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jedishampooTitle: After All, It Was a Great Big World (Part 3 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.
Notes: For the kink meme, the prompt “UK/US, sex in a desert.” Here’s the Kink Meme link (yeah, like nobody knew it was me). 19,900 words of silliness and smut, but I loved writing it. Thanks to the OP and to my beta,sharpeslass!
After All, It Was a Great, Big World (Part 3/3)
America woke up and wasn’t sure where he was. His ass hurt. In fact, his whole body was stiff and sore. He opened his eyes, and saw… grey carpet? And a dome-light. Then he remembered they were in the car. In the desert. He didn’t even remember falling asleep.
He’d been dreaming that he was driving one of those old crank-case cars, like the one he’d had a hundred or so years ago. He’d been cranking it and cranking it, trying to get it started while being yelled at by a ghost who had chains clanking all over him, like the ghost in A Christmas Carol. Then he’d been having a drink with Poland, except Poland was a purple frog. They’d been solving a mystery. He’d understood what was wrong with Pookie, and how to fix her. It had all made such sense. And then he’d woken up.
England snored into his shoulder. America realized he had a mouthful of England’s hair, and nudged it out with his tongue. While the rest of his limbs were waking up, he heard a noise, like a distant mechanical vroom.
He patted England, gently. “Wake up! I think someone’s coming.”
“Mwuh,” England said.
America smooched the top of England’s head and then eased it off his shoulder. Then he eased the rest of England off of him. England resisted; America must have made an awesome mattress, even though he had a bit of a morning boner. His Ale-E-Inn tee-shirts were piled all over the two of them. England must have pulled them up like blankets at some point during the night. How sweet.
“Seriously. I think someone’s coming,” America said, a little more loudly. “I wanna, uh, rinse off.” He was covered with things he didn’t think any of his people needed to see, and there was a darned good chance England was, too.
He found his glasses when he was digging in the package of water-bottles. He plopped them on-- they were filthy, too-- and scooted to the edge of the hatchback. His shoes were lying in the dust.
“Shake your shoes out before you put them on. Or you might find a critter biting your toes, ha ha,” he said. He shook his own-- thankfully critter-free-- boots out.
“Mwuh,” England said again, and his leg twitched. “Stop bouncing around.”
“Uh-huh,” America said, tying his shoes. It was a chilly but beautiful morning: the sky was yellow, the landscape was yellow, and when he went over to check that their fire had burned out, he saw that even their silvery-gray Pookie shone like gold in the early sunlight. A little lizard scampered past his feet and off into the rocks. In the distance, he could see what looked like a tiny dust-cloud weaving back and forth along the valley floor.
“I can see something coming!”
England had managed to lift himself to his knees. “Fuck, I hurt. Fuck, bloody fuck.”
“Poor England,” America said, and actually meant it. He splashed some water on his face, then scrambled out of his shirt and poured more water-- cold, cold, cold-- over all the various sticky things on his chest. The cold water took care of his semi-erection, at least. Dripping and shivering, he watched England crawl backwards out of the car.
“Don’t suppose you’ve boiled any tea yet, then?” England said. He did a sort of stiff zombie-walk over to stare down into the remains of the fire.
“Nope. Sorry,” America said. His whole body went all smooshy and tight at the same time, the tight ache most acute in the center of his chest. It hurt, and it had nothing to do with the sex they’d had, or maybe it did.
England had been a real trooper. It was an awesome adventure, after all, but maybe there had been some little unexpected twists, the kind that might usually make England try and choke him to death, or at least bitch at him and then not speak to him for another thirty years. But England was still joking with him.
England must really love him. And there: he’d thought it, though he wouldn’t tell England he had. He’d just have to… hold up his end of the deal.
Smooshy thoughts kept him warm-ish while he splashed water over the rest of himself, exposing as little skin as possible at a time. He finally gave up on rubbing himself dry and re-dressed. He considered putting on a tee-shirt or two under his button-down shirt and then remembered what the tee-shirts had been through.
While England splashed himself off, cursing and shivering, America went to look back into the valley. The little dust-cloud had gotten a bit larger and closer. It was forming itself into the shape of an SUV, trundling up the road. He pointed it out to England.
“We can’t expect a tow, then,” England said. He made faces as he pulled his shirt on over his reddened back.
“Nah. But I sure hope they can help. The first thing we’ll buy when we get to a town is aloe lotion for your back.” America told him in a quiet voice.
England turned to stare at him in mid-wince. He actually grinned, sort of-- well, maybe it was a half-grin. “It feels a bit better, actually,” he said.
America’s heart did a painful little thumpy-thump. “Oh, that’s great!”
“Just a bit, mind,” England said, and drew his thick eyebrows down in a scowl.
“Ha ha,” America said. They stared at each other for a few long moments, like they were considering each other in daylight. England looked rumpled and sort of in pain and… pretty darned adorable, America thought with a bit of a guilty pang. England had always taken ‘buttoned-down’ to near-insane heights and, admittedly, he wore it well. Still, America liked the rare occasions when he loosened up. He thought he might kiss the scowl off England’s face, no matter that his own mouth tasted like dead lizard or something; England’s probably did, too. But then they both heard the vroom of someone gunning a motor close by. The SUV was coming up the hill to their little shelf in the mountain. It was tan-colored, with circular star-markings on the side. America sighed. “Looks like a sheriff’s deputy.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Ah. Good, I think,” America said. He lamented the lack of more proper ID, but as soon as he could get a cell signal, he knew he could straighten everything out. He could have made some sure-to-be-effective calls yesterday, of course, but the thought of an adventure had been so much more appealing. At least, before it had involved sleeping in the car, awesome sex notwithstanding. “But you might try to look non-threatening. Like, uh, keep your hands up…ish.”
England looked at the sheriff’s SUV and his eyebrow-scowl grew. “Are they going to shoot at us?”
“Nah. I just don’t want them to freak.”
“Gun-toting paranoiacs,” England muttered. But he took a nice, nonthreatening stance, anyway.
“Not true,” America said. “We just maintain the right to bear arms. And Canada--”
“Don’t say it--”
But America had gone too far to stop. “--maintains the right to arm bears. Ha ha!”
England sighed. “Silly, this time. Incidentally, that has never been funny.”
“It’s always funny,” America said. He thought about asking what England had meant by silly this time, but he didn’t get a chance; he had to put on his own non-threatening grin as the sheriff’s SUV’s transmission clicked into park. One of the tinted windows opened halfway.
“Lincoln County Sheriff,” a voice announced. “You’re trespassing on private property. I’ll need to see your IDs-- keep your hands where I can see ‘em-- and tell me what you’re doin’ out here.”
They got their IDs-- carefully-- and America walked them over. The window rolled down all the way and America could see the driver, a hefty, middle-aged man in a tan uniform. ‘R. Jones’ was stitched on the pocket below his badge. There was another deputy, younger and slimmer, watching him carefully from the passenger seat. Mr. Jones and his partner were men of service-- America respected that. So he didn’t point out that US lands weren’t really ‘private property.’
“We were on a drive yesterday, sir,” America said. He smiled as he handed over the IDs. “The road was blocked, and then our car broke down--”
“Uh-huh,” R. Jones said. “We got a call that there was a fire up here last night. Usually it’s teenagers or UFO hunters. Are you UFO hunters?”
“Good God, no,” England muttered from behind America.
“Hmm,” Jones said. He looked at their IDs. “Colin Firth, huh? Did you know you got the same name as a British actor? You don’t look like him, though. I oughta know, ‘cause I look at him every day. My wife has a picture of him on our computer desktop. Sure this isn’t fake? Heh.”
“A-hem,” England said, very clearly.
“No sir,” America said to Jones, ignoring England. It wasn’t really a lie; the ID was an ‘official’ fake after all. And how was he to know Colin Firth was so well-known at his place? In retrospect, choosing that name maybe hadn’t been his most awesome idea ever. He’d just wanted to be all incognito for this whirlwind vacation.
Jones copied some information from their IDs. He nodded at England. “Well, you’re a Brit, anyway. You fellas know that this is a private road, owned by Wackenhut Security? It’s clearly marked. And the direction you were headed is Air Force land. So we’ll all just go down to the office in Rachel and I’ll run your IDs there. What’s wrong with your car?”
“I think the fuel line is blocked,” America said, and he heard England’s small wot? of surprise.
