I only just realized that I hadn't posted this here yet. Huh. Oh well, better late than never? This was written for this kinkmeme prompt: "America attempts to clean out the storage (again) and finds an old redcoat uniform. England gave the uniform to young!America when the latter really admired the British army, but it was a larger size so America could grow into it. For nostalgia or other reasons, America goes to his bedroom and puts on the uniform - and it fits really well and looks pretty good on him (awesome). England or some other Nation (France or Canada?) either walks in on America or finds pictures of America in the uniform. Embarrassed!America and sexytimes ensue. Bottom!America preferred."
Disclaimer: Not mine, wish they were.
Warnings: Human names with occasional switchoffs, male-on-male sex, America in a British uniform
It was something Arthur had never expected to see. Of all things, never this.
He had just stopped by Alfred's place, a quick, unannounced visit while he was coming back from a trip to visit Matthew. After several knocks going unanswered, this being one of Alfred's older houses and therefore not possessing a doorbell, Arthur dug out spare keys from under the flowerpot where Alfred kept the extra set and let himself in.
"Alfred? Are you here?" he called. No answer. It wasn't as if it was quiet, the radio buzzed on low volume in the living room, a few drips of water filtered through coffee grounds to splash into the pot, and a window was open to let in the ambient noise of a spring day. But still, no Alfred.
A board creaked upstairs. A-hah, there you are. Up the stairs, check his room, not there, study, not there, well where was he? The board creaked again, closer but still above him. The attic? Why there…spring cleaning maybe? He walked down the hallway to the pull-down stairs that led to the attic, oak floor creaking lightly with every step he took. This house, while well-cared for, still showed signs of age. The stairs were down, allowing Arthur to scale them with little noise. What he saw when he cleared the top step and turned, however, nearly sent him tumbling back down them in shock.
Alfred, with his back turned towards Arthur. Alfred, facing a long mirror. Alfred, completely enraptured with running his fingertips delicately up and down the front of the clothes he was wearing.
Alfred, in the distinctive red-coated uniform of a British infantry officer.
This was impossible, this was unthinkable, this was… arousing. Arthur swallowed convulsively as he felt the telltale heat of a blush creeping across his cheeks. He couldn't tear his eyes from it, from him. Alfred, in one of England's army's coats, much less one that dated from back in his colonial days, was something that Arthur had once, long ago, anticipated seeing. The Revolution had changed all of that, but not the fact that Arthur had had a coat made for Alfred, tailored larger than the boy had currently been, for it was obvious that he had not grown into his full height. He remembered commissioning that coat, 50th regiment wasn't it? Yes, yes he could see the distinctive marking colors: black facings on cuffs, collar, and coat front that made the scarlet seem even brighter, white breeches, waistcoat and lining, shining little pewter buttons with the number 50 stamped upon them, and the white buttonhole lace with its thin red stripe. He knew, even if the hat was here somewhere out of sight, that the decorative trim would be silver. I never thought he would have kept it.
A startled gasp jerked him from his reverie. Arthur blinked and flicked his eyes upward, immediately catching sight of Alfred's face, expression open and startled as he paused mid-turn, obviously having only just noticed Arthur standing there.
"A-Arthur! What are you doing here? I mean, not that it's not great to see you and all, it's been – what, two months? Hey, you're looking a little tired, how 'bout I go down and make you some tea? I promise not to oversteep it this time and I still have some of the Yorkshire Gold that you left here last time, that's caffeinated, right? I –"
"Alfred. Stop babbling." Arthur stalked forward, not even trying to hide the growing bulge in his pants as he advanced upon the other Nation. Alfred stopped mid-sentence and stood stock-still, limbs trembling slightly in – was that embarrassment or excitement? No matter. Arthur's long fingers reached out to snatch a lapel and drag Alfred closer as his other hand danced across the linen waistcoat, teasingly slipping up just under where the coat parted. "So this is what you do when I'm gone?"
