Songs of North America is my series of shorts and one-shots inspired by a random troll through my iPod, and details the lives of my favorite twins, America and Canada. Though inspired by music, few if any will be "songfiction". Primary pairings will be USUKUS and PruCan.
England uses words as a sword, sharp and cutting and meant to keep others at arms' length. America's are his shield and his mask; never mind that man behind the curtain, just keep your eyes on the fool and his tricks. But sometimes, even for them, there are no words. LEMON.
Track Ten: "Thickfreakness", by The Black Keys
January 5, 2012
Ithaca, New York
The windows of the Land Rover are fogged over, beaded with the condensing moisture of heavy breaths against snow-covered glass. The air is thick and tense, the only sound America's soft panting in England's ear. The young nation is spread beneath him on flattened back seats, gloriously nude and dazed and golden even in the moon-pale glow of the stormy night. And England's pulse hammers in his ears, drowning out all thoughts except oh gods and we're finally going to and my beautiful America. The fingers of his right hand are twined with America's, those on his left tracing the long ridges of his lover's stomach. America's back arches and his lips, reddened and swollen and wet, tremble and fall open in invitation.
England takes it. He crushes his mouth to America's, an assault of teeth and tongue that scrape full lips and map out the walls of that sweet cavern. It's so much (too much), and America moans airily, the sound lost in the vacuum between them. England's hand rises to America's chin, pressing down and forcing him to yield all, and he tilts his head for a better angle to drive in and taste. Long fingers tangle in the short hair at the nape of his neck, as if America needs an anchor to reality amidst their suffocating, drowning kiss. He is still wearing his trousers, but he leans in against America anyway to press the lines of their bodies together- to fit every ridge and dip and curve with the other and meld their borders with sweat and heat. England pushes his thigh tight between America's own, reveling in the hard (so hard, all for him) length branding a searing line to his hip. America cries out, a formless sound of desire, and rocks his hips up desperately, wanting friction or movement or something he can't quite define but needs anyway. England drinks down that sound, swallows it and feels it burn its way down his throat to pool in his groin. He feels strong calves press against his backside, America's legs wrapping around him as he tips his head back at England's urging. He follows the lines of America's throat with his teeth, a trail of purpling bruises left in his wake as he travels down to nip sharply at prominent collarbones.
There's only one thing missing- words. They've exchanged only a handful of sentences in the last two weeks; the two of them are so known for verbosity that the uncharacteristic silence is refreshing and intimate. America had spoken himself hoarse on Solstice morning, wrapping his arms around England and spilling out every secret he had kept since his infancy; a flood of magic and memory and heartache and destiny that England had locked away in his heart. Since then, they had spent their time communicating their strengthened rapport through lingering touches and quiet enjoyment of the other's company. In bed each night, England had folded his lover into his arms and held him close, sharing breath and warmth without the pressing needs of lust. For over two centuries, they had danced around and with each other and now, England mused, he and America were content to simply be together for a while. Prussia and Canada had taken the opposite route, christening every surface of the house with little regard for the whereabouts of the other two nations. More than once now, England and America had been "sexiled" (as his idiot lover called it); it was just as well, as Canada made a disturbing amount of noise when in flagrante.
This had been one of those days. America had bumbled down the wide staircase to join England at the breakfast table, a mug of coffee already waiting to infuse his lover with his morning fix, when a loud banging from the second floor made itself known. The familiar rhythm of the sound, coupled with ecstatic cries in German for more, harder, faster sent Alfred flying for clothes and jackets and car keys before England could manage to put down his teacup. The two had driven down to the nearby city of Ithaca for the afternoon, eating lunch in a charming local brewpub and visiting the craft markets downtown. Just to be safe, the two had caught a movie (but everyone loves the Muppets, Arthur!) before heading home, only to be caught in a blinding snowfall not five miles down the road. Cursing, America had pulled into the empty parking lot of the state park to let the worst of the storm pass, his visibility next to zero on the twisting highway. England could hear (though not see) the thunder of the waterfall behind the car through the pressing weight of the heavy snow blanketing the windshield. An apologetic look was shot his way, but Arthur wasn't really that bothered by the detour. There was something soothing about the white noise and the close atmosphere the weather created in the vehicle. He reached over and took America's hand in his own, leaning his head back against the leather seats and closing his eyes. Chuckling, America threaded their fingers together and switched on the radio, humming softly along with the quiet music. Every ten minutes or so, the younger nation would slide outside to brush off the windows and check the status of the snowfall. After the fourth time, Alfred's hair was so wet that even Nantucket drooped heavily in front of his eyes. The lad tried to blow it back upwards a few times to no avail, and England felt laughter bubbling up inside him at the annoyed frustration on that beloved face. Reaching over the shifter, England drew both his hands through that honey-blonde hair, combing it all back and away from his lover's vision. He drew off Texas next, fishing around in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the lenses free of melted snow. America gave him a lopsided grin in return, his face so very young without the framework of metal and plastic. Rather than return the eyewear, England folded the temples and carefully placed Texas on the slanted dashboard; he ran his now-free fingers down America's cheeks and jaw, followed the line of his nose with a single fingertip. It wrinkled in a comic fashion under his touch, though Alfred's eyes carried anything but humor. A deep yearning swam in those brilliant depths and England's mouth went dry. He grabbed the collar of America's jacket and dragged those cold lips to his own, kneaded his mouth and slid his tongue along America's bottom lip to taste the melted snow there.