“Could be,” Jones said. He waved the back of his hand at America, motioning him to step back. Then both men got out of the car and the young deputy watched them while Jones dug around in the back of the SUV. He pulled out a bottle of fuel additive. “Dust gets in the fuel lines, sometimes. That’s not a very good vehicle for these roads. You have gas?”
“We’ve got. Um. A little under a quarter-tank,” America said. “But it’s a hybrid.”
England sighed and Jones nodded at him, as if in commiseration.
“Not real brainy of ya, all the way out here. Hybrid or not.”
America winced. Not only did he need to make it up to England, he needed to redeem his awesome-itude. He really wanted to make a couple of phone calls.
Instead he tried to start Pookie. Jones listened to her sad, little revs that went nowhere, then nodded and had America pop the gas-cap.
“Where were you boys headed?” he asked as he poured the additive into Pookie’s tank.
“Just out for a drive,” America answered, since England was standing back with his arms crossed and lips zipped into a thin line. “We’re actually staying in Las Vegas.”
“Young guys like yourselves usually want to stay where the lights and booze and girls are,” Jones pointed out.
“I was told I needed to see natural wonders,” England piped in. America gave him a grateful smile.
“We’ve got those,” Jones said. “So you guys ended up out here together? After bein’ from different sides of the pond, and all.”
England answered again. “We’re. Ah. Political colleagues.”
“Uh huh,” Jones said, in a wondering tone.
America wasn’t sure how to feel about that answer, himself. He considered saying, colleagues with major sex benefits, just to get a reaction, but before he could decide if he should, the younger deputy spoke up.
“Didja see the hell-hounds?”
America looked at him, and promptly forgot sex benefits. A shudder he couldn’t explain rippled up his spine. “Hell-hounds?”
“Spirits of dogs that were abandoned with the mines a hundred years ago,” Jones said. “See those old hooks in the rock? Angry-ass dog-spirits, too.”
“I didn’t-- uh--” America began, with a feeling that there was something he should remember.
“They’re well enough, if you speak to them properly,” England said.
Jones cocked an eyebrow at England as if he wasn’t sure how to answer. “Ho-kay. So, Mister Firth, why don’t you try to start this little air-burner?”
America tried the ignition again, trying not to think about spirit-dogs or anything of the sort. And this time, Pookie’s engine vroomed to life with barely a hiccup. “Hooray!” America said, and England hmphed.
Jones ordered them to follow him back down to Rachel. “You’re not gonna try to run away in that thing,” he pointed out, as if America would have tried. He knew how to do things correctly, even if he didn’t always choose the easy path.
Rather than giving America the expected lecture, England climbed into the car, leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t say much, other than that he was bone tired, and please try to hit as few bumps as possible, thank you, and then he seemed to fall asleep. So America drove, carefully, though England grunted whenever he hit a bump or a rock, of which there were many. Yesterday he’d hardly paid attention to the bumps and rocks because England had been so grabby-horny. He’d been in such a good mood!
America needed him in an even better mood if he was to convince him to go one more place before he had to leave tomorrow-- that was, if America’s phone calls were as efficient as he hoped.
And then a novel idea hit America’s brain like a neutrino: he’d just… ask. Just to be sure.
“Hey, are you doing--”
“I’m merely very tired,” England said, with his eyes still closed.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Really?”
“As long as you stop asking, yes.” England’s lips actually curled up at the corners.
“Oh, good.” America sighed with relief. It was weird, how this… change in their relationship had made him so paranoid. Or maybe part of that was from the war on terror. Either way, it was a weird thing to deal with.
“By the way,” America said a few moments later. “I’m going to forget that I’ve ever heard the words ‘angry-ass dog-spirits.’”
“You do that,” England said.
America shivered once or twice and then promptly did as he’d promised himself and forgot it. He hummed and England was silent through the rest of the bumpy hour back to Rachel. Every now and then America checked to see if he had a cell signal, which he didn’t.
Once they hit smooth pavement road, England seemed to perk up. They followed the deputies into a gravel lot not far from the Ale-E-Inn, then parked and followed them into a little-bitty trailer that was grimy, white metal on the outside and cluttered on the inside with papers and a couple of desks and a computer monitor.
Jones sat at one of the desks while the younger deputy stood outside.
“You two hang loose while I run your IDs. I don’t need to cuff you, do I?” Jones asked.
“No, sir,” America said earnestly. England shuddered and sat.
America checked his cell again, his cell which still showed no signal. Well, he knew where to go to get away from it all, that was for sure. After a few minutes during which he could hear the modem on Jones’s computer firing up and transferring information with beeps and clicks, Jones said, “Hmm. That’s weird.”
America looked at him and tried to smile disingenuously.
“You--” Jones pointed at England-- “have diplomatic… well, anyway, and you, Mister Firth-- when I sent your info, I got a weird reply I ain’t ever seen before. Just says ‘DO NOT HOLD.’ Can you hear the all caps in my voice? Who the hell are you guys?”
America turned up the reassurance-level on his smile. “Just…. guys. On vacation.”
“Uh-huh,” Jones said, shaking his head. “Well, I can’t say I’m not sorry I don’t have to take you to lockup. I got better things to do today. Get on outta here.”
Before America could thank him as profusely as he’d planned, England quirked an eyebrow at him. “Will we make it?”
“Uh,” America said, trying to remember what Pookie’s gas gauge had last read.
“I got a gas can out back. I can give you a couple gallons, enough to get you to Ash Springs, if you promise me to just leave. And to wise up, boy,” he said to America.
“I’m willing to pay for that,” England said, pulling out his wallet.
The gas got them to the convenience store in Ash Springs. America bought sunburn lotion and wondered if a nice, gentle, but sexy rubdown might not be just the thing to get England in the best mood possible, but England waved it off until later. He stood in front of Pookie’s driver’s-side door and held out his hand.
“I’m driving,” he said. He made gimme motions with his fingers.
America handed over the keys, trying not to look too reluctant. “You know we drive on the right side of the road here, right?”
“I know what side of the road to drive on,” England told him as he climbed into the driver’s seat with a wince.
America got in and England proceeded to demonstrate that he did not, in fact, know which side of the road to drive on, because he spent half the drive back to Las Vegas in the left lane, passing every car they came upon. America hadn’t even known that Pookie could reach some of the speeds that England gunned her to, but England had such a crazy smile on his face as he drove that America didn’t want to say anything to break the mood or, truthfully, to distract him as he wove back and forth and dodged semis and--
America closed his eyes and, on the rare occasions that he opened them to try to admire the scenery, he whimpered very quietly.
***
England got them as quickly as he could back to their hotel, cursing at the increased traffic in town, and tossed the keys at the valet. He left America behind to get whatever he wanted out of the car and to tip the valet-- waste of money, in his personal opinion-- and headed for their room. He was going to sleep, and he was going to do it as soon as possible. He might then order some tea and then sleep some more.
America caught up with him when he was waiting for the lift. He had a double-armful of unspeakably grimy tee-shirts and a question in his eyes.
“Still tired,” England told him.
“Gotcha,” America said. Once they were in their room, America dropped the tee-shirts into a pile on the floor. England fell face-forward onto the bed. He didn’t even remove his shoes or his filthy clothing. His pillow smelled freshly laundered and like fabric softener but not a bit like dust, which was absolutely brilliant, in his opinion.
He was just drifting off when he felt a poke in his shoulder. “I’m gonna shower and, uh, make some phone calls,” America said. “Want to join me?”
“On the phone or in the shower?” England mumbled.
“Duh,” America said with an eye-roll in his voice.
England considered the offer for a moment. Or two. And decided to stick with his original plan. “Pardon me. I’m just going to lie here for a few minutes,” he said.
He heard America say okeydoke and then heard the sound of running water and then the next thing he knew, he was being poked again. “Your turn,” America said.
England rolled his head to the side. America was redressed and fresh-looking and damp, and England felt a brief rush of deja-vu. Their adventure had left him feeling like he had the same hangover he’d battled the previous morning.
He considered moving versus not-moving. Eventually he decided that he was probably a bit rank and if he did not bathe soon, it would only ruin the utter freshness of his nice, soft bed.
“Fine. Get tea,” he grumbled, and rolled off the bed. After a moment or two, he added, “Please.”
“Sure thing,” America said, then headed out the door with his mobile pressed to his ear.
