Taking One For The Team
By TG (musichika_tg on LJ)
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, the New York Jets, or the New England Patriots.
Warnings: UK's lewd thoughts and dirty mouth. And not-very-descriptive locker room sex.
Summary: Arthur should remember to never open his mouth around Alfred whenever bets are concerned. Though this time, losing isn't so bad.
Author's Notes: A few things. One, this was an USUK Secret Santa gift for last_haven in the USUK comm on LiveJournal. Second, this is my first USUK fic, let alone my first Hetalia fic! Woot! I've loved Hetalia for a while now and it feels good (yet scary) to finally be contributing to the fandom. Finally, this is my first fic in ten months, and it's been even longer than that since I've written sex. So I apologize if this isn't the best… I've been hiding out in Beta-Land for nearly a year so it's a bit intimidating to come back out not only writing about my ALL-TIME FAVORITE PAIRING, but also writing their sexy-tiemz.
(if anyone wants to know last_haven's prompt, it's "America somehow convinces England to go to an American football game; England gets very into it.")
"Dismissed," Germany practically moaned into the hardwood table. Arthur had to admire how hard Ludwig tried to keep the world meetings on schedule, but, like usual, this particular train had gone off its rails rather early on and even the German could tell when it was a lost cause. The Brit felt for him, really he did, but it was nearing supper and lord only knew what would happen if Alfred was denied his food. And there was the small matter of catching the Arsenal match on the telly.
The sound of chairs scraping and briefcase clasps opening and shutting filled Arthur's ears. He sighed and placed his neatly-stacked notes into his own briefcase, shutting it tight and attempting to lock in it all the stress he had accumulated during the day. He looked around for his noisy American and noticed him adding his own voice to the cacophony, jabbering away with Feliciano, belting out a few of his obnoxious 'HAHAHA's as the Italian nodded and 've'ed.
"Alfred. If we don't leave soon, we'll miss the game," Arthur warned, standing to slip his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. Both Feliciano and Alfred perked up from their conversation and shot Arthur identical idiotic grins; the Brit rolled his eyes and glanced pointedly at his wristwatch before turning to the door, fully intending to leave his lover behind if he didn't hurry up. He was not going to lose the bet just because Alfred delayed him enough to miss the football game.
"Coming, Artie!" Alfred literally leapt over the table and chairs, and in some cases a few indignant nations still packing up, in his haste to keep up with the Brit as he started to walk out of the room.
"Call me that again and die," Arthur replied as the American draped an arm across his shoulders and they disappeared around the corner and out of sight of the others.
The drive to Alfred's home in Boston took even longer than normal due to rush hour, but Arthur was content to let Alfred chatter away at him as his mind wandered to the bet they had made that morning.
Arthur stifled a yawn as he walked into Alfred's living room, cup of tea in hand, to find the American determinedly flipping through the channels on his television. He was about to scold Alfred and tell him to 'pick one channel, or better yet, just watch the news already!' when one of the channels caught his eye.
"Wait, go back!" He demanded. Alfred shot him a glance but did as he was told, and Arthur sucked in a breath. The media guide showed that the Arsenal and Hotspur game, which would be shown live in the afternoon and which Arthur had despaired of missing because of the world meeting, would be re-aired at eight in the evening.
Alfred must have read the smirk on his face for what it meant and immediately put up a protest. "No, we are not going to sit in all night and watch stupid soccer when we're in the greatest city on the planet!" Arthur sent him a glare. "What, I'm only telling the truth! New York City is –"
"Shut up, wanker. I bet you can't sit through a whole football game," the Englishman accused, emphasizing the proper term for the sport with a jab to Alfred's chest. He knew immediately that he'd done something stupid when Alfred's innocent face morphed into a vicious smirk
"Okay. But if I do, then you have to sit through a football game. The American kind," he clarified. Arthur scowled and almost refused on principle, but that would cause the American to think he won, which would then cause him to gloat and become even more of an insufferable gitface than normal and that just couldn't happen. Torn, he didn't notice Alfred getting up from his perch on the couch and slinking over to him until he felt a pair of strong arms go around his middle and warm lips on his neck. Damn him.