America sighed and opened for him, without hesitation. Long minutes were lost in exploration of his sweet, wet mouth, of the taste of the skin beneath his jaw line and on his throat. Red marks bloomed on America's golden skin, but the boy paid no mind; he shrugged out of his jacket and nimbly undid the zips on England's as well. England's breath stuttered at that, his mouth sealing itself to America's once more in a devouring kiss that fogged the windows and made the younger whine deep in his throat. England's composure snapped at that broken, lovely, surrendering sound and with a few moments' struggling he had maneuvered their tangled forms into the backseat. A few quick snaps and the seats fell back, flush to the trunk and America tumbled down to lay splayed on the new surface. England followed him greedily, tugging America's sweater and t-shirt up over his head to tousle damp locks further. He guided America's hands (were they trembling?) to his own sweater vest, urging his lover to participate. With some fumbling between sharp, biting kisses America managed to toss it to the front seats with his discarded clothing, nearly ripping open the buttons of his oxford in his haste.
With a slight tutting sound, England ran his hands down smooth hot skin, feeling the gathering sweat at the small of his lover's back with callused fingertips. His jeans are too loose even with a belt, his America, but that just made it easier to slide his hands past the waistband and lift the boy up into his lap by his rounded buttocks. England thrust his tongue back into the gasping mouth beneath his, squeezing that coveted flesh and harshly pulling down with his wrists to bare the American further. The jeans come off in a twisted knot of fabric as he laid America back down, boxers tangled somewhere in their depths. Unconcerned, England had flung the denim back over his shoulder and tilted his head to one side in contemplation. America flushed at the scrutiny but made no move to cover himself.
He has seen America nude before, of course he has. The boy had never had much in the way of modesty, and England had raised him. Even in more modern times, he had shown no compunction about changing clothes in front of other nations after friendly sporting matches or swimming, even seeming happy to prove he was not in fact the fat-ass they all claimed he was. It wasn't even that England had never seen him naked in a sexual connotation- though those circumstances were better left forgotten here. For some reason, this America- quiet, vulnerable, strangely shy- scalds England, the image branded inside his mind forever.
He scarcely remembers falling on top of his lover, pressing skin on skin and letting his mouth travel downwards to mark every inch he can reach. His tongue traces a shimmering trail over the swell of a pectoral, circling around a dusky nipple that peaks under his ministrations. The sharp intake of breath over his head inflames him, and he suckles harshly just to hear it again. England switches back and forth between those rosy buds, alternating his lips and his fingers, plucking and twisting. America writhes; his head shaking back and forth in what seems like denial were it not for the punctuated rolling of his hips. England molds his hands to those jutting hipbones, pressing them down, down into the seat to hold America taut and still as his tongue drags ever lower; the appendage left feeling cool when it relinquished the scalding heat of his lover's skin. The boy's gasps have turned harsher now as England nuzzles at the root of his desire, drawing his nose up the shaft to pillow his lips gently at the tip. America's back bows and his muscles snap tense, waiting. Exhaling a warm breath, England swallows him down, ignoring the wordless cry above. This, this, this, he thinks. You, mine at last. The greedy sense of propriety that made him the terror of the world as first pirate then imperialist now put to use acquiring a different sort of prize- though the most valuable for which he'd ever striven. And he knows that he needs to get on with it already, that he wants this too much and has for too long to drag this out even with his experience, but he just cannot make himself stop lavishing the flesh in his mouth. Just one more taste, he thinks fuzzily. Just one more, then another and another and another until America is tugging in his hair, pulling England's mouth back up to his own. Something small and smooth is pressed into England's hand, a blue bottle that makes America both blush and shrug at the same time when England reads the label. He laughs, the sound vibrating into his younger lover's mouth and passed back to him in America's own sheepish mirth. They tip open the bottle together, thick liquid coating both of their fingers. America grins cheekily and makes good use of his by wrapping those digits around England and stroking over and over, with a twist at the top that sears his vision to grey and nearly blinds him. Choking, he slips his own fingers behind America's tight-drawn balls, wrist brushing against his straining cock, and up and in. America moans quietly, a deep sound nearly lost to the waterfall outside, and plants his heels to cant his hips up and further onto England's hand. Almost terrifying in its beauty, this naked and open pleasure of America's; he is too honest even in this, and the part of England that walls himself off on his solitary isle balks. A moment of weakness, but only a moment; the sheer joy at finally having America is too great for his doubts and the bleak chill of his guarded heart. It is as England has always known- America is the sun, and the sun burns with a fire that incinerates anything else in its path.