England ran a shower that was just cool enough to ease the burn on his backside. When he was finished rubbing grime and bodily fluids off his limbs and out of his crevasses, he felt much better. In fact, in the misty mirror he looked nearly normal, if a little on the pink side, and perhaps pale around the eyes. He wrapped a towel around his waist and exited the bathroom to see that America had returned.
America was holding a Styrofoam cup and a teabag. He was also grinning so widely his lips might crack, and bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he couldn’t contain whatever excitement he was feeling.
England was instantly suspicious. “What’s going on?”
“Here’s your tea,” America said in an overly bright voice, ignoring England’s question. He set the cup and teabag onto a side-table and ran over to rummage in his pile of shirts. His hair had mostly dried and his ridiculous hair-curl was bouncing as if it, too, was excited. “You still look burned! Why don’t I put some of this nice lotion on you--”
“What’s going on?” England repeated.
“Nothing! Ha ha!” America straightened, holding the bottle of green, gooey-looking stuff. He waved it and grinned disingenuously, an expression England knew that America had quite consciously perfected.
Still, America had lovely hands, and personified flesh was weak. A rubdown might feel quite nice.
“I accept your prevarication-- for the moment,” England said. He fell face-forward onto his bed again, arms outflung. “Be gentle, mind.”
He heard the plastic snap of the bottle-cap opening, and a squelchy noise. Then he felt America’s fingers, dabbing something-- “Cold! Cold, you bastard.”
“Should feel good,” America said. “Your burn doesn’t look nearly as bad as it did. But you still have raccoon eyes.”
“Sod off.”
“Ha ha. Just relax.”
England did relax and discovered that America was right: it did feel good. The gel soothed the burn and where his skin had been hot now felt cool. America’s fingertips drew gentle swirls on his skin, over and around his shoulder-blades, then trailed down into the small of his back and lightly over the curve of his arse, just under the edge of his towel.
“I made some really cool lunch plans,” America mentioned, almost offhandedly.
“Not a bloody chance,” England murmured.
“Mm-hmm,” America said, and distracted him by pressing the cool gel flat with his palms and running his hands up and down his sides, then trailing fingertips back to his shoulders.
England pictured America’s fingers doing that, and then pictured them laced with his own fingers last night as they’d made-- being stranded bearable. England realized that his face wasn’t the only thing pressing into the bed-- he was working on an erection. All the sensation was just so pleasant: his back felt cool but his belly pulsed with slow heat.
He moaned a little when America stopped, then felt the mattress dip and shift as America climbed on.
“Mwah,” America said into England’s nape. England felt the heat of America’s breath, puffing against the back of his head as something sifted through his hair.
“What are you doing?” England mumbled into the bedspread.
“Your hair smells so good! Lots better than it did this morning.”
“I should hope so,” England said. He felt soft touches along the very tops of his shoulders, and then little wet swirls that sent his heart-rate soaring. It felt like America was licking him.
He was utterly weak: it took next to nothing to work him up into a state of high arousal, anymore. It was as if his body and soul had stored up every lonely moment of every century and were greedy to make up for lost time.
They hadn’t had nearly enough sex on a bed this trip. In fact, none. England thought perhaps they should rectify that. His limbs were languorous and resisted movement, but if he could work up the energy to roll over, perhaps America could just climb on…
“Why don’tcha turn over,” America whispered, as if reading England’s mind.
England flipped over under the bridge of America’s body and made his prurient intentions known by grabbing America by the neck-- slightly damp and all warm-- and pulled his face down for a kiss-- he tasted like toothpaste. Sweat and toothpaste and apple pie and stars and stripes and everything, the endearing bastard…
He’d worked his hands inside America’s shirt and was groping his clean, glorious skin when America pried himself free of England’s prurient grip. He propped himself out of reach again, grinning like a fool.
“Sorry, ha ha. But you know I still owe you a blow-job, right?”
“Oh, God.” England’s toes tried to curl inside his feet at the mere reminder of it. “Why, yes. I do seem to remember that, now you mention it,” he choked out.
“Because you win at picking out tattoos. How punk,” America said. Still wearing the same saucy smile, he stuck his hand inside the towel covering England’s lower half and retrieved England’s cock in a nice, firm grip, lovely fingers stroking, lovely…
“Now you’re-- ah-- patronizing me,” England said as America pushed at the skin at the tip of his cock. “But if you keep doing that, I’ll forgive you.”
“Or something like it?”
“Indeed.” England found himself transfixed, his whole world centering on America’s fingers, and the way America was grinning like an idiot but staring at him so fixedly. England roused his hand but America guessed what he was planning and did it first: he pulled off his own spectacles and tossed them onto the side-table.
“I know you hate these, or something,” America said.
England caressed America’s face and slipped his thumb into America’s mouth, testing his straight teeth and his hot, slippery tongue. The anticipation of having America’s mouth around his cock would surely outstrip the act itself. “Not so. I just prefer what is underneath them.”
“Oh.” America’s silly grin faded a little. His eyes were intent and searching. “You look the same, too, you know,” he said, in a wondering sort of voice.
England shouldn’t have known what America was talking about, but he did. “Yes.”
“I never thought-- I guess I’m pretty lucky things turned out the way-- well, anyway.”
They both had trouble speaking through the wall of idiocy they lived behind. Still, they spoke the same language in more ways than one and England understood the feeling behind America’s words.
“Yes,” he said again.
“Anyway,” America said again, and regained his smirk before he kissed England’s chin, and then his breastbone, and then scrambled back on his hands and knees to puff hot breaths over England’s cock, already over-sensitized from all the stroking and the suffocating unspoken history and shared affection.
“Oh, God,” England said again, when America wrapped his lips around his cock and laughed, or snorted, or choked, or something. After a moment or two he seemed to sort out his position and propped his hands on the bed. He offered a few test licks and sucks, and England had to force himself to dig his fingers into the bedcovers rather than America’s scalp; the twat was fussing around so. Still, he’d certainly improved his technique, since the first time--
“Ouchmmph,” America said. It seemed England had mistaken the back of one of America’s hands for the bedcovers.
“Ah-- pardon,” England sighed, retrieving his fingernails from America’s skin. He shuddered and ached from the sudden loss of touch, everywhere.
“S’okay. How’s this?” America shifted again and used his fingers, lovely fingers, to return the touch, to stroke what he couldn’t swallow. His breath was hot on England’s hot-cold skin--
England simply breathed in reply. That was all he could hear, his own breaths and his own heart pounding and America’s little mmms of concentration. He wanted to arch his arse off the bed but didn’t, just lay still, and couldn’t complain; it was a gift, surely-- his cock, flushed and rigid, and America’s sheened, pink face and gleaming lips moving around it. Dear heavens.
All was soft under his fingers and hot around his cock and all his blood rushed to his belly and swirled and almost before he knew he was going to, he climaxed, hard. America made a choking noise and it was a few pulsing moments before England realized the softness under his fingers was America’s fair hair. He was holding onto it rather roughly. He let go and America, good lad, swallowed his spend, then eased his mouth gently off England’s flesh. He set his chin on England’s belly and looked up at him.
It was humiliating how long he’d lasted, which was to say, not at all. But America looked so smugly pleased with himself, still pink and shining.
“What did you say?” America asked, his voice a bit hoarse.
“Did I-- ah-- say something?” England mumbled. It had all gone rather blurry there, at the end…
“Oh, maybe not. So how about lunch?”
England laughed, painfully, and swatted America’s ear. “Good, fine,” he said, and breathed while the blood returned to his limbs. “Though didn’t I say that you always try and tell me--”
“It’s a really awesome suggestion, this time,” America said.
“Twat,” England told him. He sat up and adjusted his towel back around his nethers, ridiculous gesture though it was.
“Ha ha. You’ll love it, I promise. You should get dressed, though!” America crawled off the bed backwards. He winced when he stood, and England could clearly see the erection swelling a lump into the front of his trousers.
“That looks painful,” England said, pointing at the obvious.
America waved it off. “I’ll be okay. Go ahead and get dressed! I’ll just go whack off in the bathroom or something.”
England sighed. Then he very calmly swung his legs off the bed and stood. When America dared to look relieved, England tackled him.
