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jedishampooTitle: After All, It Was a Great Big World (Part 2 of 3)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jedishampoo
Pairing: England/America (Hetalia)
Rating: R-l8 (sex, language)
Summary: Sex and silliness in the desert.
After All, It Was a Great, Big World: Part 2/3
England stopped climbing for a moment and sipped his bottled water. The only way to go was up, around, and over the half-collapsed mineshaft, and the climb was much more steep and uneven than it had appeared. What looked like smooth, desert dirt from a few meters away proved, up close, to be rutted with holes and plants and unstable pebbles that slid under his feet and tumbled down the mountain. To make the climb even more perilous, America had warned him to watch out for scorpions and ‘rattlers!’
England wished he’d been wearing footgear more suited to a desert-mountain climb. He eyed his loafers, somewhat stylish in a classic way and functional enough for city walking, but next to useless out here. Some of his old army boots, say, the ones he’d worn in Egypt or the Sudan, would have set him up just right.
If the way America slipped and whoops!ed above him were any indication, his own hiking-style boots were also more stylish than functional. But then, one never knew with American sportgear, and America was very often noisy when he was having fun.
England was somewhat surprised to discover that he wasn’t not having fun, himself. Despite the bear of a climb and the sun and heat and dryness and the stinging fauna and the fact that his bum itched, England was in a fairly decent mood. America’s enthusiasm for this ridiculous adventure had proven catching.
Somehow the utter chaos their trip had become, with its attendant absurdity and lust, had allowed England to release the bottled-up tension he’d carried with him from home-- how would they interact, would they be normal, would they be awkward, would it just not work, would America lose interest, and would he be able to stand it if he did-- and to just let it be. To not think about it, to focus on nothing more weighty than the fine view of America’s bum just above him.
“…words of wisdom, let it beeee…” England murmured.
America turned and smiled down at him, the rest of him looked appealing as well, if a little mussed and filthy. Quite sexy, actually. “Are you okay? What are ya muttering, back there?”
“I was singing,” England informed him.
“Ha ha! Is that what that was?”
“Yes, dolt,” England said, smiling just a little. “I’m fine.”
America’s grin widened as if England had just given him a great compliment. England was pleased to feel, secretly, that he’d produced that expression. Somehow they just…. went on. How it happened was a happy mystery.
America pointed up. “If we can get over this little rise, here, I’m hoping we’ll see the road.”
“Lead on,” England said.
The rise America had indicated, true to form, looked like it was a mere few meters away but took them another half-hour to climb. And when they crested the rise, the view was not promising. They could see the continuation of the road, but it was not reachable by automobile. On one side the road hugged the mountain, and on the other it skirted a sheer-sided canyon, drowned in shadow. Then the road wound through terrain that was definitely not fit for an automobile such as their-- he refused to even think the name; it was too silly. Their bubble.
“Well, crap,” America said.
“Typical,” England said, trying not to sound too smug.
America sighed. “I guess I didn’t think-- well, anyway. You were right. We’re not going anywhere.”
He sounded so dispirited that England wanted to pat his shoulder. He didn’t. “It was a valiant effort,” he said, and America brightened again.
“On to plan ‘C,’ then!”
England narrowed his eyes. “What is plan ‘C?’”
“It’s a secret.”
It was England’s turn to sigh. “As long as it involves a return to our hotel,” he warned.
“Yeah, it does.” America’s lips quirked. “A shower and a real bed! You kinda pounded me against the rocks, back there.”
America was so… blithe, about these things. Still, England felt his cheeks warm at the memory. He thought perhaps he might do it again. He’d see how he felt when they reached their automobile.
By the time they climbed down, however, England had worked off much of his lust with too much exercise. In addition, the shade from the cliff had crawled past their car, and it was considerably more cool than it had been two hours ago. America shook out a couple of tee-shirts they’d left on the ground and tossed them into the back of the vehicle. They climbed in, filling the little car with dust and exhaustion.
But when America turned the key in the ignition, the radio came on, the lights came on, and the motor did not. America clicked the key back and forth a few times, kicking gently at the pedals on the floor.
“Uh,” America said, trying twice more.
Typical-er and typical-er. England crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back against the seat, then closed his eyes and settled in for a relaxing nap. “We’re out of petrol, aren’t we?” he murmured.
“No! The gauge says we still have a little. I think. The check-engine lights are on…” England heard more clicks and the low, on-and-off crackle of the radio. “Uh. Lemme pop the hood.”
America climbed out and England then heard some mechanical creaking and the clink and grind of metal bits, and then some low curses from America. He sighed and exited to see if he could assist.
America was staring into the car’s motor, wavering the beam from a little penlight about it. His cheeks were a little pink when he looked at England.
“I-- I’m pretty good with cars. But I don’t really know what’s wrong with this one…”
“I certainly don’t, unless it’s lack of petrol. The battery seems to be working.” England’s own obsession with automobiles tended towards the classic and military, not the Green. That was the province of Germany and Japan. “You’ll have to call for assistance.”
“I guess.” America sighed and brushed his motor-oil-smudged hands on his trousers. He went around to reach inside the car, while England poked uselessly at some of the wires. After a few moments he heard America say, oh, fuckity-fuck, whatever that meant.
“Issue?”
“No signal. Not even a military signal, which I know they have. Weird. Where’s your cell? Oh, here it is.” England looked around the bonnet to see America with a mobile in each hand, looking at them and then pressing them to each ear. He winced when he saw England watching him. “Uh. We’re kind of boned.”
England looked down at the road they’d used to get here, the dwindling dust track that led for an hour’s drive across the vast bowl of the valley before winding around a foothill and disappearing from view. They also knew what lay ahead, and it wasn’t an option. They were truly in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of America. He sighed. Utter chaos, this adventure. Somehow, it was still rather amusing, if inconvenient. Spending so much time around America had had an effect on him, for good or ill.
“Then here is our course of action,” he said. “One, we can try to signal for help. A fire might work. Two, we can wait it out and hope for the best. At least we know it won’t kill us. I’ve been forced to endure worse outdoor conditions. The Great War comes to mind.” He shivered at the memory.
America’s eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. “You’re. Uh. Taking this pretty well, you know.”
“Aren’t I?” England said, in a voice that was perhaps slightly wondering. He felt nearly like Japan in his zen.
“I like it,” America said.
“Do you, now,” England said, eyeing America’s pink cheeks with no little appreciation.
“It’ll get cold at night,” America said, swiping his palms on his trouser pockets again. This time, England watched the gesture with a little more interest, thinking about what lay beneath them. It seemed he’d figured out his zen mindset, at least-- if he wasn’t so sex-besotted, then perhaps his mood might have been a bit more foul. But he’d spent plenty of nights in the last couple of centuries, in war years and in peace, keeping warm with thoughts of keeping warm against America. For now he had the real thing, and his gonads-- and other, more soppy bits of his anatomy-- were more than glad to make use of it while they could.
“Find something to burn, and you can be fucked next to a nice, hot fire, then.”
America looked startled, then laughed. “You are outta control, man. Ha ha!”