A light pink hue, nowhere near as bright as the blush Arthur occasionally sported, spread across the younger man's cheekbones. "Well, 's not like we can be together all the time, a-and… well, I mean, not just anyone can be as kinky as you all the time, and…uh…"
"Mmm? What?" Arthur purred, single-handedly undoing the waistcoat buttons from the bottom up, revealing the thin white undershirt. He leaned up, breath tickling the skin of Alfred's neck as he nibbled along the curve of his lover's ear, eliciting a stifled groan.
"A hero's gotta stand alone most of the time, y'know, and… sometimes… erm…" The heat of the blush across tanned cheeks rose, just a little. Alfred picked at his cuffs for a moment before he breathed out in a rush, "I-itremindsmeofyou. When I'm lonely. Which isn't often! But… yeah. And I don't – I don't do anything in it. Really! It – it's not what you're probably thinking…"
Oh really? Arthur held his former charge at arm's length and raked his gaze up and down Alfred's body with half-lidded eyes. "Shall we remedy that then?" The involuntary twitch that ran through Alfred's entire body gave him his answer. A few deft flicks undid the hook-and-eye clasps that kept the coat together, parting black to display a sliver of ivory. Unbuttoning the last few holes of the waistcoat, Arthur pushed the redcoat from Alfred's shoulders. "Turn," he commanded, and Alfred did so, the coat falling from him into the older Nation's arms.
Placing the coat over the back of a nearby chair, Arthur tugged Alfred into the seat. Taking the front of the waistcoat, he pulled it open, slipping it off of the other man. Next was the undershirt, untucked from the breeches and over his head, then flung to the side without much of a care. Good thing he's been cleaning. Stripped from the waist up, Alfred reached back to grab the redcoat, languidly sliding back into it and giving each cuff a tug to make sure the sleeves were all the way down.
Arthur trailed an appreciative hand from the coat collar down to the newly displayed plains of golden skin. Good God you're beautiful. And all mine… Sliding a light touch across firm pectoral muscles, the ex-Empire was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath when his fingertips found a nipple. He smirked and pinched the rapidly hardening nub before brushing just the pads of his fingers over the peak. Alfred arched into his hand with a sharp gasp, tightly clenching the arms of the chair. "Haaah… not bad, old man," Alfred smirked down at him through the curtain of sun-kissed hair that had fallen before his eyes. "But I think you're losin' your touch. That ain't half as good as I think I remember it bein'. Y'might have to do it again."
"Oh, really? Well, sorry to displease you, brat, but I have other plans…" and he dug his nails in, scraping ruthlessly over the nipple and dragging them down the expanse of Alfred's body as he knelt between the American's spread knees, ignoring the harsh outcry from the larger man and stopping as his fingers hooked into the waistband of Alfred's tight breeches. Methodically, he worked at the laces, tugging and pulling each string with enough force that he knew that Alfred was feeling it even through the taut fabric. He pulled loose the last string, yanking the breeches open, freeing Alfred's straining erection. He was almost fully hard, and Arthur delicately stroked the vein on the underside of his cock with the back of a single finger, feeling Alfred quiver at the solitary touch.
He looked up to his young lover and marveled at the sight. Alfred's face was still lightly flushed with pink and he was biting his lower lip, chin pressed to his shoulder in an effort not to moan. Sunlight filtered in through the old glass panes, catching the blonde of his hair and the tan of his skin and giving his whole body a golden sheen. Arthur stood, resting his hands on the chair arms just behind Alfred's elbows. Leaning forward, he placed a kiss at the corner of Alfred's lips.
"Do you know how gorgeous you are right now, all laid out before me? The most beautiful land on this planet, which I am allowed to explore." Eyes the color of Arthur's seas met ones the shade of Alfred's forests. "Will you take pity on this poor wanderer and provide him with a map? Or must I survey one out myself?" Arthur asked, his hands straying to the waistband of the breeches again.
Alfred levered himself out of the chair, his body molding flush with Arthur's. "I'm sure we can work out something…" He smiled. "After all, there's always the, ah, unexplored wilderness to investigate…"
"No time to waste then, as such an expedition should be undertaken immediately." Pushing down on Alfred's shoulders, Arthur directed the other Nation to lay on the floor. He smirked and jerked on the breeches, dragging them out of the high leather boots and, with a little difficulty, over said boots and off entirely before stepping back to admire his handiwork.