“Whoomph,” America said, when England shoved his back against the wall, and then “oh!” when England roughly unbuttoned his trousers and shoved his hand inside. England’s hand was quick and ungentle and America gave England’s shoulders a half-hearted push.
“You don’t-- that wasn’t part of the bet.” America was huffing already, his hips pushing him into England’s hand even as he said it.
“I just like to watch, lad,” England told him, and leaned forward until his tongue was in America’s ear Still he stroked the dry flesh of America’s cock, which was getting slicker from excitement and sweat.
“Oh,” America breathed after a few moments. England squeezed his fingers more tightly as he jerked his hand and licked the inside of America’s ear until he was moaning and clutching England’s shoulders. After a couple of minutes America’s breath grew hitched and ragged.
England slid his tongue across America’s cheek, leaving a shiny trail over his already-shining skin, and propped their foreheads together. That way he could watch all the little things America did when he was about to climax, like the way his eyes went rather unfocused and his mouth went slack…
“Hah. Hah!” America laughed, or moaned, and England felt the sticky slide of semen gumming up his fingers. He was suitably gentle when he let go and gave America a quick kiss on the lips.
“Now I’ll get dressed,” he said, and was quite calm as he walked away to kneel by his suitcase. It was just the way they did things.
America definitely laughed after that. “So outta control,” he said.
“How posh is the demned lunch?” England asked, hoping it was not too posh as he noted the sad, wrinkled state of his good trousers.
“Uh. Casual.”
“Good,” England said, as America went to the bathroom to clean up.
By the time they’d both wiped all evidence of sexual activity off themselves and were fully dressed, or re-dressed as the case may have been, America was adjuring England to hurry, hurry, hurry!
On the way to wherever they were going, America would not answer any of England’s questions, only say “it’s a surprise” to every query. They went down the lift and into the casino, then, instead of going outside, America led them through a door marked “PRIVATE” into a back hallway of the hotel. Then they took a service lift to the roof, and outside was--
“Good God,” England finally said, when he saw-- and heard-- the helicopter. The American military helicopter. It was a newer version of the Boeing AH-64D Apache Longbow, from the looks of it.
“Isn’t it cool?” America said as a uniformed private ushered them into seats. The inside was similar to the Longbows England had seen in Iraq but modified, with some of the insides rearranged to provide passenger space.
“Is this what you wanted me to see?” England sniffed as he strapped in, no matter that he was slightly impressed by what was a very black and very sleek helicopter. “Because it had better be able to travel through time, or something, all the fuss you were making.”
“This is only the ride,” America grinned as the private shut the door and the mad, dangerous whup-whir sound of the blades was first drowned out and then increased as the copter became airborne.
England watched out the tinted window as they flew, at a very high speed, over the giant hotels of the Las Vegas Strip, then over the cookie-cutter sprawl of this ridiculous city in the desert, and then out and over the desert itself. From up high the terrain looked much more flat than England knew, from personal experience, that it was; all brown with only slim, noontime shadows demarking the edges of canyons or mountain ridges.
Looking down into such wide brown was like looking up into the huge sky: wondrous and vast. If only the helicopter did not crash-- both of their prior attempts to visit America’s damned desert military base had been cursed. Perhaps the third time, as they said, would be the charm.
“Can you guess where we’re going?” America asked him, making an attempt to look sly.
“I have an idea,” England said.
“Aww.” America looked thwarted, then hopeful once more.
“The place we tried to get to-- in an almost spectacularly unsuccessful way-- yesterday?”
“Well, shit.” As ever, though, America was not downcast for long. “Never give up, is my motto.”
“Clearly.” England gave America a small smile to offset the dryness of his tone. He also prudently did not mention WMDs or anything of the sort. These people were mad paranoiacs, after all.
They landed a short time later. The ride had been so brief, in fact, that England wondered why they hadn’t tried this method of transport in the first place. They were whisked into a grey-tin building that looked like a much-larger version of the huts in Rachel on the outside, but were huge and full of very high-tech security on the inside. Uniformed men, most of them middle-aged and very hard-looking, greeted them with little ceremony and a great deal of respectful attention: America must have made some phone calls to some very high places.
They saw planes. Very many planes. Inside and outside. Some England had seen before, and many he hadn’t. The most fascinating ones were inside and well-guarded; England was told he’d promptly have to forget them (though he certainly wouldn’t). He hummed interest at all he was shown, partially because of the planes but mostly because America was so visibly excited to be here.
England raised his eyebrows at some ultra-secured doors with strange markings on them, but America whisked him past those.
“You won’t care about that stuff. Ha ha,” America told him, and England agreed that he probably wouldn’t.
Thankfully, they saw no-one that looked like America’s horrible grey companion Tony. England was just starting to feel peckish, and to wonder when the lunch part was going to occur, when America dragged him outdoors once more.
“Now for something cool-- and lunch!”
“Nothing is cool here,” England said. The dirt and concrete they crossed reflected the ever-present sun back onto them, until England was feeling near-baked and gave silent thanks for his sunscreen and slimy, green burn-lotion.
“You know what I mean,” America said. England followed him into another mildly air-conditioned hangar, this one containing what looked like an old C54 Skymaster like they’d used in the 50s and 60s. If a C54 Skymaster had been rebuilt, refurbished and had its landing gear removed.
“This was used in Air Force One,” America said. “Isn’t that neat?”
“Ah,” England said. He’d seen Air Force One planes, many times, in many varieties.
They ascended a metal ramp to the plane’s door. “Are you ready for this? Ha ha!”
“Yes, yes--”
America opened the door onto a… pub? A miniature English pub?
“What in bloody…?” England saw an old, gleaming, wooden bar like hundreds of old wooden bars he’d seen in his own cities, complete with Union Jack on the paneled wall behind it. There were brass taps and a battered dartboard and a telly and a table and--
“What is this?” he asked, sure the bafflement was clear in his voice.
“Isn’t it cool? I guess an old double-U-double-U-two pilot-- one of your RAF boys-- was saved by one of mine, gave his life--” America paused to give a brief air salute. “Anyway, he owned a bar-- pub-- and when he died, he gave everything in it to the Air Force, who had it in storage for awhile ‘cause they didn’t know what to do with it. Finally they installed it on here, for the boss and his visiting dignitaries.”
England goggled. “That’s so ridiculous it’s… extraordinary.” England touched the tables, smelled the old fish-and-chips grease, the ancient ale.
“Right? But it was never used for the boss or his buddies. So the boys here have it. Personally, I thought it was super-cool, but as you know, we can be the place and the people but we can’t make the final decisions. We just become them.”
“True,” England said, and for some reason this bit of rare, audible insight from America made his heart ache. They were so alike in many ways.
England walked over to look at an old, wooden record-player behind the bar. It was not plugged in, but beneath it sat a very modern-looking, multi-disc CD player. America joined him behind the bar and pushed the power button on the CD player. Music started blaring, almost killing the atmosphere with its non-Britishness. It was something American; in fact, it was one of the songs America had been singing yesterday. She was an American girl.
Déjà vu yet again. England rubbed his finger along one of the brass taps.
“Does this-- well, fuck me blind,” he exclaimed when beer, real beer, foamed out of the tap. England stared at America, and smiled until his teeth hurt. “Now I’m truly impressed.”
America handed him one of the Queen’s own pint-glasses. “There are only military rations for lunch, I’m afraid. But the beer is real.”
“No, no. I’m impressed. It’s astonishingly silly, but astonishing nonetheless. You’ve managed it.” England filled two pint glasses, one for each of them. He looked at America’s proud grin and thought about how he’d show his gratitude for it later. He’d make love to him until he couldn’t sit, once they were alone again in their room. At last.
“Yay! At last.” America took his pint and they clinked them together. “Even with just MREs for lunch?”
“A pint of beer, an MRE, and thou, Mister Firth,” England said, and drank.
END.
Thank you for reading! Comments, concrit-- I beg for them, I live for them! All appreciated. :)
Notes: I know nothing about planes or helicopters-- the ones I mentioned were courtesy of Google. And there really is a legend of ghost dogs in the NV desert, poor things. You can read the legend here: http://www.legendsofamerica.com/NV-Eldorado4.html.
Go Back to After All, It Was a Great, Big World: Part 1 of 3
Go Back to After All, It Was a Great, Big World: Part 2 of 3
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Author:
jedishampooPairing: England/America (Hetalia)
Rating: R-l8 (sex, language)
Summary: Sex and silliness in the desert.
