pleasure. In this overlong moment Alfred forgot about everything, he forgot about the Gulf War, he forgot about Bush and Quayle and the impending recession and Ivan slowly disintegrating from the inside and yes, he forgot the angry grunge era angst that he's supposed to have as Arthur made him scream.
Finally the moment exploded into white as Alfred came harder than he's ever remembered doing in the past, Arthurs name pouring from his lips as he felt the Brit release and fill him up as well.
The moment waned and died as they both remained still, bodies panting and still pressed close together. Arthur heaved as he came down from the rush, closing his eyes briefly to try and compose himself. He opened them to find Alfred staring at him, eyes still a little wet from pleasure. He was so beautiful, in that moment, looking sated and pleased and not worn and sad.
"O-Oh Alfred…" He whispered, finally pulling out of the American's slick hole and leaning down, cradling his head as he gently unbuckled the belt from around him.
The American let out a large gasp of air as the gag was finally removed, but he didn't say anything, just stared back at Arthur, green meeting blue, rolling Dover hills meeting salt sprayed Washington sounds-
With the gag removed Arthur can finally kiss Alfred so he does so, leaning down and claiming his lips, chin brushing up against the prickly stubble on the American's chin, tastes of tea and cigarette smoke intermingling with coffee and grease; the violent punk and the desolate Generation X-er who were determined by fads and culture but really so much more than that.
Arthur makes Alfred take a shower afterwards and put on some fresh, clean clothes. He borrows some of the American's extra clothes as well, even though they hang loosely on his wiry frame. Alfred sits cross-legged on the bed, half on England's lap, who sits behind him, toweling off Alfred's wet hair.
"You smell better," Arthur comments offhandedly, rubbing harder into Alfred's scalp with the cloth, "All you need to do is shave, now."
Alfred just mumbles and leans back a little more into England. He's tired, at this point. The Brit rubs at his shoulder soothingly.
There's that tenderness again, the feeling that comes when Alfred is quiet and content and Arthur is taking care of him and treating his former ward with kindness. It's a nice moment, and Arthur savors it as he runs fingers through Alfred's slick hair and gives him a gentle kiss on the neck.
"You're an idiot, you know," Alfred laughs a little, leaning all the way back until his head rests on England's shoulder, "Making me fly across the damn pond to cheer up your sorry arse."
"Not my fault," Alfred's voice is still hoarse, but he's starting to sound like his old self again, "It was your idea to randomly show up in Seattle just to fuck me senseless."
"Vulgar brat," Arthur mumbles, "If you weren't such a good shag, I—"
"Nu-uh, don't start that, Iggy. Even if I was the worst ever, you'd still love me." He grins cheekily and closes his eyes, nuzzling into Arthur's shoulder.
"I know that, you stupid Yank." His eyes sweep over the room. Stupid, filthy Yank. Alfred yawned again, the boy on the verge of exhaustion. After Alfred fell asleep Arthur would do his best to try to organize the pigsty.
He kisses Alfred on the forehead and the American lets out a laugh that sounds heartier than before, and Arthur feels happier because he knows that fads are just that—fads.
Read and review, please! :)