"Bloody –fine," he muttered, sipping angrily from his tea and sternly ignoring Alfred's attentions. "Stupid git."
"Mm. You love me," Alfred replied between pressing open-mouthed kisses to his throat. "We can even go to my house in Boston, I know you like that one better than this condo. We'll sit by the fire, I'll make you tea, we can cuddle on the couch and watch football –" Alfred would have continued, but something about the way he said 'football' made Arthur want to kiss him senseless, so he did.
Yes, Alfred may hide behind a veil of loud laughter, ridiculous notions of heroism, and idiocy, but Arthur was intimately aware of the sharp intelligence that lay beyond those beautiful blue eyes. The git could manipulate and strategize with the best of them, and he was very competitive, which meant Arthur had fallen for the American's trap –Alfred had been trying to get him to watch an American football game for ages, but Arthur had refused on the principle that it was automatically inferior to real football…or rugby, for that matter. But the git was finally getting his way, all because Arthur had opened his mouth and responded in exactly the way Alfred had wanted him to.
Alfred must have realized that he had been talking to the dashboard, because he spared a glance from the traffic to look at Arthur.
"You all right, Artie?" He sounded truly concerned, so Arthur held back the sarcasm.
"Mm. I'm fine, love. Just tired."
"HAHAHA yeah right, Artie! You're just nervous because you know I'm going to win the bet and you're going to be stuck watching football HAHAHA," the American said. Arthur calmly crossed his legs, reached across the center console and slapped Alfred upside the head, causing the American to yelp. The Brit fumed for a while until the hand that Alfred had been using to rub the hurt on his head sneaked across the console and gripped Arthur's. Their fingers slid together, and the blue-eyed blonde's thumb rubbed slow, comforting circles into the underside of Arthur's wrist until they arrived at the quaint brick house.
Once inside, Arthur forced himself not to make a beeline for the television while Alfred built the fire; Arthur might be excited for the game but he was still a gentleman. Alfred seemed to sense this in him, because when he offered to help with the fire or dinner, he was refused. He chose to ignore the deer-in-the-headlights look Alfred had given him, as it seemed to happen a lot when he offered to cook, for some inane reason. It was only after Arthur was settled in and already deeply enthralled with the pre-game discussion that Alfred came out of the kitchen with warm turkey sandwiches and beer, and he realized that the fire was dancing gently in the hearth.
Sometimes the little things that Alfred did to show his love melted Arthur's heart. But fuck if Arthur was ever going to tell him that. In order to combat that annoying sappiness that sometimes overtook him in Alfred's presence, Arthur schooled his features into a wicked grin, which he then turned on the poor, unsuspecting American, catching Alfred in the process of destroyed his plate of sandwiches.
"Whuh?" Aflred asked around a mouthful of turkey. Arthur had to push down the cringe at the sight.
"Oh, nothing," Arthur replied, taking a sip of his beer. "Just making sure you're comfortable for the next ninety minutes is all. That's a long time to sit still without distraction for you, isn't it."
Alfred saw right through the Brit's false airy attitude and smirked. "Considering I've been trying to get you to a football game for years, I think I can manage."
Arthur opened his mouth to unleash the full force of his considerable wealth of classic English sarcasm upon the poor American soul, but the sports announcers on the telly began to wrap up the pre-game show –transitioning from player stats and previous matchups to projections of the outcome of the current game. The camera panned the field to show the Emirates Stadium practically full to bursting with rabid football fans as players decked out in blue and red uniforms spilled onto the pitch.
At that point Arthur noticed out of the corner of his eye that Alfred had started to fidget, and every so often he was send Arthur sidelong glances when he thought the Brit wasn't watching. Arthur finally caught Alfred's eyes, and when he did the American sent him a beautiful smile, turned his body sideways on the couch and opened up his arms and legs for Arthur to crawl into. The Brit rolled his eyes but complied with a soft smile on his face, nestling in between Alfred's legs, back to chest. Alfred leaned back with a happy sigh and wrapped his arms around Arthur's middle, and together they settled in to watch the match.