Notes: For the kink meme, the prompt “UK/US, sex in a desert.” Here’s the Kink Meme link (yeah, like nobody knew it was me). 19,900 words of silliness and smut, but I loved writing it. Thanks to the OP and to my beta,
sharpeslass!After All, It Was a Great, Big World (Part 3/3)
America woke up and wasn’t sure where he was. His ass hurt. In fact, his whole body was stiff and sore. He opened his eyes, and saw… grey carpet? And a dome-light. Then he remembered they were in the car. In the desert. He didn’t even remember falling asleep.
He’d been dreaming that he was driving one of those old crank-case cars, like the one he’d had a hundred or so years ago. He’d been cranking it and cranking it, trying to get it started while being yelled at by a ghost who had chains clanking all over him, like the ghost in A Christmas Carol. Then he’d been having a drink with Poland, except Poland was a purple frog. They’d been solving a mystery. He’d understood what was wrong with Pookie, and how to fix her. It had all made such sense. And then he’d woken up.
England snored into his shoulder. America realized he had a mouthful of England’s hair, and nudged it out with his tongue. While the rest of his limbs were waking up, he heard a noise, like a distant mechanical vroom.
He patted England, gently. “Wake up! I think someone’s coming.”
“Mwuh,” England said.
America smooched the top of England’s head and then eased it off his shoulder. Then he eased the rest of England off of him. England resisted; America must have made an awesome mattress, even though he had a bit of a morning boner. His Ale-E-Inn tee-shirts were piled all over the two of them. England must have pulled them up like blankets at some point during the night. How sweet.
“Seriously. I think someone’s coming,” America said, a little more loudly. “I wanna, uh, rinse off.” He was covered with things he didn’t think any of his people needed to see, and there was a darned good chance England was, too.
He found his glasses when he was digging in the package of water-bottles. He plopped them on-- they were filthy, too-- and scooted to the edge of the hatchback. His shoes were lying in the dust.
“Shake your shoes out before you put them on. Or you might find a critter biting your toes, ha ha,” he said. He shook his own-- thankfully critter-free-- boots out.
“Mwuh,” England said again, and his leg twitched. “Stop bouncing around.”
“Uh-huh,” America said, tying his shoes. It was a chilly but beautiful morning: the sky was yellow, the landscape was yellow, and when he went over to check that their fire had burned out, he saw that even their silvery-gray Pookie shone like gold in the early sunlight. A little lizard scampered past his feet and off into the rocks. In the distance, he could see what looked like a tiny dust-cloud weaving back and forth along the valley floor.
“I can see something coming!”
England had managed to lift himself to his knees. “Fuck, I hurt. Fuck, bloody fuck.”
“Poor England,” America said, and actually meant it. He splashed some water on his face, then scrambled out of his shirt and poured more water-- cold, cold, cold-- over all the various sticky things on his chest. The cold water took care of his semi-erection, at least. Dripping and shivering, he watched England crawl backwards out of the car.
“Don’t suppose you’ve boiled any tea yet, then?” England said. He did a sort of stiff zombie-walk over to stare down into the remains of the fire.
“Nope. Sorry,” America said. His whole body went all smooshy and tight at the same time, the tight ache most acute in the center of his chest. It hurt, and it had nothing to do with the sex they’d had, or maybe it did.
England had been a real trooper. It was an awesome adventure, after all, but maybe there had been some little unexpected twists, the kind that might usually make England try and choke him to death, or at least bitch at him and then not speak to him for another thirty years. But England was still joking with him.
England must really love him. And there: he’d thought it, though he wouldn’t tell England he had. He’d just have to… hold up his end of the deal.
Smooshy thoughts kept him warm-ish while he splashed water over the rest of himself, exposing as little skin as possible at a time. He finally gave up on rubbing himself dry and re-dressed. He considered putting on a tee-shirt or two under his button-down shirt and then remembered what the tee-shirts had been through.
While England splashed himself off, cursing and shivering, America went to look back into the valley. The little dust-cloud had gotten a bit larger and closer. It was forming itself into the shape of an SUV, trundling up the road. He pointed it out to England.
“We can’t expect a tow, then,” England said. He made faces as he pulled his shirt on over his reddened back.
“Nah. But I sure hope they can help. The first thing we’ll buy when we get to a town is aloe lotion for your back.” America told him in a quiet voice.
England turned to stare at him in mid-wince. He actually grinned, sort of-- well, maybe it was a half-grin. “It feels a bit better, actually,” he said.
America’s heart did a painful little thumpy-thump. “Oh, that’s great!”
“Just a bit, mind,” England said, and drew his thick eyebrows down in a scowl.
“Ha ha,” America said. They stared at each other for a few long moments, like they were considering each other in daylight. England looked rumpled and sort of in pain and… pretty darned adorable, America thought with a bit of a guilty pang. England had always taken ‘buttoned-down’ to near-insane heights and, admittedly, he wore it well. Still, America liked the rare occasions when he loosened up. He thought he might kiss the scowl off England’s face, no matter that his own mouth tasted like dead lizard or something; England’s probably did, too. But then they both heard the vroom of someone gunning a motor close by. The SUV was coming up the hill to their little shelf in the mountain. It was tan-colored, with circular star-markings on the side. America sighed. “Looks like a sheriff’s deputy.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Ah. Good, I think,” America said. He lamented the lack of more proper ID, but as soon as he could get a cell signal, he knew he could straighten everything out. He could have made some sure-to-be-effective calls yesterday, of course, but the thought of an adventure had been so much more appealing. At least, before it had involved sleeping in the car, awesome sex notwithstanding. “But you might try to look non-threatening. Like, uh, keep your hands up…ish.”
England looked at the sheriff’s SUV and his eyebrow-scowl grew. “Are they going to shoot at us?”
“Nah. I just don’t want them to freak.”
“Gun-toting paranoiacs,” England muttered. But he took a nice, nonthreatening stance, anyway.
“Not true,” America said. “We just maintain the right to bear arms. And Canada--”
“Don’t say it--”
But America had gone too far to stop. “--maintains the right to arm bears. Ha ha!”
England sighed. “Silly, this time. Incidentally, that has never been funny.”
“It’s always funny,” America said. He thought about asking what England had meant by silly this time, but he didn’t get a chance; he had to put on his own non-threatening grin as the sheriff’s SUV’s transmission clicked into park. One of the tinted windows opened halfway.
“Lincoln County Sheriff,” a voice announced. “You’re trespassing on private property. I’ll need to see your IDs-- keep your hands where I can see ‘em-- and tell me what you’re doin’ out here.”
They got their IDs-- carefully-- and America walked them over. The window rolled down all the way and America could see the driver, a hefty, middle-aged man in a tan uniform. ‘R. Jones’ was stitched on the pocket below his badge. There was another deputy, younger and slimmer, watching him carefully from the passenger seat. Mr. Jones and his partner were men of service-- America respected that. So he didn’t point out that US lands weren’t really ‘private property.’
“We were on a drive yesterday, sir,” America said. He smiled as he handed over the IDs. “The road was blocked, and then our car broke down--”
“Uh-huh,” R. Jones said. “We got a call that there was a fire up here last night. Usually it’s teenagers or UFO hunters. Are you UFO hunters?”
“Good God, no,” England muttered from behind America.
“Hmm,” Jones said. He looked at their IDs. “Colin Firth, huh? Did you know you got the same name as a British actor? You don’t look like him, though. I oughta know, ‘cause I look at him every day. My wife has a picture of him on our computer desktop. Sure this isn’t fake? Heh.”
“A-hem,” England said, very clearly.
“No sir,” America said to Jones, ignoring England. It wasn’t really a lie; the ID was an ‘official’ fake after all. And how was he to know Colin Firth was so well-known at his place? In retrospect, choosing that name maybe hadn’t been his most awesome idea ever. He’d just wanted to be all incognito for this whirlwind vacation.
Jones copied some information from their IDs. He nodded at England. “Well, you’re a Brit, anyway. You fellas know that this is a private road, owned by Wackenhut Security? It’s clearly marked. And the direction you were headed is Air Force land. So we’ll all just go down to the office in Rachel and I’ll run your IDs there. What’s wrong with your car?”
“I think the fuel line is blocked,” America said, and he heard England’s small wot? of surprise.
