My dear, darling readers, if you go to my bio, you will find a poll full of numbers. If you will scroll down, you will find fics that match up to those numbers. All of them will be published, I just want to know which ones you want to read first~

This one's for Kiwi and that random tumblr post I saw a while back. This is not a song fic, I just couldn't think of a better title.

"Alice's dad is a silver fox," Alfred Jones moaned, as he lay on the carpeted floor of his bedroom, legs poised with pointed toes over his own ass. He was flicking through a photo album that held pictures of three families; the Joneses – whom had spawned Alfred, the Kirklands – Alice, whose father Alfred was ogling, and the Hondas, who had Kiku (presently lying on Al's bed).

"Al-kun," Kiku said quietly, his eyes fixed on the manga he was reading, "I don't believe that Kirkland-san is old enough to be considered a silver fox."

The Kirklands (only two of them) were the newest addition to their little triad, only having lived in the neighbourhood for three years, since middle school. They'd moved over from England, and though Alice's accent was cute, her father's was…

This probably needs a little bit of explaining. Alfred had been crushing on Mr Arthur Kirkland ever since his parents had invited the Kirkland duo over for diner the every evening that they had moved in (Amelia Jones was a bit of a gossip, and she'd pounced on the juicy news with the logic that after all day unpacking, the last thing they'd want to do was cook). When Alfred laid eyes on Arthur he had tripped headfirst down the stairs, landing quite neatly on his rear. From there, he had gotten up, introduced himself and then gone to lie down until his mother called them in for food.

It had gotten worse from then on in. Alfred had schmoozed Alice shamelessly until she had flat-out told him that she wasn't interested in men. At which point he had shame-facedly confessed that he was.

They'd been best frienemies ever since.

Arthur Kirkland was… he was a topic that shouldn't be brought up in front of Alfred unless you wanted your ear chewed off by an ineloquent sixteen-year-old. The American teen could wax-un-poetical for hours about the object of his desires. The way his temples were just touched with grey, almost indiscernible from the dirty blond of its surrounds. The way he would raise an eyebrow when he found something funny, and if he was really happy, that grim, disciplinarian's mouth would twitch in mirth. The way his verdant green eyes would flash when he set eyes on his daughter's American friend, and the way crow's feet would crinkle at the corners.

Over all, it was pretty damn obvious that Alfred was blond head over Puma-shod heels in teenage love with his friend's dad. What with the way he flushed bright red and tripped over his tongue (and anything else that happened to be lolling on the floor) whenever the Englishman walked into the room.

"I don't care," the American boy said flippantly, the carpet leaving patterns in the skin of his elbows as he leant over the cool, shiny photographs of summer days past, "Oh my God, this was that pool party we had last summer. Unf, this is better than porn!"

"Al-kun, that's vulgar," Kiku said mildly, largely used to his obscene friend. Alfred said nothing, tongue flicking out to taste his upper lip as his warm fingers caressed the cool image of Arthur in his swimming trunks; lean, wiry and glowingly pale in the early afternoon sunlight.

Yes, he was quite wonderfully, teenagerishly, in love.

~====o)0(o====~

Arthur Kirkland had once believed himself above reproach, but that was before he had moved into this charming little cul de sac with its barbecuing neighbours and almost Stepford community values.

And its horribly enchanting children.

It had started out as a passing fancy; it was sweet, the way Alfred would splutter and blush, poor, shy lad.

And that fancy had warped and mutated, until it noticed the way the young American's brace-ensnared teeth sank into that invitingly plump lower lip. The way those gorgeous summer-sky-blue eyes blinked in owlish surprise when the Englishman said his name. The way he wrapped his arms around his chest and pulled his knees up to hide his chubbiness – teased by other children, most likely.

Sixteen, barely into adolescence and already on the way out again, life was much to fleeting and here Arthur found himself bewitched. It wasn't Alfred's youth that had attracted him – Dear Lord, no. It was the innocence of his smile, the laughter he heard down the corridors and floating up from the back garden. He buried himself in work; flinging himself into other tasks the second that American burr was heard in his home. For two too-quick years he had barely dared glance at the blond boy in all his lovely childishness. He was aware that Alfred had gotten taller, no longer sixteen-going-on-seventeen and small and slightly round. No. But he couldn't look. He wouldn't allow himself the temptation of those widely innocent blue eyes.