“You like that too, do you?” England stepped forward, but America backed away.
“Yeah. Lots. But, uh. I don’t wanna cut down anything I don’t have to. Why don’t we look in there?” He pointed at the crack in the cliff wall. “Maybe we can stay in there!”
England’s thwarted libido was further thwarted by a shudder of disgust. “No. It looks unstable. I’m not setting foot in there.”
“I’ll go,” America said, hunching down to squeeze into the hole. To ease his worry over having to dig America out, England went to the car to try and start it, unsuccessfully. So he checked their water supply. America had, at some point before they’d left, stashed an entire, bound pack of water bottles in the hatchback. It had been an intelligent move, England had to admit. There were some bags of crisps and sweets as well, and the Styrofoam box held ice and more water. Certainly enough to get them through the night, if they had to stay, if a fire didn’t attract attention.
“Ha ha! Look.” America could be an idiot, but as usual, he proved himself resourceful and capable. He stepped out from the dank-looking cave-shaft, carrying some small, dusty logs. “I don’t think this place is as abandoned as it looks. There are beer cans in there, too.”
“Any of them full?”
“No. I checked that first,” America said, dropping the wood into a pile near where they’d had their fuck earlier. He walked back to the darkened entrance, fingering some odd-looking, rusty hooks embedded in the cliff wall on either side of it. “There’s an old cart, too. This was a mine, once. I wonder what they were digging for? I wonder why they left.”
“Personally, I can’t blame them,” England said. He’d visited mines in Wales, from time to time. Mining was dark, depressing work.
“Yeah. I guess.” America turned from the entrance and flipped his sunglasses to the top of his head. He pulled his spectacles from his shirt-pocket and put them on, seeming not to care that he was wearing both pairs at once. “Hey, it’s too bad you don’t smoke anymore. I could use a light.”
England dug in his trousers-pocket and produced a pack of matches. America looked surprised but pleased, and England didn’t explain.
By the time they’d set up a circle of rocks to contain their fire, found receipts to use as starters and gotten the logs to burn, the sun was already setting. Despite the great width of the sky, the mountains out here made sunset seem to rush upon them. The west was to their backs, and the sky above was pink and blue and yellow, looking like something out of a Maxfield Parrish illustration. It was so lovely England could forgive the chill creeping into the air at his back. Though his bum still itched.
He realized he was still wearing his own sunglasses and removed them. America, returning from the car with a bag of crisps, saw him and snorted.
“You have raccoon eyes, ha ha! It makes your crazy eyebrows stand out even more. Didn’t you put on the sunscreen I gave you?”
England rubbed at his eyes, even though he couldn’t see what America was talking about and refused to be so vain as to visit the car mirrors to have a look. “There’s nothing wrong with my eyebrows, git.”
America’s eyes alit and he seemed as if he were about to make a saucy comment, but then he glanced away and nudged the rocks around their little fire with his boot. “I didn’t say there was,” he said, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. He looked back at England, his gaze steady. “It’s part of your… your--”
“Charm?” England muttered. He’d been told he had none. It was an assessment of his character that he could unfortunately agree with.
“No. Your… You. Which is… good.”
“Ah,” England said, a little surprised. That had been a rather pleasing thing to hear, actually. America was silent and staring at him, as if he didn’t know what to say next. England could not have replied, anyway, because his throat was as stretched as if he’d swallowed a rock. So he just stared back.
They’d never really known what to do with each other in honest moments. Things either got silly, or lately, sexual. America’s hands opened and closed at his sides and he looked so filthy and nonplussed that England’s insides all began to hurt at once, his heart and lungs and stomach and bones and lord, everything stuffed in there was heavy: a disadvantage of being too much history personified. He was about to make a move, to do something either silly or sexual to end the moment, but America moved first.
He stepped close and grabbed England’s elbows in one quick gesture, then sighed, leaning forward until their foreheads bumped. He was still staring. The odd moment was prolonged until it seemed to gain its own gravity, its own history. Earlier, England had lamented being so vulnerable to America’s moods, and this one was no exception. England knew his own feelings, but to be considered so, in return, was almost… too much.
America was nothing if not too much. His two-centimeter advantage in height was never more apparent than at times like this; he loomed much too large. Still, he seemed to have trouble deciding what he wanted to say. “I, uh, wanted a getaway, but not like-- I’m glad you’re he-- That you’re having-- Because I think this is--”
“Idiot,” England whispered. They had too many flaws in common. His fault, probably.
“Well, thanks, anyway,” America said, and England didn’t think he was being thanked for the insult. Thankfully, America then seemed to decide that attempting to speak intelligently was too much of a chore. He tilted his head and kissed England on the mouth, proving that warm lips and breath were an advantage of being personified. England wet his dry tongue on the inside of America’s mouth and reached into his trousers waistband, to grope his slightly sticky flesh. America was annoyingly muscular everywhere else but his stomach was soft, like a girl’s. It was much more arousing than it should have been, but not as much as America shuddering under his fingers.
They sort of stumbled for a bit before balancing against each other. America was too tall, too much. England released his hold on America’s stomach to peel off his spectacles, so he could study up close the shape of his eyes, his cheeks, the small, odd smile curling his lips. God, he looked so young. Dear lad. England formed words soundlessly against America’s mouth, words he’d never say aloud. Flawed; they were too flawed to work, how had they ever managed to get this far?
He dimly heard the clink and scrape of metal but was planning to ignore it. He couldn’t ignore, however, the sudden manner in which America lurched and poked England’s eye-socket with his nose, or the crunch of plastic and America’s laugh. America pulled away and squinted down at his feet.
“Oh, crap. I stepped all over my chips!”
“No moment that can’t be marred by silliness,” England muttered under his breath. He rolled his eyes heavenward. The sky was-- “Jesus!” he exclaimed.
“What? Oh, wow.” America looked up and saw what England had seen: the stars, thousands of them, dusting the now-dark sky, so thick they were like clouds.
England held onto America with one hand and tried not to fall into the vast bowl of the sky. He picked out the lines and shapes of constellations he’d known once, long ago. There were still places in the world where one could see stars like this, but he rarely visited them. Business and politics and history these days took place in cities, where arc-sodium lights drowned out the universe. “I haven’t seen a sky like that since-- in years.”
“Yeah,” America murmured, craning his neck to take in the whole of the sky. “God, remember the seventeen-hundreds? We didn’t even think about them. They were just there. And I hardly noticed ‘em disappearing.”
England had, but then he’d been around since long before the seventeen-hundreds, since even before such dates had existed. He stared at America’s upturned face, the sheen on his lips. He imagined America’s mouth doing things that would have to wait. Other things might not have to wait. Deciding on their next step was not a difficult decision for a mind as single as his.
“Why don’t we sit down next to this nice, warm fire,” he suggested in a low voice to America’s jugular. America jumped, then jumped back a step or two.
“I’m all for-- for--” At England’s exasperated look he waved his hands in front of him, as if reaching for something invisible. “Well, warm fires and-- stuff. But the ground is really hard. And it really, uh, hurts.”
England crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. He was going to start feeling rejected, soon. It wasn’t his fault they were stuck in the middle of a rocky desert. “Where were you planning to sleep, then?”
“Well, I was hoping someone would see our fire and come to help.” America looked out at the now-dark valley, at the utter lack of rescue lights or of any lights, really. Nothing but stars.
“And if they don’t?” England dismissed such foolishness. He again set his hands on America’s warm waist, and God, he was too tall. Though at least they were back on somewhat familiar ground, marred and imperfectly perfect as it was.
“Uh.” America closed his eyes, as if distracted by the way England was massaging the soft flesh under his ribs. “Pookie?”
England rolled his eyes, then looked at the car and tried to figure out how he was going to have sex with America in those tiny bucket seats. Or even sleep. They were just too small. America looked at him and must have read his mind. He began to move his forearms in falling-over motions.
“It’s a hatchback? The seats go down? Plenty of room?”
England considered this, and their respective heights. “Prove it,” he said.
He waited behind the car and scratched his back-- ouch-- while America fooled with levers and mumbled fuckity-fucks. Finally, with a triumphant-sounding hah! and a couple of thumps, America slammed the rear seat forward. Then he crawled into the back on his hands and knees-- the rear edge went flat like a truck bed-- and shoved their supplies around to clear a space.
England watched and waited some more. When America took much too long to make simple spatial decisions, England slapped him lightly on the bum. He heard a thump and an ow! as America hit his head, but at least America stopped faffing and flopped over onto his back.
“See?” he called out. “Plenty of room.”
England looked at America’s boots hanging off the rear edge, and then peered inside to note the uncomfortable-looking angle of America’s neck. He looked back out at their little fire, and at the hole in the rock wall. He heard the odd scrape of metal again. What was that noise? “Looks cozy,” he shrugged, and climbed in.
There was, admittedly, plenty of clear space to one side but he clambered atop Mount America, anyway, nabbing a long kiss at the summit. After a few pleasant moments he decided America would make a fine bed and burrowed down, tucking his limbs wherever they would fit.
“You did say you always wanted to,” America gasped as England shoved his tongue into his ear.
“Do you not?” England whispered, nibbling on America’s dusty earlobe.
“Yeah,” America whispered back, reaching around to pull England’s shirt out of his trousers. The cold air hitting England’s spine sent shuddering chills racing along it, or maybe it was just the way America’s thighs were clenching around his own. “Duh.”
“Ouch,” England said. America’s fingers had found a sensitive spot on his back, and-- his whole back seemed sensitive, stinging wherever America touched it. “Mind your fingernails,” he warned.
“You feel warm. Are you okay?”
“Warm? It’s fucking freezing,” England said, unbuttoning America’s shirt to get closer to his acres of warm skin. “Ah! That hurts.”
“I’ll bet you’ve got a sun-burn,” America sing-songed at him.
England froze. He thought for a moment. Earlier, they’d-- the sunlight--
“Bollocks, bastard, bloody--” England muttered, trying to find a curse to fit the situation. He winced when America ran his palm, even gently, across his bum. No wonder it had itched so. He’d fried it, for fuck’s sake.
“Bollocks,” he said again. He shoved his face into America’s shoulder and wished he’d been more liberal with the sunscreen. Who would have thought he’d need full-body coverage?
“We’ll get you some aloe, when we get-- Well, do you want to stop?”
England thought for a moment. True, his entire back side was rather tender. But the erection he was currently chafing against America’s lower belly requested precedence, to be polite about it. “You’re the one on your back. As long as you stay there…”
“My back hurts too, you know,” America pointed out, squirming under him.
England licked the join of America’s shoulder and neck and America squirmed some more. “You can always roll over and take it on your knees, then,” England told him. His cock did a little twitch inside his trousers at the thought of doing it that way…
“Woof? Ah--” America said when England twitched and jammed his thumb into his navel. He put on a terrible false accent. “Don’t think there’s room, old chap, what what, then?”
England plastered his mouth over America’s skin to keep from laughing, because such foolishness was not in the least amusing. “Just shut it. Twat,” he said.
“This’ll work,” America breathed into his hair, and England allowed himself a smile. He liked the rare occasions when America did what he was told. To show his gratitude, he kissed America until he himself was senseless. There were so many things one could say with mouths that couldn’t be heard, only felt: I want you. I missed you. I never stopped doing so.
And there was that sensation again, all the hot, churning thought and feeling and history and everything racing into England’s limbs. He shouldn’t have been surprised but he was, was continually surprised at the depth of his lust, like his body had stored up every lonely moment. Though at that moment, they seemed to be trying to rub each others’ clothing off through sheer friction.
“God, you make me hot,” America mumbled, harsh breaths into England’s mouth.
“Mmmmphfuck,” England moaned, in pain all over, lord, he wanted America more than he wanted air. But he’d wanted to take his time this round, savor the experience a bit more, no matter that it wasn’t in the soft, fluffy hotel bed he’d planned upon--
To distract himself he crawled back a bit, kissing down America’s bared chest to suck softly at a scar on his breastbone, barely visible in the scant, yellow firelight, tasting the rasp of America’s breath and the thump of his heart through his lips. Yes, there were advantages in bodies, in flesh-- though not enough of it--
“Get these-- off,” he ordered, playing fingers over the zipper to America’s trousers, stroking the hard bulge beneath his thin khakis.
“H’okay,” America breathed. England heard the thump of America’s boots hitting the dirt outside as he kicked them off, and by propping themselves on each other they managed to wriggle out of most of their clothing-- England opted to keep his shirt on, because it was fucking cold, indeed.
His skin crawled with heat and chills until he pressed himself back onto America’s bare flesh, glad for height when it was stretched out beneath him. He stroked the length of America’s cock, dry and hot in his hand.
“Think you can make a better showing of it, this time?” he asked, as America puffed harsh breaths at him, loud in the confines of the car.
“All-- uh-- night, if you want to, old man. Ha ha.” His voice sounded pained.
“The entire giant night sky,” England whispered, ignoring that old for the nonce.
“Yeah,” America breathed. He caressed England’s cheeks and ran his fingers through his hair, touching where he was perhaps allowed. He tightened his grip and pulled England’s hair for a painful few seconds when England nudged a lube-slicked finger-- probably cold-- into the crack of his arse.
“’S’allright, lad,” he whispered against America’s lips as he stretched him open, more gently this time, though lord, he was hot inside. All of America, burning under his fingers, all around him, overwhelming him to say things he usually kept locked inside in true British style. “D’ye want me, then?”
“Yeah,” America repeated. England would have felt embarrassed to be answered, but for America shoving his bum against England’s palm and lifting his leg to prop his foot against the car roof. He stared at England from half-lidded eyes, dark blue and intent. “Oh man, England. Please.”
“Ah,” England managed around the stone lodged in his throat. He was a bit quick to swipe lube over his cock, aching into his fingers, fuck, he could just wank all night and stare into America’s face like that. But eventually he grabbed America’s thigh and pulled up his bum so he could nudge his cock inside. America was as hot and tight as he’d promised England’s fingers. He hissed between his teeth as England boosted his hips forward by notches, tiny and quick.