“Could be,” Jones said. He waved the back of his hand at America, motioning him to step back. Then both men got out of the car and the young deputy watched them while Jones dug around in the back of the SUV. He pulled out a bottle of fuel additive. “Dust gets in the fuel lines, sometimes. That’s not a very good vehicle for these roads. You have gas?”
“We’ve got. Um. A little under a quarter-tank,” America said. “But it’s a hybrid.”
England sighed and Jones nodded at him, as if in commiseration.
“Not real brainy of ya, all the way out here. Hybrid or not.”
America winced. Not only did he need to make it up to England, he needed to redeem his awesome-itude. He really wanted to make a couple of phone calls.
Instead he tried to start Pookie. Jones listened to her sad, little revs that went nowhere, then nodded and had America pop the gas-cap.
“Where were you boys headed?” he asked as he poured the additive into Pookie’s tank.
“Just out for a drive,” America answered, since England was standing back with his arms crossed and lips zipped into a thin line. “We’re actually staying in Las Vegas.”
“Young guys like yourselves usually want to stay where the lights and booze and girls are,” Jones pointed out.
“I was told I needed to see natural wonders,” England piped in. America gave him a grateful smile.
“We’ve got those,” Jones said. “So you guys ended up out here together? After bein’ from different sides of the pond, and all.”
England answered again. “We’re. Ah. Political colleagues.”
“Uh huh,” Jones said, in a wondering tone.
America wasn’t sure how to feel about that answer, himself. He considered saying, colleagues with major sex benefits, just to get a reaction, but before he could decide if he should, the younger deputy spoke up.
“Didja see the hell-hounds?”
America looked at him, and promptly forgot sex benefits. A shudder he couldn’t explain rippled up his spine. “Hell-hounds?”
“Spirits of dogs that were abandoned with the mines a hundred years ago,” Jones said. “See those old hooks in the rock? Angry-ass dog-spirits, too.”
“I didn’t-- uh--” America began, with a feeling that there was something he should remember.
“They’re well enough, if you speak to them properly,” England said.
Jones cocked an eyebrow at England as if he wasn’t sure how to answer. “Ho-kay. So, Mister Firth, why don’t you try to start this little air-burner?”
America tried the ignition again, trying not to think about spirit-dogs or anything of the sort. And this time, Pookie’s engine vroomed to life with barely a hiccup. “Hooray!” America said, and England hmphed.
Jones ordered them to follow him back down to Rachel. “You’re not gonna try to run away in that thing,” he pointed out, as if America would have tried. He knew how to do things correctly, even if he didn’t always choose the easy path.
Rather than giving America the expected lecture, England climbed into the car, leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t say much, other than that he was bone tired, and please try to hit as few bumps as possible, thank you, and then he seemed to fall asleep. So America drove, carefully, though England grunted whenever he hit a bump or a rock, of which there were many. Yesterday he’d hardly paid attention to the bumps and rocks because England had been so grabby-horny. He’d been in such a good mood!
America needed him in an even better mood if he was to convince him to go one more place before he had to leave tomorrow-- that was, if America’s phone calls were as efficient as he hoped.
And then a novel idea hit America’s brain like a neutrino: he’d just… ask. Just to be sure.
“Hey, are you doing--”
“I’m merely very tired,” England said, with his eyes still closed.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Really?”
“As long as you stop asking, yes.” England’s lips actually curled up at the corners.
“Oh, good.” America sighed with relief. It was weird, how this… change in their relationship had made him so paranoid. Or maybe part of that was from the war on terror. Either way, it was a weird thing to deal with.
“By the way,” America said a few moments later. “I’m going to forget that I’ve ever heard the words ‘angry-ass dog-spirits.’”
“You do that,” England said.
America shivered once or twice and then promptly did as he’d promised himself and forgot it. He hummed and England was silent through the rest of the bumpy hour back to Rachel. Every now and then America checked to see if he had a cell signal, which he didn’t.
Once they hit smooth pavement road, England seemed to perk up. They followed the deputies into a gravel lot not far from the Ale-E-Inn, then parked and followed them into a little-bitty trailer that was grimy, white metal on the outside and cluttered on the inside with papers and a couple of desks and a computer monitor.
Jones sat at one of the desks while the younger deputy stood outside.
“You two hang loose while I run your IDs. I don’t need to cuff you, do I?” Jones asked.
“No, sir,” America said earnestly. England shuddered and sat.
America checked his cell again, his cell which still showed no signal. Well, he knew where to go to get away from it all, that was for sure. After a few minutes during which he could hear the modem on Jones’s computer firing up and transferring information with beeps and clicks, Jones said, “Hmm. That’s weird.”
America looked at him and tried to smile disingenuously.
“You--” Jones pointed at England-- “have diplomatic… well, anyway, and you, Mister Firth-- when I sent your info, I got a weird reply I ain’t ever seen before. Just says ‘DO NOT HOLD.’ Can you hear the all caps in my voice? Who the hell are you guys?”
America turned up the reassurance-level on his smile. “Just…. guys. On vacation.”
“Uh-huh,” Jones said, shaking his head. “Well, I can’t say I’m not sorry I don’t have to take you to lockup. I got better things to do today. Get on outta here.”
Before America could thank him as profusely as he’d planned, England quirked an eyebrow at him. “Will we make it?”
“Uh,” America said, trying to remember what Pookie’s gas gauge had last read.
“I got a gas can out back. I can give you a couple gallons, enough to get you to Ash Springs, if you promise me to just leave. And to wise up, boy,” he said to America.
“I’m willing to pay for that,” England said, pulling out his wallet.
The gas got them to the convenience store in Ash Springs. America bought sunburn lotion and wondered if a nice, gentle, but sexy rubdown might not be just the thing to get England in the best mood possible, but England waved it off until later. He stood in front of Pookie’s driver’s-side door and held out his hand.
“I’m driving,” he said. He made gimme motions with his fingers.
America handed over the keys, trying not to look too reluctant. “You know we drive on the right side of the road here, right?”
“I know what side of the road to drive on,” England told him as he climbed into the driver’s seat with a wince.
America got in and England proceeded to demonstrate that he did not, in fact, know which side of the road to drive on, because he spent half the drive back to Las Vegas in the left lane, passing every car they came upon. America hadn’t even known that Pookie could reach some of the speeds that England gunned her to, but England had such a crazy smile on his face as he drove that America didn’t want to say anything to break the mood or, truthfully, to distract him as he wove back and forth and dodged semis and--
America closed his eyes and, on the rare occasions that he opened them to try to admire the scenery, he whimpered very quietly.
***
England got them as quickly as he could back to their hotel, cursing at the increased traffic in town, and tossed the keys at the valet. He left America behind to get whatever he wanted out of the car and to tip the valet-- waste of money, in his personal opinion-- and headed for their room. He was going to sleep, and he was going to do it as soon as possible. He might then order some tea and then sleep some more.
America caught up with him when he was waiting for the lift. He had a double-armful of unspeakably grimy tee-shirts and a question in his eyes.
“Still tired,” England told him.
“Gotcha,” America said. Once they were in their room, America dropped the tee-shirts into a pile on the floor. England fell face-forward onto the bed. He didn’t even remove his shoes or his filthy clothing. His pillow smelled freshly laundered and like fabric softener but not a bit like dust, which was absolutely brilliant, in his opinion.
He was just drifting off when he felt a poke in his shoulder. “I’m gonna shower and, uh, make some phone calls,” America said. “Want to join me?”
“On the phone or in the shower?” England mumbled.
“Duh,” America said with an eye-roll in his voice.
England considered the offer for a moment. Or two. And decided to stick with his original plan. “Pardon me. I’m just going to lie here for a few minutes,” he said.
He heard America say okeydoke and then heard the sound of running water and then the next thing he knew, he was being poked again. “Your turn,” America said.
England rolled his head to the side. America was redressed and fresh-looking and damp, and England felt a brief rush of deja-vu. Their adventure had left him feeling like he had the same hangover he’d battled the previous morning.
He considered moving versus not-moving. Eventually he decided that he was probably a bit rank and if he did not bathe soon, it would only ruin the utter freshness of his nice, soft bed.
“Fine. Get tea,” he grumbled, and rolled off the bed. After a moment or two, he added, “Please.”
“Sure thing,” America said, then headed out the door with his mobile pressed to his ear.