Now that Alfred was across from him in the Kirkland's small kitchen fidgeting with his tuxedo. Now that he was eighteen-going-on-nineteen and the adorable duckling of childhood had levelled-up into a swan. Now that he was so lovely and so legal; Arthur could have wept in relief.

His puppy fat had fallen away, leaving muscle in its wake. He'd gotten taller, leaping through inches in a single summer, taller than Arthur – Amelia had complained bitterly because he'd needed a whole new wardrobe – he shoulders were broader, and his jaw was square, but his cheeks were still boyishly round. His eyes were still a sunny summer blue even if they were framed by an intellectual-looking pair of spectacles, and that wheat field of hair was as messy as always, though it did look like he had tried to brush it flat.

In his hands was a simple white box with an organza bow. A corsage. How very American prom of him. But it was nice to know that Alfred was being gentlemanly with his daughter. It was hard to believe that they were going to their senior dance together.

It was a horrible thing for a parent to envy his child her date.

But this was Alice's evening. And it was his duty as a father to say something, anything to Alfred to ward him off his precious little girl. Not that Alfred was any less little.

And still he wanted him.

"Alfred?" the boy's head jerked up, blue eyes wide as saucers, the faintest pink dusting his tanned cheeks. So very little had changed in the American's manner, despite the blossoming of his appearance. The nervous smile he gave Arthur was dead straight and blisteringly white – a marvel of orthodontistry.

"Yes, sir?" Always sir, so tentatively formal. Alfred's voice had changed too. No longer a jack-knifing, pubescent squeak but a husky, twanging tenor.

"I realise that we've known each other for some time now, but please understand that I am trusting you with my only daughter tonight and I know how these events can go-" this couldn't be pleasant for either of them, this dancing around the words, 'don't have sex with my baby girl, please.'

'Because I would be so jealous.'

"Oh. Oh." The pink in Alfred's cheeks morphed into a full-on blush, red stinging at his skin, "No, you don't have to worry about anything like that, Mr Kirkland, believe me. Alice would gut me if I tried. And I wouldn't anyway. She's my friend. And I'm gay." Those delightfully plush lips mashed together as the words slipped out. Arthur blinked. Gay. Interested in men. Oh, how wonderfully, disgustingly tempting young Alfred was being.

"Only please don't tell anyone? You, Alice and Kiku are the only ones who know; I don't have the heart to tell my mom she's not going to get any biological grandkids from me," again, the words were rushed as he fell over them, teeth nipping at his own lower lip and the Englishman's eyes zeroed in on the dusky pink skin as it yielded to enamel.

"Of course not, lad, I promise," a reassuring smile creased the corners of his eyes and Alfred reflected that smile back a hundred times brighter, "You tell your mother when you're good and ready. Lord knows I still haven't told mine."

"Hang on you're- Then? Alice?" the American asked, confusion etched into his face.

"Sexuality is fluid, lad. In my youth I had a leaning towards women, but as I go older I started leaning the other way. Nothing is set in stone, Alfred, it's alright to change," it was as patient and calmly worded as when he had given Alice the talk, though now his gut was writhing in nervous anticipation rather than dread.

"But I don't want to change," the blue-eyed teen's brow furrowed, "Change is good, but I like being just the way I am now. I want to be eighteen and gay and in stupid, teenage love with you forever."

"Pardon?" Arthur coughed, feeling just a little winded as Alfred's face went brick red.

"Aw, shit- sorry, sir! That wasn't supposed to come out like that. Or at all. I'll be in the other room, kicking myself, if that's alright with you," Alfred groaned, steadily inching towards the exit, he was halfway out the door when a hand caught his arm.

"Alfred?" the teen turned, only to have the other hand stroke his neck, pulling him down into a fierce kiss. Tentatively, he kissed back, and Arthur was secretly delighted in the fumbling, shocked inexperience of the American's lips.

Their lips parted with a breathless burning, wishing to stay longer but unfortunately unable to.

"Sir?" he asked quietly, not sure whether he should trust his senses or pretend that that hadn't happened.

"Arthur, Alfred. Call me Arthur," the Englishman said as though they had never kissed, "But as I was saying; you're not allowed to do anything untoward with my daughter."