Their lips join again as England spreads his fingers and the lubricant, crooking one to search for America's prostate. He knows he has found it when America's whole body shudders hard, the boy's ankles locking around England's hips to press his feet into his buttocks and push. Then America speaks a single word, the only word exchanged between them in hours, and the only one necessary.
"Now."
Now, England muses as he slides America's hand away from his cock to link their fingers over his shoulder. He can say so much with so little when he tries. England's other arm hooks under America's right leg, pressing upwards as he rises so the knee is level with America's broad chest. And then he is there, and America is trembling and those blue, blue eyes nervous but trusting. He wants to know why I'm hesitating. England doesn't know himself, only knows that he can't allow himself to believe that this is finally happening until he presses forwards and America relaxes around him and he's falling in, in, in and breathing out, out, out and his mind is so scattered that he doesn't know if he'll ever pick up the pieces from where they drowned in an ocean of sky. America's head is tilted back now, the length of his throat exposed, white of skin and red of bites and blue of bruises- his colors, their colors, and England has made him this way. The boy is rocking with him, pressing backwards until England's hips meet his flesh and he is buried to the hilt in his beautiful, temperamental, beloved idiot. And this time, this time those big hands are free to cling to him, draw him closer, and embrace him rather than shying away in terror. For only the second time, America has loosed his restraints and England can sense the deep pool of power swirling under the surface of his skin- the power of a continent, power that, had he known existed, he would have fought to the death to keep by his side. Power shared now with him, flowing through America's body to his own in a riptide strong enough to pull his heart asunder. It wasn't even until America began to chant a soft litany of Mohawk that he realized he was thrusting, harder and faster every time, America's flesh pulsing in that soft auric glow with each one. England tries to steady himself, to make it last, but America is writhing and urging beneath him and really, when has he ever been able to truly deny the boy anything? America is dancing with him now, meeting each of England's thrusts with a jarring pace all his own- greedy and innocent and demanding and shy and everything America all at once. He reaches his hand back down to America's length, to twine their joined fingers over that heated flesh and stroke together, and America comes undone. A sob that may have been England's name was born and died on those gasping lips, and England drank it down. America was hard as granite in his arms, frozen into a tense moment of bliss that couldn't help but drag England along for the ride. He takes in everything America offers- the lone tear trailing down his cheek, the scalding breath he exhales as he comes down, the salt of his sweat and the spend on his chest- and returns it in kind, pushing as deep as he can manage and coming hard to claim him.
It is long minutes before England returns to himself, the white haze fading from his vision. America's hand is running softly through his hair, sifting the strands in the blue light of the snow-covered truck and grinning foolishly. Their chests are sticking together, and beginning to itch, but England can't quite bring himself to care or even move. He nuzzles his face instead into the crook of America's neck, breathing in the long-missed scent of apple blossoms and mountain air. There will be many things to discuss later, England knows. How they will work out the distance between them, how they will manage with less than a dozen meetings per year and half of those spent in conferences. What their relationship means for the politics of their nations. What America and Canada feel is coming on the horizon- and how England and Prussia play into that. But for now, England is content to lay in the blanketing dark with his lover and simply be for as long as they can.
Chapter Notes:
Some of these songs occasionally require explanation, like this obscure gem. I only know about it because my little brother's band has the same blues-funk vibe and he played it for me. This song IS sex. It's gritty and dirty and smooth and soulful. While it's not punk, the phenomenal guitar reminds me of Iggy and what few lyrics exist are perfect for these two. I always thought their first encounter wouldn't be something sweet and romantic, but rather simple and powerful but maybe a bit silly and awkward too. And btw- the "blue bottle" with the amusing label is a product that I probably shouldn't mention here due to minors, but is a very hilariously named lubricant.