England ran a shower that was just cool enough to ease the burn on his backside. When he was finished rubbing grime and bodily fluids off his limbs and out of his crevasses, he felt much better. In fact, in the misty mirror he looked nearly normal, if a little on the pink side, and perhaps pale around the eyes. He wrapped a towel around his waist and exited the bathroom to see that America had returned.
America was holding a Styrofoam cup and a teabag. He was also grinning so widely his lips might crack, and bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he couldn’t contain whatever excitement he was feeling.
England was instantly suspicious. “What’s going on?”
“Here’s your tea,” America said in an overly bright voice, ignoring England’s question. He set the cup and teabag onto a side-table and ran over to rummage in his pile of shirts. His hair had mostly dried and his ridiculous hair-curl was bouncing as if it, too, was excited. “You still look burned! Why don’t I put some of this nice lotion on you--”
“What’s going on?” England repeated.
“Nothing! Ha ha!” America straightened, holding the bottle of green, gooey-looking stuff. He waved it and grinned disingenuously, an expression England knew that America had quite consciously perfected.
Still, America had lovely hands, and personified flesh was weak. A rubdown might feel quite nice.
“I accept your prevarication-- for the moment,” England said. He fell face-forward onto his bed again, arms outflung. “Be gentle, mind.”
He heard the plastic snap of the bottle-cap opening, and a squelchy noise. Then he felt America’s fingers, dabbing something-- “Cold! Cold, you bastard.”
“Should feel good,” America said. “Your burn doesn’t look nearly as bad as it did. But you still have raccoon eyes.”
“Sod off.”
“Ha ha. Just relax.”
England did relax and discovered that America was right: it did feel good. The gel soothed the burn and where his skin had been hot now felt cool. America’s fingertips drew gentle swirls on his skin, over and around his shoulder-blades, then trailed down into the small of his back and lightly over the curve of his arse, just under the edge of his towel.
“I made some really cool lunch plans,” America mentioned, almost offhandedly.
“Not a bloody chance,” England murmured.
“Mm-hmm,” America said, and distracted him by pressing the cool gel flat with his palms and running his hands up and down his sides, then trailing fingertips back to his shoulders.
England pictured America’s fingers doing that, and then pictured them laced with his own fingers last night as they’d made-- being stranded bearable. England realized that his face wasn’t the only thing pressing into the bed-- he was working on an erection. All the sensation was just so pleasant: his back felt cool but his belly pulsed with slow heat.
He moaned a little when America stopped, then felt the mattress dip and shift as America climbed on.
“Mwah,” America said into England’s nape. England felt the heat of America’s breath, puffing against the back of his head as something sifted through his hair.
“What are you doing?” England mumbled into the bedspread.
“Your hair smells so good! Lots better than it did this morning.”
“I should hope so,” England said. He felt soft touches along the very tops of his shoulders, and then little wet swirls that sent his heart-rate soaring. It felt like America was licking him.
He was utterly weak: it took next to nothing to work him up into a state of high arousal, anymore. It was as if his body and soul had stored up every lonely moment of every century and were greedy to make up for lost time.
They hadn’t had nearly enough sex on a bed this trip. In fact, none. England thought perhaps they should rectify that. His limbs were languorous and resisted movement, but if he could work up the energy to roll over, perhaps America could just climb on…
“Why don’tcha turn over,” America whispered, as if reading England’s mind.
England flipped over under the bridge of America’s body and made his prurient intentions known by grabbing America by the neck-- slightly damp and all warm-- and pulled his face down for a kiss-- he tasted like toothpaste. Sweat and toothpaste and apple pie and stars and stripes and everything, the endearing bastard…
He’d worked his hands inside America’s shirt and was groping his clean, glorious skin when America pried himself free of England’s prurient grip. He propped himself out of reach again, grinning like a fool.
“Sorry, ha ha. But you know I still owe you a blow-job, right?”
“Oh, God.” England’s toes tried to curl inside his feet at the mere reminder of it. “Why, yes. I do seem to remember that, now you mention it,” he choked out.
“Because you win at picking out tattoos. How punk,” America said. Still wearing the same saucy smile, he stuck his hand inside the towel covering England’s lower half and retrieved England’s cock in a nice, firm grip, lovely fingers stroking, lovely…
“Now you’re-- ah-- patronizing me,” England said as America pushed at the skin at the tip of his cock. “But if you keep doing that, I’ll forgive you.”
“Or something like it?”
“Indeed.” England found himself transfixed, his whole world centering on America’s fingers, and the way America was grinning like an idiot but staring at him so fixedly. England roused his hand but America guessed what he was planning and did it first: he pulled off his own spectacles and tossed them onto the side-table.
“I know you hate these, or something,” America said.
England caressed America’s face and slipped his thumb into America’s mouth, testing his straight teeth and his hot, slippery tongue. The anticipation of having America’s mouth around his cock would surely outstrip the act itself. “Not so. I just prefer what is underneath them.”
“Oh.” America’s silly grin faded a little. His eyes were intent and searching. “You look the same, too, you know,” he said, in a wondering sort of voice.
England shouldn’t have known what America was talking about, but he did. “Yes.”
“I never thought-- I guess I’m pretty lucky things turned out the way-- well, anyway.”
They both had trouble speaking through the wall of idiocy they lived behind. Still, they spoke the same language in more ways than one and England understood the feeling behind America’s words.
“Yes,” he said again.
“Anyway,” America said again, and regained his smirk before he kissed England’s chin, and then his breastbone, and then scrambled back on his hands and knees to puff hot breaths over England’s cock, already over-sensitized from all the stroking and the suffocating unspoken history and shared affection.
“Oh, God,” England said again, when America wrapped his lips around his cock and laughed, or snorted, or choked, or something. After a moment or two he seemed to sort out his position and propped his hands on the bed. He offered a few test licks and sucks, and England had to force himself to dig his fingers into the bedcovers rather than America’s scalp; the twat was fussing around so. Still, he’d certainly improved his technique, since the first time--
“Ouchmmph,” America said. It seemed England had mistaken the back of one of America’s hands for the bedcovers.
“Ah-- pardon,” England sighed, retrieving his fingernails from America’s skin. He shuddered and ached from the sudden loss of touch, everywhere.
“S’okay. How’s this?” America shifted again and used his fingers, lovely fingers, to return the touch, to stroke what he couldn’t swallow. His breath was hot on England’s hot-cold skin--
England simply breathed in reply. That was all he could hear, his own breaths and his own heart pounding and America’s little mmms of concentration. He wanted to arch his arse off the bed but didn’t, just lay still, and couldn’t complain; it was a gift, surely-- his cock, flushed and rigid, and America’s sheened, pink face and gleaming lips moving around it. Dear heavens.
All was soft under his fingers and hot around his cock and all his blood rushed to his belly and swirled and almost before he knew he was going to, he climaxed, hard. America made a choking noise and it was a few pulsing moments before England realized the softness under his fingers was America’s fair hair. He was holding onto it rather roughly. He let go and America, good lad, swallowed his spend, then eased his mouth gently off England’s flesh. He set his chin on England’s belly and looked up at him.
It was humiliating how long he’d lasted, which was to say, not at all. But America looked so smugly pleased with himself, still pink and shining.
“What did you say?” America asked, his voice a bit hoarse.
“Did I-- ah-- say something?” England mumbled. It had all gone rather blurry there, at the end…
“Oh, maybe not. So how about lunch?”
England laughed, painfully, and swatted America’s ear. “Good, fine,” he said, and breathed while the blood returned to his limbs. “Though didn’t I say that you always try and tell me--”
“It’s a really awesome suggestion, this time,” America said.
“Twat,” England told him. He sat up and adjusted his towel back around his nethers, ridiculous gesture though it was.
“Ha ha. You’ll love it, I promise. You should get dressed, though!” America crawled off the bed backwards. He winced when he stood, and England could clearly see the erection swelling a lump into the front of his trousers.
“That looks painful,” England said, pointing at the obvious.
America waved it off. “I’ll be okay. Go ahead and get dressed! I’ll just go whack off in the bathroom or something.”
England sighed. Then he very calmly swung his legs off the bed and stood. When America dared to look relieved, England tackled him.
“Whoomph,” America said, when England shoved his back against the wall, and then “oh!” when England roughly unbuttoned his trousers and shoved his hand inside. England’s hand was quick and ungentle and America gave England’s shoulders a half-hearted push.
