Pairing: Alfred (America)/Arthur (England)
Disclaimer: Not mine
Word Count: 1386
Summary: America convinces England to wear a kilt, with predictably steamy results.
Warnings: Clothing kink
“You insensitive twat!” England screamed, as he hurled a book near a particularly sensitive area of America’s body. More sensitive than usual, considering he was not wearing clothes. He dodged the novel –Sense and Sensibility, amusingly—easily enough, but blanched when he saw England going for The Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
“It’s just a kilt, Arthur!” At that, England narrowed his eyes. He was perched on the bed, awash in a swirl of blankets. In spite of the flushed cheeks and mussed hair, he looked absolutely terrifying. America was suddenly very grateful to not be French.
“Just a kilt?” he hissed. America nodded, wide-eyed. “Don’t pretend to be all innocent, Alfred. You only want me to wear it because…” He reddened. “Because it reminds you of a skirt.” He looked genuinely furious. America hastened to dissuade him.
“That’s not it, I swear! It’s just, it’s for another reason!”
England regarded him suspiciously. “What reason?”
America glanced at his feet. “I’ve, uh, I’ve been watching some of the Highland games, and I’ve become very…” he coughed awkwardly, “very fond of the kilt.” He looked up, catching England’s eye. The older nation scoffed, but the blind fury seemed to have left him. He reclined back into the bed and motioned for America to join him.
“I still think you’re an insensitive twat,” he muttered, as America slipped in beside him. “Maybe not in this case, particularly, but still insensitive.”
“I thought you wanted me to communicate more.”
“Communicate, not subject me to your perverted fantasies.”
America laughed and pulled England forward, until their foreheads touched, lightly. England could feel America’s breath across his face as he laughed. “Arthur,” he whispered, amused, “you really shouldn’t joke about perverted fantasies. After all…” He leaned forward, impossibly close to England’s mouth. “I still remember how much you loved that little colonial game we played.” He grinned impishly. “The dashing British soldier ravishes the rebel American, wasn’t it?”
He had seen England flush before, but the poor nation was absolutely beet-red. He frowned, trying to compose himself. “You enjoyed it just as much, as I recall.”
“I did! And I know you’ll enjoy the kilt just as much, I swear it. Just, please, give it a chance.” He smiled, shy but glowing with a youthful eagerness; England was powerless to resist. That damnable charm had been a problem since the 1600s. “Fine,” he grumbled, “but if I don’t like it, we’re stopping. “ He paused. “Do you accept these terms, American?”
Alfred’s face split into a wide grin. “Gladly. Give me a sec, and I’ll grab the kilt.” He sprung from the bed and sprinted out of the bedroom. England, hearing him rummaging through one of the adjoining rooms, was suddenly concerned for the well-being of his furniture; a hurried America inevitably resulted in something broken.
A loud “AH HAH!” came from down the hall, and America came bounding back in with all the grace of a dog after its own tail. “Found it!” he exclaimed, waving a rumpled heap of clothing in the air like some sort of victory medal. He unfurled it triumphantly. England reached over and snatched it, inspecting it with a shrewd look. “I never found tartan to be a flattering pattern,” he intoned monotonously. Peeking up through shaggy hair, he motioned for America to turn around. He did so quickly, and England began pulling on the kilt.
America bounced lightly on his heels. “Hurry up, Arthur. It’s too cold out of the bed.”
“Stop being so impatient!” he snapped irritably. Adjusting himself, he sighed out “feel free to turn around, now.”
Happily, Alfred spun around, and felt his jaw drop. His playfulness evaporated as his internal temperature skyrocketed. “Arthur…” he murmured, flushed. England was sprawled out on the bed, ivory skin flushed with pink, hair tussled artfully. His hands fluttered over his chest, obviously nervous under such overt scrutiny and unsure how to conduct himself. He was the perfect, living embodiment of classic English beauty. And the kilt…
The kilt was slung low on his hips, loosely hugging England’s slight frame and leaving no doubt as to whether he was enjoying the attention. America eyed the erection sprung up under the fabric. He swallowed audibly.
“I’m sure I look rather silly,” he said, voice slightly higher than normal. “O-one of your stupider ideas—”
“Arthur,” America growled out. “Stop talking.”
And he lunged.
“Oof!” England suddenly found himself crushed beneath a very excited, very naked America. He shuddered as a hand slipped beneath his kilt and gripped him tightly. “Oh God, Arthur,” America groaned into his ear. “You have no idea how much I need you right now.” He shuddered as the younger nation thrust forward tactlessly, rubbing his erection against England’s hip. This was the quintessential America—bold, willing, and impatient. England was far too aroused by all of this to end it so quickly. Steeling himself, he pushed away the hand pawing at his cock.
America pulled back. “What’s wrong?” he asked, concern etched across his face.
“I thought I’d let you catch your breath,” he panted, “before I did this.” He caught a surprised America about the waist with his legs and rolled the taller nation onto his back. Now firmly on top, he gave his most wolfish smirk. Beneath him, America smiled. He reached up to grab England, but his arms were quickly pinned down above his head. England held his wrists together, vice-like.
“I’m wearing the kilt. You are letting me take control of the situation.”
Alfred nodded, wide-eyed.
Satisfied, he released his hold on America’s wrists. True to his word, his arms stayed put. He eyed the Brit eagerly. Arthur could feel said eagerness, wet and hard against his backside. He shifted forward. “I had no idea how much a silly piece of clothing could affect you,” he purred. “Best keep you away from Scotland.” He bent down and kissed him, harsh and possessive. Watching America writhe beneath him—chest heaving, pupils dilated, utterly and completely wanton—it was too much. America keened when he broke the kiss. “Bedside stand, top drawer. Grab the oil,” England choked out. He watched Alfred fumble around before pulling out a small, clear jar. He shoved it at Arthur, who unscrewed the cap immediately. He dabbed his fingers into the oil, irritated at this slight delay. As he reached beneath the kilt to prepare himself, he felt America’s erection bob behind him.
He opened himself with a small wince. Satisfied, he poured out a bit more and coated his partner liberally. “I know how you get,” he chastised. “Too eager for your own good.”
“Don’t beg.” He lifted himself over America and gripped his cock. He dropped down, impaling himself. Wet heat filed him, and for a moment England was absolutely blissful.
Then he rocked forward, and his world jackknifed. “God,” he shuddered, “God, Alfred.” The fabric of the kilt rubbed against him as he rolled himself over America, who rose to meet him ravenously. He was consumed, totally and completely, by sensory ecstasy. They rutted together, wordless, harmonious, and England was struck by how ineffably perfect life could be, if you pushed just right.
As France would gladly tell you, England had always been greedy. He pushed for more.
“Touch me, idiot,” he moaned.” Hands rested on his hips, far too lightly. “Tighter.” He could feel nails digging into his flesh, hard enough to bruise. He sucked in a breath. One hand dropped to finger the fabric, deliriously soft. He felt himself stiffen, and with a strangled groan he came.
He felt America thicken inside him before spilling out, hot and wet. They both stilled, absolutely satiated. England was the first to regain the semblance of life, and he eased himself off of America. He plopped down onto the bed.
“Arthur, would you mind…”
He closed his eyes and waved America forward. “Go on, then.” He was immediately engulfed in strong arms and pulled against a broad chest. “I love you, Arthur,” America mumbled into his hair. He continued to play with the kilt. “France sure was right about the kilt.”
England fell absolutely still.
Realizing his mistake, America braced tightened his grip on the Englishman, bracing himself for a monumental hissy-fit. “Wait, Arthur—”
“Remind me to send him some flowers."