Once England had shoved inside America as far as he could go, he started off as gently he’d planned. He rocked slowly against and inside America’s body, focusing on the close slide of their sweaty-sticky-cool skin, the squeezing heat of America around his cock, the slow burn and build, yes. Minutes and minutes of breathing and skin, and lovely, lovely--
“I still can’t believe you are--” America began, and then cut off on a harsh gasp.
“I know. I--” England answered, then kissed America to keep from saying anything more. He breathed America’s high, sharp moans as he angled his thrusts up, still forcing his muscles to keep a slow, steady rhythm. In, and in, and god, he felt good, and smelled good, like dust and sweat and sun, and his moans tasted wonderful.
“Ouch, dammit,” England was forced to mumble a few minutes later, when America tried to grab his shoulders. “Ah-- don’t--”
“S-- sorry-- ah-- I didn’t--”
America dropped his hands but he didn’t seem to know what to do with them, just flopped them about as England drove into him. England finally grabbed them one by one, twining fingers with him, pressing one of his hands back against the smooth carpet and propping the other against the window. The leverage was good and he could move faster and faster, could feel the tensing of America’s hands, clenching more and more tightly as he did so, until he was thrusting inside hard enough to send America’s head crashing repeatedly into the back of the seat. Well, it had to be better than the rocks…
America squeezed his fingers and smiled through his moans, and England wondered if he’d ever tire of-- of fucking America. But this wasn’t just fucking and if it was ever turned into something else, by politics or personality, England knew he’d just rather go without.
This was-- this was-- his knees burned and his muscles burned and clenched as the tension in his belly wound more tightly. He had to slow down or he’d climax too soon, and what a humiliation that would be--
“Ah,” America yelled, then “ah-- eh-- oh, no,” and the muscles squeezing tight around England’s cock spasmed and America climaxed, ending England’s dilemma rather swiftly. England, grateful, pressed his mouth into the sweat on America’s cheek and let his body rock those few, last, disjointed, necessary thrusts, until it tensed and caught on the very peak of sensation and then over. His release shuddered through him.
“You outlasted me again,” America commented a little while later, when they’d both caught their breath and brains.
“Barely,” England admitted. With the relaxation of his muscles, the pain all along his backside made itself known again. He nestled into the sticky sweat-semen mess that was America’s naked body. “I don’t believe I can lie on my back. I’ll just sleep here like this,” he said.
America patted his head. “You’re warm but you won’t be for long. And--” He stopped talking when his stomach growled.
“You are incorrigi--” England began, then halted when he heard that odd, metallic scraping noise again. “What the living fuck is that noise?”
America hmphed. “I knew I should have gotten some burgers for the road. Aren’t you hungry at all?”
“No, that’s not-- never mind,” England said. The noise had stopped, anyway.
America wiggled but England just stayed put right atop him, incredibly tired all of a sudden. He was still feeling the aftereffects of their carousing the evening prior, and the burn along his backside further sapped his energy. After a few more minutes, however, the remaining sweat on his skin had turned cold in the chilly night air, making him much less comfortable. When America’s stomach rumbled again and he wiggled some more, England took the hint and climbed off, gingerly. America climbed out and scrambled into his clothing but England took his time re-dressing, trying not to abrade his poor bum.
America returned from fireside carrying his crushed bag of crisps. He shook the bag at England. “Want some?”
“No, thank you,” England said. He rubbed at the fronts of his arms, them climbed back into the car. He couldn’t sit and he couldn’t lie on his back, so he stretched out face-down and tried to drink a bottle of water without pouring it all over himself. Though it probably wouldn’t have hurt him; America wasn’t the only one who was now filthy.
America inhaled his crisps and then joined England in the car. He looked surprised but delighted when England pushed him onto his back and climbed atop him again.
“You’re being awfully cuddly. Like a blanket.”
England was secretly pleased. He had never been called cuddly before. Though he may have heard the term wet blanket once or twice. “Fucking cold,” England muttered.
“I guess we can have sex again to stay warm,” America mumbled, and England roused his tired hips to rub suggestively over America’s, once or twice.
“Sounds like a promise.”
America snored. England sighed and closed his eyes.
The next time he opened them, the landscape had changed; silver moonlight filled the car and lit the valley, glistening on the rocks like a white morning. England was just waking up enough to admire it when a sudden long, deep and mournful howl filled the valley and echoed off the cliff, then repeated. After a moment or two he heard it again, and it sounded very close.
“What in bloody fuck is that?” he said, to no one in particular.
“Coyote. Won’t hurt us,” America mumbled, and went back to sleep. England shrugged and closed his eyes again.
The next time he opened them, it was because the metallic clinking and scraping noise had returned, this time in force, more loudly and without fading as it had before. It sounded like something was yanking at a heavy chain, struggling to escape. When England heard low growls he pushed himself up and crawled to the open back of the car to have a look.
A gigantic fucking dog that looked like a dirty, matted shepherd of some sort was staring at him from next to the car. It growled, showing vicious-looking teeth. England stayed very still and stared back into the dog’s angry, red eyes. Then he waved his hand at it.
“Shoo! Shoo. Bloody ugly dog. Bugger off.”
The dog stopped growling and sat back on its haunches. It tilted its head at England and managed to look surprised in a canine sort of way. That was when England noticed the chain, tied in a painful-looking manner around the dog’s neck and connected at the other end to-- to-- the hooks embedded in the cliff wall. Where there had been no chains earlier.
“Ah,” England said, sliding out of the car to walk over to the dog. “Poor bastard. Good dog.”
Before England reached it the dog simply disappeared, its chain clinking on the ground once before vanishing as well. England shrugged and climbed back into the car and laid face-down, half-atop America. He pulled some of America’s tee-shirts over and shoved them under his head.
“Who were you talking to?” America mumbled.
“Ghost dog,” England told him.
“Oh,” America said, and shivered once or twice before snoring again.
End Part 2/3
On to After All, It Was a Great, Big World: Part 3 of 3
Back to After All, It Was a Great, Big World: Part 1 of 3
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Author:
jedishampooPairing: England/America (Hetalia)
Rating: R-l8 (sex, language)
Summary: Sex and silliness in the desert.
After All, It Was a Great, Big World: Part 2/3
England stopped climbing for a moment and sipped his bottled water. The only way to go was up, around, and over the half-collapsed mineshaft, and the climb was much more steep and uneven than it had appeared. What looked like smooth, desert dirt from a few meters away proved, up close, to be rutted with holes and plants and unstable pebbles that slid under his feet and tumbled down the mountain. To make the climb even more perilous, America had warned him to watch out for scorpions and ‘rattlers!’
England wished he’d been wearing footgear more suited to a desert-mountain climb. He eyed his loafers, somewhat stylish in a classic way and functional enough for city walking, but next to useless out here. Some of his old army boots, say, the ones he’d worn in Egypt or the Sudan, would have set him up just right.