"What the bloody fuck was that?" Arthur cried eighty-two minutes into the match as the Gooners in the crowd moaned. Alfred cringed as his lover's fingers dug even further into his knee. The Marouane Chamakh on the telly was currently dogging one of the refs, arms thrown up in a show of innocence as he was shown a yellow card. The Spurs were allowed a penalty kick and Arthur leaned forward, practically dumping himself out of Alfred's lap, and leaned back again once the ball soared right past Almunia, the Arsenal goalkeeper. Two minutes later Chamakh redeemed himself with a goal and this time Arthur really did dump himself out of Alfred's lap in his excitement; Alfred failed to grab onto the couch's arm rest in time to save himself and ended up on the floor, too. The Brit displayed some skills learned during his privateering days, rolling off the couch and ending up in a standing position with both arms thrust into the air, somehow managing to keep hold of his beer as he shouted with the Gooners on the telly.
Alfred's groan distracted Arthur from his celebration and he looked down to see the American rubbing at his hip on the floor.
"Ah, sorry, love. Here, let me help," Arthur said, scrambling to help Alfred to his feet. Once standing, he gave the American a gentle and somewhat awkward pat on the shoulder, blinked at him a few times, flushed, and then began to fuss with his clothing. Alfred, bless him, figured out what was going on while Arthur flushed deeper and very pointedly looked anywhere but his face. A roguish grin slowly lit up his face as he watched his lover's fussing.
"Hey Artie," Alfred poked the Brit's forehead when he continued to ignore him.
"Aaaartieeee~" Poke, poke.
"Artie!" Poke, poke poke pokepokepokepokepokepo –
"Bloody fucking Christ, Alfred, stop that this instant!" Arthur cried, slapping Alfred's hands away from his face. The git just grinned bigger and looked at him in hopeful expectation. The Brit knew what he was waiting for, and he knew that he wouldn't be left alone until Alfred heard it, so he mumbled under his breath. "Fine, you won. I'll go to your bloody fucking American football game tomorrow."
Alfred jumped away with a crow and a fist pump, and Arthur couldn't remain annoyed with him. The lad was just so proud of himself for remaining still and attentive for a whole hour and a half. Alfred turned to him abruptly, apparently done with celebrating, and gave him a warm grin.
"Hey Artie, it's late, yeah? Go on up to bed. I'll clean up," he said, leaning over to give the Brit a kiss on his cheek. He turned away to gather up the dirty dishes and turn the television off but he startled when Arthur reached up, hooked his fingers in his hair and yanked him down until their lips brushed.
"Don't think you can get away without a proper kiss, Alfred," Arthur breathed into his mouth before he brought their lips together. The kiss was chaste –they were both too tired for anything more –but it felt wonderful. He sighed as Alfred tilted his head to deepen the kiss, and his other arm came up so he could splay his hand on the American's stomach. He pulled back slowly, nipping at Alfred's lip before resting his forehead against the American's.
"I love you," Alfred murmured, dotting butterfly kisses across the bridge of Arthur's nose.
"Mm, I love you, too…twat. Now hurry up and come to bed." Arthur turned around without waiting for a reply and headed up the stairs to their bedroom, making sure to put a little extra sway in his walk. It was only 10:30, but Arthur figured he'd need as much sleep as he could get since he was going to have to sit through an American football game the next day.
He must have fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, because he found himself stirring awake as a foreign weight settled in behind him on the bed.
"Shh, go back to sleep, Artie," Alfred whispered against the back of his neck. So he did.
The next morning Arthur had awoken alone and cold. Confused, he'd flumped an arm out of the covers and searched for Alfred. What he'd found was a note.
I went on ahead because I had to do stuff before the game so just take a cab or something to the stadium. I left directions and money for the cab. Don't forget to take the ticket!
I'll see you there!
PS- I called the cab for you, it'll be there at 2:30!
PPS- Make sure to wear red, white and blue!
The Brit had grumbled under his breath and rolled out of bed to start the day. He'd slept in later than normal, so he'd only had enough time to shower and have lunch before the cab had arrived.
The cab ride had taken a considerable amount of time –forty minutes, in fact –and by the time he'd arrived at the stadium, there was already a steady stream of fans pouring in through the stadium gates. After enduring much posturing from the ticket-takers, stamping, tearing, and more posturing from stadium staff, he finally found his seat. It was located on the east side, right along the sidelines.