“You don’t-- that wasn’t part of the bet.” America was huffing already, his hips pushing him into England’s hand even as he said it.
“I just like to watch, lad,” England told him, and leaned forward until his tongue was in America’s ear Still he stroked the dry flesh of America’s cock, which was getting slicker from excitement and sweat.
“Oh,” America breathed after a few moments. England squeezed his fingers more tightly as he jerked his hand and licked the inside of America’s ear until he was moaning and clutching England’s shoulders. After a couple of minutes America’s breath grew hitched and ragged.
England slid his tongue across America’s cheek, leaving a shiny trail over his already-shining skin, and propped their foreheads together. That way he could watch all the little things America did when he was about to climax, like the way his eyes went rather unfocused and his mouth went slack…
“Hah. Hah!” America laughed, or moaned, and England felt the sticky slide of semen gumming up his fingers. He was suitably gentle when he let go and gave America a quick kiss on the lips.
“Now I’ll get dressed,” he said, and was quite calm as he walked away to kneel by his suitcase. It was just the way they did things.
America definitely laughed after that. “So outta control,” he said.
“How posh is the demned lunch?” England asked, hoping it was not too posh as he noted the sad, wrinkled state of his good trousers.
“Uh. Casual.”
“Good,” England said, as America went to the bathroom to clean up.
By the time they’d both wiped all evidence of sexual activity off themselves and were fully dressed, or re-dressed as the case may have been, America was adjuring England to hurry, hurry, hurry!
On the way to wherever they were going, America would not answer any of England’s questions, only say “it’s a surprise” to every query. They went down the lift and into the casino, then, instead of going outside, America led them through a door marked “PRIVATE” into a back hallway of the hotel. Then they took a service lift to the roof, and outside was--
“Good God,” England finally said, when he saw-- and heard-- the helicopter. The American military helicopter. It was a newer version of the Boeing AH-64D Apache Longbow, from the looks of it.
“Isn’t it cool?” America said as a uniformed private ushered them into seats. The inside was similar to the Longbows England had seen in Iraq but modified, with some of the insides rearranged to provide passenger space.
“Is this what you wanted me to see?” England sniffed as he strapped in, no matter that he was slightly impressed by what was a very black and very sleek helicopter. “Because it had better be able to travel through time, or something, all the fuss you were making.”
“This is only the ride,” America grinned as the private shut the door and the mad, dangerous whup-whir sound of the blades was first drowned out and then increased as the copter became airborne.
England watched out the tinted window as they flew, at a very high speed, over the giant hotels of the Las Vegas Strip, then over the cookie-cutter sprawl of this ridiculous city in the desert, and then out and over the desert itself. From up high the terrain looked much more flat than England knew, from personal experience, that it was; all brown with only slim, noontime shadows demarking the edges of canyons or mountain ridges.
Looking down into such wide brown was like looking up into the huge sky: wondrous and vast. If only the helicopter did not crash-- both of their prior attempts to visit America’s damned desert military base had been cursed. Perhaps the third time, as they said, would be the charm.
“Can you guess where we’re going?” America asked him, making an attempt to look sly.
“I have an idea,” England said.
“Aww.” America looked thwarted, then hopeful once more.
“The place we tried to get to-- in an almost spectacularly unsuccessful way-- yesterday?”
“Well, shit.” As ever, though, America was not downcast for long. “Never give up, is my motto.”
“Clearly.” England gave America a small smile to offset the dryness of his tone. He also prudently did not mention WMDs or anything of the sort. These people were mad paranoiacs, after all.
They landed a short time later. The ride had been so brief, in fact, that England wondered why they hadn’t tried this method of transport in the first place. They were whisked into a grey-tin building that looked like a much-larger version of the huts in Rachel on the outside, but were huge and full of very high-tech security on the inside. Uniformed men, most of them middle-aged and very hard-looking, greeted them with little ceremony and a great deal of respectful attention: America must have made some phone calls to some very high places.
They saw planes. Very many planes. Inside and outside. Some England had seen before, and many he hadn’t. The most fascinating ones were inside and well-guarded; England was told he’d promptly have to forget them (though he certainly wouldn’t). He hummed interest at all he was shown, partially because of the planes but mostly because America was so visibly excited to be here.
England raised his eyebrows at some ultra-secured doors with strange markings on them, but America whisked him past those.
“You won’t care about that stuff. Ha ha,” America told him, and England agreed that he probably wouldn’t.
Thankfully, they saw no-one that looked like America’s horrible grey companion Tony. England was just starting to feel peckish, and to wonder when the lunch part was going to occur, when America dragged him outdoors once more.
“Now for something cool-- and lunch!”
“Nothing is cool here,” England said. The dirt and concrete they crossed reflected the ever-present sun back onto them, until England was feeling near-baked and gave silent thanks for his sunscreen and slimy, green burn-lotion.
“You know what I mean,” America said. England followed him into another mildly air-conditioned hangar, this one containing what looked like an old C54 Skymaster like they’d used in the 50s and 60s. If a C54 Skymaster had been rebuilt, refurbished and had its landing gear removed.
“This was used in Air Force One,” America said. “Isn’t that neat?”
“Ah,” England said. He’d seen Air Force One planes, many times, in many varieties.
They ascended a metal ramp to the plane’s door. “Are you ready for this? Ha ha!”
“Yes, yes--”
America opened the door onto a… pub? A miniature English pub?
“What in bloody…?” England saw an old, gleaming, wooden bar like hundreds of old wooden bars he’d seen in his own cities, complete with Union Jack on the paneled wall behind it. There were brass taps and a battered dartboard and a telly and a table and--
“What is this?” he asked, sure the bafflement was clear in his voice.
“Isn’t it cool? I guess an old double-U-double-U-two pilot-- one of your RAF boys-- was saved by one of mine, gave his life--” America paused to give a brief air salute. “Anyway, he owned a bar-- pub-- and when he died, he gave everything in it to the Air Force, who had it in storage for awhile ‘cause they didn’t know what to do with it. Finally they installed it on here, for the boss and his visiting dignitaries.”
England goggled. “That’s so ridiculous it’s… extraordinary.” England touched the tables, smelled the old fish-and-chips grease, the ancient ale.
“Right? But it was never used for the boss or his buddies. So the boys here have it. Personally, I thought it was super-cool, but as you know, we can be the place and the people but we can’t make the final decisions. We just become them.”
“True,” England said, and for some reason this bit of rare, audible insight from America made his heart ache. They were so alike in many ways.
England walked over to look at an old, wooden record-player behind the bar. It was not plugged in, but beneath it sat a very modern-looking, multi-disc CD player. America joined him behind the bar and pushed the power button on the CD player. Music started blaring, almost killing the atmosphere with its non-Britishness. It was something American; in fact, it was one of the songs America had been singing yesterday. She was an American girl.
Déjà vu yet again. England rubbed his finger along one of the brass taps.
“Does this-- well, fuck me blind,” he exclaimed when beer, real beer, foamed out of the tap. England stared at America, and smiled until his teeth hurt. “Now I’m truly impressed.”
America handed him one of the Queen’s own pint-glasses. “There are only military rations for lunch, I’m afraid. But the beer is real.”
“No, no. I’m impressed. It’s astonishingly silly, but astonishing nonetheless. You’ve managed it.” England filled two pint glasses, one for each of them. He looked at America’s proud grin and thought about how he’d show his gratitude for it later. He’d make love to him until he couldn’t sit, once they were alone again in their room. At last.
“Yay! At last.” America took his pint and they clinked them together. “Even with just MREs for lunch?”
“A pint of beer, an MRE, and thou, Mister Firth,” England said, and drank.
END.
Thank you for reading! Comments, concrit-- I beg for them, I live for them! All appreciated. :)
Notes: I know nothing about planes or helicopters-- the ones I mentioned were courtesy of Google. And there really is a legend of ghost dogs in the NV desert, poor things. You can read the legend here: http://www.legendsofamerica.com/NV-Eldorado4.html.
Go Back to After All, It Was a Great, Big World: Part 1 of 3
Go Back to After All, It Was a Great, Big World: Part 2 of 3
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Date: 2010-05-14 01:52 pm (UTC)Thank you bunches for reading and commenting!!
Edited for typos, duh!