If the way America slipped and whoops!ed above him were any indication, his own hiking-style boots were also more stylish than functional. But then, one never knew with American sportgear, and America was very often noisy when he was having fun.
England was somewhat surprised to discover that he wasn’t not having fun, himself. Despite the bear of a climb and the sun and heat and dryness and the stinging fauna and the fact that his bum itched, England was in a fairly decent mood. America’s enthusiasm for this ridiculous adventure had proven catching.
Somehow the utter chaos their trip had become, with its attendant absurdity and lust, had allowed England to release the bottled-up tension he’d carried with him from home-- how would they interact, would they be normal, would they be awkward, would it just not work, would America lose interest, and would he be able to stand it if he did-- and to just let it be. To not think about it, to focus on nothing more weighty than the fine view of America’s bum just above him.
“…words of wisdom, let it beeee…” England murmured.
America turned and smiled down at him, the rest of him looked appealing as well, if a little mussed and filthy. Quite sexy, actually. “Are you okay? What are ya muttering, back there?”
“I was singing,” England informed him.
“Ha ha! Is that what that was?”
“Yes, dolt,” England said, smiling just a little. “I’m fine.”
America’s grin widened as if England had just given him a great compliment. England was pleased to feel, secretly, that he’d produced that expression. Somehow they just…. went on. How it happened was a happy mystery.
America pointed up. “If we can get over this little rise, here, I’m hoping we’ll see the road.”
“Lead on,” England said.
The rise America had indicated, true to form, looked like it was a mere few meters away but took them another half-hour to climb. And when they crested the rise, the view was not promising. They could see the continuation of the road, but it was not reachable by automobile. On one side the road hugged the mountain, and on the other it skirted a sheer-sided canyon, drowned in shadow. Then the road wound through terrain that was definitely not fit for an automobile such as their-- he refused to even think the name; it was too silly. Their bubble.
“Well, crap,” America said.
“Typical,” England said, trying not to sound too smug.
America sighed. “I guess I didn’t think-- well, anyway. You were right. We’re not going anywhere.”
He sounded so dispirited that England wanted to pat his shoulder. He didn’t. “It was a valiant effort,” he said, and America brightened again.
“On to plan ‘C,’ then!”
England narrowed his eyes. “What is plan ‘C?’”
“It’s a secret.”
It was England’s turn to sigh. “As long as it involves a return to our hotel,” he warned.
“Yeah, it does.” America’s lips quirked. “A shower and a real bed! You kinda pounded me against the rocks, back there.”
America was so… blithe, about these things. Still, England felt his cheeks warm at the memory. He thought perhaps he might do it again. He’d see how he felt when they reached their automobile.
By the time they climbed down, however, England had worked off much of his lust with too much exercise. In addition, the shade from the cliff had crawled past their car, and it was considerably more cool than it had been two hours ago. America shook out a couple of tee-shirts they’d left on the ground and tossed them into the back of the vehicle. They climbed in, filling the little car with dust and exhaustion.
But when America turned the key in the ignition, the radio came on, the lights came on, and the motor did not. America clicked the key back and forth a few times, kicking gently at the pedals on the floor.
“Uh,” America said, trying twice more.
Typical-er and typical-er. England crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back against the seat, then closed his eyes and settled in for a relaxing nap. “We’re out of petrol, aren’t we?” he murmured.
“No! The gauge says we still have a little. I think. The check-engine lights are on…” England heard more clicks and the low, on-and-off crackle of the radio. “Uh. Lemme pop the hood.”
America climbed out and England then heard some mechanical creaking and the clink and grind of metal bits, and then some low curses from America. He sighed and exited to see if he could assist.
America was staring into the car’s motor, wavering the beam from a little penlight about it. His cheeks were a little pink when he looked at England.
“I-- I’m pretty good with cars. But I don’t really know what’s wrong with this one…”
“I certainly don’t, unless it’s lack of petrol. The battery seems to be working.” England’s own obsession with automobiles tended towards the classic and military, not the Green. That was the province of Germany and Japan. “You’ll have to call for assistance.”
“I guess.” America sighed and brushed his motor-oil-smudged hands on his trousers. He went around to reach inside the car, while England poked uselessly at some of the wires. After a few moments he heard America say, oh, fuckity-fuck, whatever that meant.
“Issue?”
“No signal. Not even a military signal, which I know they have. Weird. Where’s your cell? Oh, here it is.” England looked around the bonnet to see America with a mobile in each hand, looking at them and then pressing them to each ear. He winced when he saw England watching him. “Uh. We’re kind of boned.”
England looked down at the road they’d used to get here, the dwindling dust track that led for an hour’s drive across the vast bowl of the valley before winding around a foothill and disappearing from view. They also knew what lay ahead, and it wasn’t an option. They were truly in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of America. He sighed. Utter chaos, this adventure. Somehow, it was still rather amusing, if inconvenient. Spending so much time around America had had an effect on him, for good or ill.
“Then here is our course of action,” he said. “One, we can try to signal for help. A fire might work. Two, we can wait it out and hope for the best. At least we know it won’t kill us. I’ve been forced to endure worse outdoor conditions. The Great War comes to mind.” He shivered at the memory.
America’s eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. “You’re. Uh. Taking this pretty well, you know.”
“Aren’t I?” England said, in a voice that was perhaps slightly wondering. He felt nearly like Japan in his zen.
“I like it,” America said.
“Do you, now,” England said, eyeing America’s pink cheeks with no little appreciation.
“It’ll get cold at night,” America said, swiping his palms on his trouser pockets again. This time, England watched the gesture with a little more interest, thinking about what lay beneath them. It seemed he’d figured out his zen mindset, at least-- if he wasn’t so sex-besotted, then perhaps his mood might have been a bit more foul. But he’d spent plenty of nights in the last couple of centuries, in war years and in peace, keeping warm with thoughts of keeping warm against America. For now he had the real thing, and his gonads-- and other, more soppy bits of his anatomy-- were more than glad to make use of it while they could.
“Find something to burn, and you can be fucked next to a nice, hot fire, then.”
America looked startled, then laughed. “You are outta control, man. Ha ha!”
“You like that too, do you?” England stepped forward, but America backed away.
“Yeah. Lots. But, uh. I don’t wanna cut down anything I don’t have to. Why don’t we look in there?” He pointed at the crack in the cliff wall. “Maybe we can stay in there!”
England’s thwarted libido was further thwarted by a shudder of disgust. “No. It looks unstable. I’m not setting foot in there.”
“I’ll go,” America said, hunching down to squeeze into the hole. To ease his worry over having to dig America out, England went to the car to try and start it, unsuccessfully. So he checked their water supply. America had, at some point before they’d left, stashed an entire, bound pack of water bottles in the hatchback. It had been an intelligent move, England had to admit. There were some bags of crisps and sweets as well, and the Styrofoam box held ice and more water. Certainly enough to get them through the night, if they had to stay, if a fire didn’t attract attention.