He sat down, shifting a bit at the uncomfortable plastic seats, and looked around. The stadium was big, and there was already a ton of people. There was a giant telly on the south end of the field, and speakers were blasting music and, occasionally, the announcer's voice to the cheering fans on both sides of the stadium. One thing Arthur noticed was that the crowd on the far side was dressed in green, and the people around him were dressed as Alfred suggested –reds, blues, and whites.
"Must have something to do with the teams," he mumbled to himself.
The crowd continued to fill in literally around him –the seats to his left and right were both taken, apparently. Alfred would have nowhere to sit when he came. But Arthur didn't have long to ponder that because some kind of ridiculously loud rock music started playing through the stadium speakers. The crowd started screaming even louder, and an absurd amount of hulking, padded-up, testosterone-leaking American football players spilled out onto the field, jumping and flapping their arms to coerce even more excitement from the crowd. A gaggle of cheerleaders in ridiculously revealing outfits, complete with those god-awful poms, came running out behind.
Arthur really had no idea who was playing –one team's jerseys were mostly white with deep green sleeves, while the other team was in mostly dark blue, with white lettering and red accents. Arthur pulled the ticket out of his pocket and stared for a few seconds at the team names before he started chuckling, which gained him a few concerned stares from the strangers next to him. Alfred probably hadn't even done it on purpose, but Arthur still appreciated the cruel irony.
Alfred had chosen to take him to a game featuring the New York Jets and… the New England Patriots.
Arthur didn't have too much time to stew, because a few minutes later the national anthem began to play, and he, like everyone around him, stood to observe it. Then there was the coin toss, which the Patriots lost, and the kick off. Arthur kind of lost interest for a while; American football was incredibly boring when compared with real football, and it was pathetic how many pads they had to wear when his rugby boys wore none at all.
He wouldn't deny that the game intrigued him in some ways though, and he did know enough about football to realize what was happening when plays and calls were made, but he caught his attention wandering toward the uniforms every so often. He always made sure to mentally scold himself for getting distracted, because surely Alfred would look at him later that night and know, and then he would take the infinite piss. But it was so hard not to look. After all, football and rugby were great sports to play if one wanted to show off some leg, but there was just something about the skin-tight uniform trousers that the American footballers wore.
By halftime, Arthur found himself standing up and shouting with the rest of the crowd when the refs made a bad call, and he got swept away with adrenaline every time the Pats were close to scoring a touchdown or when they made a good defensive play, but his mind kept conjuring dirty images of those trousers. Eventually the images morphed to Alfred in those trousers, and he dazed off through the whole halftime performance put on by the cheerleaders.
Toward the end of the third quarter, he had given up on scolding himself for his lewd thoughts. His eyes followed the Patriots' quarterback almost exclusively now. Arthur knew that typically quarterbacks weren't as bulky as some of the other players, but this man was beautifully-built, all long and lean, the narrowness of his hips only accentuated by the pads spread across his shoulders. Arthur followed the way his back arched and the power in his arm as he spiraled the football down the field, the strength in his legs when he ran the ball, and even the way he took a hit. And he tried to tell himself that he didn't feel bad for oogling another man, because the last name on his jersey was Jones, so that made it okay. Right?
Well. Rather. Best to calm those thoughts down if he wanted to retain some dignity.
It wasn't until the end of the fourth quarter that he saw the face of the man he'd been oogling. The game ended in a heartbreaker; the Patriots lost by one point because the kicker had missed the field goal in the last few seconds of the game after they'd made a touchdown to try and even up the score. Across the field, the Jets were celebrating with their fans and cheerleaders, while the Pats trudged glumly back to their sidelines. It was then that the quarterback took off his helmet and shook out his sweat-soaked hair. He tilted his face up, and his blue eyes met Arthur's. Arthur sucked in a breath, somehow managing to feel both shocked and aroused.
Oh God. It was Alfred.
The infuriating brat –stupid, sexy, mad wanker ohgodIwanthim –smirked up at him, no doubt reading the emotions that he hadn't managed to hide yet, and literally vaulted up onto the stadium wall that separated the fans from the field to kiss him.