Oh, yes, this WILL be fun…
Alfred could imagine the picture he made; divested of his breeches, shirt, and waistcoat, the only things that kept him from complete nakedness as he lay trembling with desire under Arthur's piercing, heated gaze were the leather boots that clung firmly to his calves and the vibrant red coat, that damned, beautiful coat, red as the stripes in both of their flags, darker than the sunset but brighter than blood. You can never truly leave the British Empire.
He lay there, waiting with mounting frustration as Arthur seemed content to simply take in the sight before him. The older Nation had seemed so eager before, why was he taking so long now? Alfred began to growl low in his throat. "Arthur, wh…ahh-mmmpf!"
He should have remembered that where others went for sheer power, England, as a country and as a man, was quite happy to rely on tactics and speed over brute force. As soon as Alfred opened his mouth, Arthur was there, crushing his lips to the teen Nation's own, teeth clacking and tongue invading, plundering the cavern of Alfred's mouth, the tip of the older man's wicked tongue flicking against the soft palate, prodding and twining with Alfred's as he began to kiss back.
They dueled with a delicately furious thrust and parry, and when they separated for air Alfred caught Arthur's retreating mouth with a nip just sharp enough to draw blood. He watched, entranced, as Arthur brought up his thumb to swipe away the blood pearling on his lower lip, before reaching forward with the same hand to draw his fingertips along his ex-colony's jawline, tracing the soft curve before gripping Alfred's chin and placing his bloodied thumb upon the younger's parted lips, flushed pink and swollen from the kiss.
Obediently, he followed the unspoken command and drew the red-stained digit, red, red like the coat, but not, into his mouth, and there was no copper taste, no bloody tang. Arthur was the United Kingdom, and his blood tasted of the sea, wind coming down off of the mountains, the Royal Gardens, and the faint but ever-present traces of tar, wood, and gunpowder. Once he had cleaned Arthur's finger, greedily sucking on it and swirling his tongue around it, delighting in the way green eyes darkened with lustful pleasure, Alfred leaned forward to lap away the bloody residue on the lip he had bitten, Arthur's hand falling to cup the back of his head, nails scraping the nape of his neck, fingers twining through the short hairs there. The other hand steadied the small of his back as Arthur dipped him down, laying him on his back.
They kissed again, this time at a languid pace with England in firm control. The hand at Alfred's back slipped out to trace a steady path of feather-light caresses across his torso, almost light enough to be ticklish. The wool of the coat scratched Alfred's hypersensitized skin, and he clenched his hands reflexively in the black fabric of the cuffs. His breath hitched as Arthur's wandering fingers danced across his stomach, playing with his bellybutton and following the fine trail of blond hair that led down to…
Alfred arched into the other Nation's still-clothed body with a gasp as that warm hand cupped his groin. Arthur chuckled, a deep, dark rumble that Alfred could feel against his cheek, thunder heralding the storm, before dipping to nuzzle Alfred's neck, the golden expanse laid bare with Alfred's head thrown back in submission. Shudders and the occasional wanton moan escaped Alfred as his throat was assaulted, coupled with the hand still teasing his vital regions. Arthur's fingertips ghosted over his straining cock with a torturously light brush, moving to slide over the sensitive junction of leg and hip even as the former Empire claimed the territory along Alfred's collarbone with his mouth, kissing, lapping, sucking.
Alfred thought he might go quite mad. He was hard, almost painfully so, and Arthur was… nn-aaaah… Arthur still wasn't touching him… ah!... anywhere near… He gasped as he felt Arthur's hand tangle in dark blond curls, the fingers rolling and kneading his balls. The sensation sent waves of heated pleasure rolling up Alfred's spine. By the Fathers, it felt good, but he wanted more.
"A-Arth… England, please… I…"
He could feel Arthur's smirk from where the man's lips were pressed into the soft underside of his jaw. "Impatient, are we?"
Alfred hissed as Arthur left a trail of sharp bites down his neck, nosing the scarlet fabric of the coat until it was half-hanging off of his shoulder. "Yes. Yes I am. Either touch me or fuck me, damn it, or I'll flip us over and ride you into the ground."