“Ha ha! Look.” America could be an idiot, but as usual, he proved himself resourceful and capable. He stepped out from the dank-looking cave-shaft, carrying some small, dusty logs. “I don’t think this place is as abandoned as it looks. There are beer cans in there, too.”
“Any of them full?”
“No. I checked that first,” America said, dropping the wood into a pile near where they’d had their fuck earlier. He walked back to the darkened entrance, fingering some odd-looking, rusty hooks embedded in the cliff wall on either side of it. “There’s an old cart, too. This was a mine, once. I wonder what they were digging for? I wonder why they left.”
“Personally, I can’t blame them,” England said. He’d visited mines in Wales, from time to time. Mining was dark, depressing work.
“Yeah. I guess.” America turned from the entrance and flipped his sunglasses to the top of his head. He pulled his spectacles from his shirt-pocket and put them on, seeming not to care that he was wearing both pairs at once. “Hey, it’s too bad you don’t smoke anymore. I could use a light.”
England dug in his trousers-pocket and produced a pack of matches. America looked surprised but pleased, and England didn’t explain.
By the time they’d set up a circle of rocks to contain their fire, found receipts to use as starters and gotten the logs to burn, the sun was already setting. Despite the great width of the sky, the mountains out here made sunset seem to rush upon them. The west was to their backs, and the sky above was pink and blue and yellow, looking like something out of a Maxfield Parrish illustration. It was so lovely England could forgive the chill creeping into the air at his back. Though his bum still itched.
He realized he was still wearing his own sunglasses and removed them. America, returning from the car with a bag of crisps, saw him and snorted.
“You have raccoon eyes, ha ha! It makes your crazy eyebrows stand out even more. Didn’t you put on the sunscreen I gave you?”
England rubbed at his eyes, even though he couldn’t see what America was talking about and refused to be so vain as to visit the car mirrors to have a look. “There’s nothing wrong with my eyebrows, git.”
America’s eyes alit and he seemed as if he were about to make a saucy comment, but then he glanced away and nudged the rocks around their little fire with his boot. “I didn’t say there was,” he said, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. He looked back at England, his gaze steady. “It’s part of your… your--”
“Charm?” England muttered. He’d been told he had none. It was an assessment of his character that he could unfortunately agree with.
“No. Your… You. Which is… good.”
“Ah,” England said, a little surprised. That had been a rather pleasing thing to hear, actually. America was silent and staring at him, as if he didn’t know what to say next. England could not have replied, anyway, because his throat was as stretched as if he’d swallowed a rock. So he just stared back.
They’d never really known what to do with each other in honest moments. Things either got silly, or lately, sexual. America’s hands opened and closed at his sides and he looked so filthy and nonplussed that England’s insides all began to hurt at once, his heart and lungs and stomach and bones and lord, everything stuffed in there was heavy: a disadvantage of being too much history personified. He was about to make a move, to do something either silly or sexual to end the moment, but America moved first.
He stepped close and grabbed England’s elbows in one quick gesture, then sighed, leaning forward until their foreheads bumped. He was still staring. The odd moment was prolonged until it seemed to gain its own gravity, its own history. Earlier, England had lamented being so vulnerable to America’s moods, and this one was no exception. England knew his own feelings, but to be considered so, in return, was almost… too much.
America was nothing if not too much. His two-centimeter advantage in height was never more apparent than at times like this; he loomed much too large. Still, he seemed to have trouble deciding what he wanted to say. “I, uh, wanted a getaway, but not like-- I’m glad you’re he-- That you’re having-- Because I think this is--”
“Idiot,” England whispered. They had too many flaws in common. His fault, probably.
“Well, thanks, anyway,” America said, and England didn’t think he was being thanked for the insult. Thankfully, America then seemed to decide that attempting to speak intelligently was too much of a chore. He tilted his head and kissed England on the mouth, proving that warm lips and breath were an advantage of being personified. England wet his dry tongue on the inside of America’s mouth and reached into his trousers waistband, to grope his slightly sticky flesh. America was annoyingly muscular everywhere else but his stomach was soft, like a girl’s. It was much more arousing than it should have been, but not as much as America shuddering under his fingers.
They sort of stumbled for a bit before balancing against each other. America was too tall, too much. England released his hold on America’s stomach to peel off his spectacles, so he could study up close the shape of his eyes, his cheeks, the small, odd smile curling his lips. God, he looked so young. Dear lad. England formed words soundlessly against America’s mouth, words he’d never say aloud. Flawed; they were too flawed to work, how had they ever managed to get this far?
He dimly heard the clink and scrape of metal but was planning to ignore it. He couldn’t ignore, however, the sudden manner in which America lurched and poked England’s eye-socket with his nose, or the crunch of plastic and America’s laugh. America pulled away and squinted down at his feet.
“Oh, crap. I stepped all over my chips!”
“No moment that can’t be marred by silliness,” England muttered under his breath. He rolled his eyes heavenward. The sky was-- “Jesus!” he exclaimed.
“What? Oh, wow.” America looked up and saw what England had seen: the stars, thousands of them, dusting the now-dark sky, so thick they were like clouds.
England held onto America with one hand and tried not to fall into the vast bowl of the sky. He picked out the lines and shapes of constellations he’d known once, long ago. There were still places in the world where one could see stars like this, but he rarely visited them. Business and politics and history these days took place in cities, where arc-sodium lights drowned out the universe. “I haven’t seen a sky like that since-- in years.”
“Yeah,” America murmured, craning his neck to take in the whole of the sky. “God, remember the seventeen-hundreds? We didn’t even think about them. They were just there. And I hardly noticed ‘em disappearing.”
England had, but then he’d been around since long before the seventeen-hundreds, since even before such dates had existed. He stared at America’s upturned face, the sheen on his lips. He imagined America’s mouth doing things that would have to wait. Other things might not have to wait. Deciding on their next step was not a difficult decision for a mind as single as his.
“Why don’t we sit down next to this nice, warm fire,” he suggested in a low voice to America’s jugular. America jumped, then jumped back a step or two.
“I’m all for-- for--” At England’s exasperated look he waved his hands in front of him, as if reaching for something invisible. “Well, warm fires and-- stuff. But the ground is really hard. And it really, uh, hurts.”
England crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. He was going to start feeling rejected, soon. It wasn’t his fault they were stuck in the middle of a rocky desert. “Where were you planning to sleep, then?”
“Well, I was hoping someone would see our fire and come to help.” America looked out at the now-dark valley, at the utter lack of rescue lights or of any lights, really. Nothing but stars.
“And if they don’t?” England dismissed such foolishness. He again set his hands on America’s warm waist, and God, he was too tall. Though at least they were back on somewhat familiar ground, marred and imperfectly perfect as it was.
“Uh.” America closed his eyes, as if distracted by the way England was massaging the soft flesh under his ribs. “Pookie?”
England rolled his eyes, then looked at the car and tried to figure out how he was going to have sex with America in those tiny bucket seats. Or even sleep. They were just too small. America looked at him and must have read his mind. He began to move his forearms in falling-over motions.
“It’s a hatchback? The seats go down? Plenty of room?”
England considered this, and their respective heights. “Prove it,” he said.
He waited behind the car and scratched his back-- ouch-- while America fooled with levers and mumbled fuckity-fucks. Finally, with a triumphant-sounding hah! and a couple of thumps, America slammed the rear seat forward. Then he crawled into the back on his hands and knees-- the rear edge went flat like a truck bed-- and shoved their supplies around to clear a space.
England watched and waited some more. When America took much too long to make simple spatial decisions, England slapped him lightly on the bum. He heard a thump and an ow! as America hit his head, but at least America stopped faffing and flopped over onto his back.
“See?” he called out. “Plenty of room.”
England looked at America’s boots hanging off the rear edge, and then peered inside to note the uncomfortable-looking angle of America’s neck. He looked back out at their little fire, and at the hole in the rock wall. He heard the odd scrape of metal again. What was that noise? “Looks cozy,” he shrugged, and climbed in.
There was, admittedly, plenty of clear space to one side but he clambered atop Mount America, anyway, nabbing a long kiss at the summit. After a few pleasant moments he decided America would make a fine bed and burrowed down, tucking his limbs wherever they would fit.
“You did say you always wanted to,” America gasped as England shoved his tongue into his ear.
“Do you not?” England whispered, nibbling on America’s dusty earlobe.
“Yeah,” America whispered back, reaching around to pull England’s shirt out of his trousers. The cold air hitting England’s spine sent shuddering chills racing along it, or maybe it was just the way America’s thighs were clenching around his own. “Duh.”
“Ouch,” England said. America’s fingers had found a sensitive spot on his back, and-- his whole back seemed sensitive, stinging wherever America touched it. “Mind your fingernails,” he warned.
“You feel warm. Are you okay?”
“Warm? It’s fucking freezing,” England said, unbuttoning America’s shirt to get closer to his acres of warm skin. “Ah! That hurts.”
“I’ll bet you’ve got a sun-burn,” America sing-songed at him.
England froze. He thought for a moment. Earlier, they’d-- the sunlight--
“Bollocks, bastard, bloody--” England muttered, trying to find a curse to fit the situation. He winced when America ran his palm, even gently, across his bum. No wonder it had itched so. He’d fried it, for fuck’s sake.
“Bollocks,” he said again. He shoved his face into America’s shoulder and wished he’d been more liberal with the sunscreen. Who would have thought he’d need full-body coverage?
“We’ll get you some aloe, when we get-- Well, do you want to stop?”
England thought for a moment. True, his entire back side was rather tender. But the erection he was currently chafing against America’s lower belly requested precedence, to be polite about it. “You’re the one on your back. As long as you stay there…”
“My back hurts too, you know,” America pointed out, squirming under him.
England licked the join of America’s shoulder and neck and America squirmed some more. “You can always roll over and take it on your knees, then,” England told him. His cock did a little twitch inside his trousers at the thought of doing it that way…
“Woof? Ah--” America said when England twitched and jammed his thumb into his navel. He put on a terrible false accent. “Don’t think there’s room, old chap, what what, then?”
England plastered his mouth over America’s skin to keep from laughing, because such foolishness was not in the least amusing. “Just shut it. Twat,” he said.
“This’ll work,” America breathed into his hair, and England allowed himself a smile. He liked the rare occasions when America did what he was told. To show his gratitude, he kissed America until he himself was senseless. There were so many things one could say with mouths that couldn’t be heard, only felt: I want you. I missed you. I never stopped doing so.
And there was that sensation again, all the hot, churning thought and feeling and history and everything racing into England’s limbs. He shouldn’t have been surprised but he was, was continually surprised at the depth of his lust, like his body had stored up every lonely moment. Though at that moment, they seemed to be trying to rub each others’ clothing off through sheer friction.
“God, you make me hot,” America mumbled, harsh breaths into England’s mouth.
“Mmmmphfuck,” England moaned, in pain all over, lord, he wanted America more than he wanted air. But he’d wanted to take his time this round, savor the experience a bit more, no matter that it wasn’t in the soft, fluffy hotel bed he’d planned upon--
To distract himself he crawled back a bit, kissing down America’s bared chest to suck softly at a scar on his breastbone, barely visible in the scant, yellow firelight, tasting the rasp of America’s breath and the thump of his heart through his lips. Yes, there were advantages in bodies, in flesh-- though not enough of it--
“Get these-- off,” he ordered, playing fingers over the zipper to America’s trousers, stroking the hard bulge beneath his thin khakis.
“H’okay,” America breathed. England heard the thump of America’s boots hitting the dirt outside as he kicked them off, and by propping themselves on each other they managed to wriggle out of most of their clothing-- England opted to keep his shirt on, because it was fucking cold, indeed.
His skin crawled with heat and chills until he pressed himself back onto America’s bare flesh, glad for height when it was stretched out beneath him. He stroked the length of America’s cock, dry and hot in his hand.
“Think you can make a better showing of it, this time?” he asked, as America puffed harsh breaths at him, loud in the confines of the car.
“All-- uh-- night, if you want to, old man. Ha ha.” His voice sounded pained.
“The entire giant night sky,” England whispered, ignoring that old for the nonce.
“Yeah,” America breathed. He caressed England’s cheeks and ran his fingers through his hair, touching where he was perhaps allowed. He tightened his grip and pulled England’s hair for a painful few seconds when England nudged a lube-slicked finger-- probably cold-- into the crack of his arse.
“’S’allright, lad,” he whispered against America’s lips as he stretched him open, more gently this time, though lord, he was hot inside. All of America, burning under his fingers, all around him, overwhelming him to say things he usually kept locked inside in true British style. “D’ye want me, then?”
“Yeah,” America repeated. England would have felt embarrassed to be answered, but for America shoving his bum against England’s palm and lifting his leg to prop his foot against the car roof. He stared at England from half-lidded eyes, dark blue and intent. “Oh man, England. Please.”
“Ah,” England managed around the stone lodged in his throat. He was a bit quick to swipe lube over his cock, aching into his fingers, fuck, he could just wank all night and stare into America’s face like that. But eventually he grabbed America’s thigh and pulled up his bum so he could nudge his cock inside. America was as hot and tight as he’d promised England’s fingers. He hissed between his teeth as England boosted his hips forward by notches, tiny and quick.
Once England had shoved inside America as far as he could go, he started off as gently he’d planned. He rocked slowly against and inside America’s body, focusing on the close slide of their sweaty-sticky-cool skin, the squeezing heat of America around his cock, the slow burn and build, yes. Minutes and minutes of breathing and skin, and lovely, lovely--
“I still can’t believe you are--” America began, and then cut off on a harsh gasp.
“I know. I--” England answered, then kissed America to keep from saying anything more. He breathed America’s high, sharp moans as he angled his thrusts up, still forcing his muscles to keep a slow, steady rhythm. In, and in, and god, he felt good, and smelled good, like dust and sweat and sun, and his moans tasted wonderful.