That finally merited a response. Arthur sucked in a deep breath and leaned back, unbuttoning his jacket and flinging it over his shoulder to land somewhere out of sight, but it's too slow, still too slow, for Alfred, who reached up to grab the front and collar of the immaculately pressed white dress shirt that Arthur wore and yanked. Buttons flew, pinging against the wooden floor as they landed. Arthur himself was pulled forward, overbalanced, and landed firmly against Alfred's chest, hands falling to either side of him. Alfred took the golden opportunity presented to him and grabbed Arthur's slim hips, thrusting upward, grinding against the bulge in the smaller Nation's pants.
Arthur snarled, and with a bite to Alfred's shoulder that would ache for days, but nevertheless caused Alfred to yelp and loosen his grip, slid to the side and upwards, standing shakily and shimmying out of his shoes and pants in record time before crouching before Alfred and spreading his ex-colony's long, tanned legs, pausing for only a moment to give Alfred a smoldering up-and-down glance before shifting forward. Eagerly, Alfred canted his hips upward. Arthur supported him with one hand, the other reaching down to unceremoniously enter Alfred, a single finger breaching the tight ring of muscle, curling and extending. Stars flashed before the teen's eyes, his hands clenching on Arthur's scarred shoulders. A second finger now, and a third. The stretch and burn was glorious, exhilarating, but still not enough.
"Arthur…" he gasped, "in-inside me, now, I'm ready, I'm ready, fuck me, Britannia..."
For a second, he couldn't hear Arthur breathe. Then he was there, right in his face. Arthur's lips brushed his own with every reverently spoken word;
"Only you, my dearest Columbia…"
And then Arthur was fully sheathed inside him with one swift motion. A cry burst forth from Alfred's throat as he was pounded into with merciless thrusts. So full… He could feel Arthur inside him, stretching him. Every now and then, with increasing frequency, the other Nation's invasion would hit that spot deep within him that made fireworks burst in front of his eyes and his body tremble with pleasure. He clamped down hard around Arthur, drawing a shuddering moan from him as well.
Lifting his still-booted feet, Alfred wrapped his long legs around Arthur's waist, the soft leather of the boots gliding smoothly over defined hip bones before hooking together at the ankle, resting tightly in the curve of Arthur's back. Arthur, bracing both himself and Alfred, moved to finally, finally give attention to Alfred's cock, grasping tightly, plying the head and slit with rough strokes, dragging a sharp nail over the thick vein. Alfred grabbed the chair leg for support as he arched off of the floor, his free hand scrabbling for purchase on the floor and finding none. Arthur slowed his pace for a moment to rebalance, bringing his other hand up and back to grab Alfred's shin, kneading leather-encased muscle in time with his thrusts as they came slower, but harder, deeper, until Alfred felt as if his entire being were filled, filled with Arthur, England, until he couldn't tell whether he was States or Kingdom but very much United.
He buried his head in Arthur's neck when he came, clasping him tight to his convulsing body with legs and arms and sheer will as Arthur gave a throaty roar and spilled his release inside of him, both of them collapsing in a limp, boneless heap, the red coat fanning out beneath them to frame their exhausted forms.
Alfred smiled as Arthur rested their foreheads together. Arthur grinned back. "Had I known you were keeping this in your attic all this time, I might have brought over my own to match."
-All information about the British Redcoat uniform is actually out of period for the uniform that's described here. The coat that Alfred wears would technically be a pre-Revolutionary War design, the one described here is accurate to the 1776 pattern, and actually what Arthur would have been wearing if kept accurate to what we see him in during the Closet Cleaning episodes. Sources for this include The Organization of the British Army in the American Revolution by Edward E. Curtis, specifically the chart on pages 154-157, the 1776 men's military coat pattern from PatternsofTime, and from ambushing historical reenactors (which is great fun). Also, I questioned one of my flatmates, who is an Art History major that specializes in period clothing. Ironically, while a great resource for the actual writing, she's a horrible beta-reader, as all she does is drool over the porn and is no help at all in that respect.
-Also, this is coming from the context of an established relationship, just to clarify.