“Ouch, dammit,” England was forced to mumble a few minutes later, when America tried to grab his shoulders. “Ah-- don’t--”
“S-- sorry-- ah-- I didn’t--”
America dropped his hands but he didn’t seem to know what to do with them, just flopped them about as England drove into him. England finally grabbed them one by one, twining fingers with him, pressing one of his hands back against the smooth carpet and propping the other against the window. The leverage was good and he could move faster and faster, could feel the tensing of America’s hands, clenching more and more tightly as he did so, until he was thrusting inside hard enough to send America’s head crashing repeatedly into the back of the seat. Well, it had to be better than the rocks…
America squeezed his fingers and smiled through his moans, and England wondered if he’d ever tire of-- of fucking America. But this wasn’t just fucking and if it was ever turned into something else, by politics or personality, England knew he’d just rather go without.
This was-- this was-- his knees burned and his muscles burned and clenched as the tension in his belly wound more tightly. He had to slow down or he’d climax too soon, and what a humiliation that would be--
“Ah,” America yelled, then “ah-- eh-- oh, no,” and the muscles squeezing tight around England’s cock spasmed and America climaxed, ending England’s dilemma rather swiftly. England, grateful, pressed his mouth into the sweat on America’s cheek and let his body rock those few, last, disjointed, necessary thrusts, until it tensed and caught on the very peak of sensation and then over. His release shuddered through him.
“You outlasted me again,” America commented a little while later, when they’d both caught their breath and brains.
“Barely,” England admitted. With the relaxation of his muscles, the pain all along his backside made itself known again. He nestled into the sticky sweat-semen mess that was America’s naked body. “I don’t believe I can lie on my back. I’ll just sleep here like this,” he said.
America patted his head. “You’re warm but you won’t be for long. And--” He stopped talking when his stomach growled.
“You are incorrigi--” England began, then halted when he heard that odd, metallic scraping noise again. “What the living fuck is that noise?”
America hmphed. “I knew I should have gotten some burgers for the road. Aren’t you hungry at all?”
“No, that’s not-- never mind,” England said. The noise had stopped, anyway.
America wiggled but England just stayed put right atop him, incredibly tired all of a sudden. He was still feeling the aftereffects of their carousing the evening prior, and the burn along his backside further sapped his energy. After a few more minutes, however, the remaining sweat on his skin had turned cold in the chilly night air, making him much less comfortable. When America’s stomach rumbled again and he wiggled some more, England took the hint and climbed off, gingerly. America climbed out and scrambled into his clothing but England took his time re-dressing, trying not to abrade his poor bum.
America returned from fireside carrying his crushed bag of crisps. He shook the bag at England. “Want some?”
“No, thank you,” England said. He rubbed at the fronts of his arms, them climbed back into the car. He couldn’t sit and he couldn’t lie on his back, so he stretched out face-down and tried to drink a bottle of water without pouring it all over himself. Though it probably wouldn’t have hurt him; America wasn’t the only one who was now filthy.
America inhaled his crisps and then joined England in the car. He looked surprised but delighted when England pushed him onto his back and climbed atop him again.
“You’re being awfully cuddly. Like a blanket.”
England was secretly pleased. He had never been called cuddly before. Though he may have heard the term wet blanket once or twice. “Fucking cold,” England muttered.
“I guess we can have sex again to stay warm,” America mumbled, and England roused his tired hips to rub suggestively over America’s, once or twice.
“Sounds like a promise.”
America snored. England sighed and closed his eyes.
The next time he opened them, the landscape had changed; silver moonlight filled the car and lit the valley, glistening on the rocks like a white morning. England was just waking up enough to admire it when a sudden long, deep and mournful howl filled the valley and echoed off the cliff, then repeated. After a moment or two he heard it again, and it sounded very close.
“What in bloody fuck is that?” he said, to no one in particular.
“Coyote. Won’t hurt us,” America mumbled, and went back to sleep. England shrugged and closed his eyes again.
The next time he opened them, it was because the metallic clinking and scraping noise had returned, this time in force, more loudly and without fading as it had before. It sounded like something was yanking at a heavy chain, struggling to escape. When England heard low growls he pushed himself up and crawled to the open back of the car to have a look.
A gigantic fucking dog that looked like a dirty, matted shepherd of some sort was staring at him from next to the car. It growled, showing vicious-looking teeth. England stayed very still and stared back into the dog’s angry, red eyes. Then he waved his hand at it.
“Shoo! Shoo. Bloody ugly dog. Bugger off.”
The dog stopped growling and sat back on its haunches. It tilted its head at England and managed to look surprised in a canine sort of way. That was when England noticed the chain, tied in a painful-looking manner around the dog’s neck and connected at the other end to-- to-- the hooks embedded in the cliff wall. Where there had been no chains earlier.
“Ah,” England said, sliding out of the car to walk over to the dog. “Poor bastard. Good dog.”
Before England reached it the dog simply disappeared, its chain clinking on the ground once before vanishing as well. England shrugged and climbed back into the car and laid face-down, half-atop America. He pulled some of America’s tee-shirts over and shoved them under his head.
“Who were you talking to?” America mumbled.
“Ghost dog,” England told him.
“Oh,” America said, and shivered once or twice before snoring again.
End Part 2/3
On to After All, It Was a Great, Big World: Part 3 of 3
Back to After All, It Was a Great, Big World: Part 1 of 3
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no subject
Date: 2010-05-11 08:07 pm (UTC)These two are like bunnies in heat. I love how under the blustering, bravado, and lust there are hints of love and not love. Like they're scared of admitting something that will change their relationship forever, making them run in the opposite direction.
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Date: 2010-05-14 01:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-29 06:10 am (UTC)Haha, UKxUS is so much fun. Why does (seemingly) the entire fandom love USxUK so much more? Plebs. Love how you're keeping them in character~ And the insecure England thinking how he'll "soon start to feel rejected" because America's putting off the sex. Ah, and he would've started to pout and be generally unpleasant to be around, if it'd continued like that.
Ghost dog was wonderful. Especially since only England can see him... although it's a bit interesting he made the connection so quickly, as when he was at Japan's house and saw the little girl he didn't realize she was a ghost, too... Hmmm~ I'm so pimping part one of this story in the author's note of the second chapter for my USxUK fic. xD (Not USxUK for seme/uke roles, just as an easy way to list the pairing! x.o;;; Gah, I won't know the roles until I get to the sex part of the fic, anyway... )
Sorry. Rambling. I can't believe more people haven't reviewed this, for you~!
Ah! Oh! And have you written for YYH? Your username seems familiar, somehow... Oo;;;
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Date: 2010-05-29 03:56 pm (UTC)I've never written YYH, but I've written in Saiyuki? And other stuff, but in the last few years, mostly Saiyuki.
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Date: 2010-05-29 04:43 pm (UTC)Hey, sure~ This was fun to read. And the ghost dogs added a little bit of 'canon normalcy' to the situation. :3 So it's all cool~
(I'd ask you to check my journal and go to my FF.Net page, but I wouldn't want to burn your eyes out with my one little Hetalia fic that's up there. xDDD Ahaha! )