Arthur kissed back just as enthusiastically, momentarily forgetting that they were in a very public setting, and let his fingers trail down Alfred's back to grip at his ass, enjoying the way the muscles moved as Alfred shifted his weight. When they pulled apart, Arthur could see that Alfred's team had vacated the field, the obligatory handshake already done. He brought a hand up to stroke his lover's cheek and rested his forehead against Alfred's.
"I'm sorry you lost, love," he said, because he honestly was. Perhaps football wasn't the same as real football or rugby, but Arthur couldn't deny that he'd gotten into it. Alfred laughed breathlessly, already bouncing back from the loss, and nuzzled his chin into Arthur's hair.
"It doesn't matter, because I did my best and you're here and I love you," he murmured.
The beautiful fool, Arthur thought, flexing the fingers still resting on his lover's bum. He felt Alfred shiver from the touch and suddenly wondered just how much Alfred knew of his oogling.
"I love you, too, wanker. Now come on, everyone else is gone and you smell."
Alfred faked hurt, earning a swat upside the head from Arthur as they walked to the locker room. Alfred chattered on about the plays he made and how awesome his team was, even though they lost, and did Arthur see that one play, and did he like what he saw?
Wait. What? "P-pardon?"
"I asked if you liked what you saw," Alfred said, smirking. Arthur wasn't sure what he was expecting –whether it was that Arthur spontaneously combust or sputter his denial –but it obviously wasn't the lascivious smirk that he received.
"Oh love," Arthur purred, backing Alfred into the wall of the locker room tunnel and trapping him there with an arm on either side of his head. He leaned into Alfred's personal space to breath against his mouth, teasing without actually properly kissing him. "You have no idea."
"Mmmm…then show me," Alfred murmured, finally leaning up to close the distance between their mouths. Arthur hummed into the kiss as their tongues tangled together. His hands left the wall and slid down Alfred's chest –which was abnormally hard. Arthur broke the kiss, annoyed that he couldn't feel Alfred through his pads, and the American laughed. Arthur attempted to shut him up by bringing a knee up to rub at Alfred's crotch, but he really only ended up hurting his knee on the cup, which made Alfred laugh harder, the ass.
"Shut up and help me out!" Arthur hissed.
"Okay, okay," Alfred said through his grin, holding his hands up in the universal sign for surrender. "We should go into the locker room anyways, I bet everyone's gone by now. And you can help me out of my pads," he added, waggling his eyebrows in what he must have thought was a suggestive way, but really just made him look like his eyebrows were having a seizure. Arthur snorted and shoved the American through the door.
Once inside the locker room –and once they ascertained that the room was indeed empty –Alfred began to make a show of stripping. His jersey came off slowly, and the shoulder pads followed, falling with a clack onto the tile flooring. Arthur didn't pay them any attention –his eyes were trained on Alfred, who was now clad only in his Under Armor and football pants, neither of which left much to the imagination.
Arthur swept forward, carried by his desire, intent on working Alfred out of those ridiculous pants while the American tugged off his Under Armor. It was slow going, but not because Arthur was trying to be seductive; rather, it was because the pants were practically painted onto the American's legs, and then there were all sorts of pad pockets and laces to deal with, and Arthur was almost ready to say 'fuck it' and tear a hole in the ass for access when Alfred took pity and shimmied them off his hips.
The Brit snarled and shoved Alfred against the lockers and smashed their lips together. Alfred made a noise in his throat and gave as good as he got, practically devouring Arthur's mouth.
"Mm why aren't you naked yet?" he murmured when Arthur pulled away to bite his lip.
They pulled apart long enough to frantically shed Arthur's clothing (read: shred) and came back together again like magnets, a frenzied flurry of lips, tongue, teeth, and hands. Alfred moaned as Arthur bit his throat, and hooked a leg around his hip for leverage as they ground their arousals together. Arthur sighed at the contact; he'd been turning himself on with all those dirty thoughts throughout the game, and he needed to be inside of Alfred now.
"Lube?" He panted into Alfred's neck. Alfred moaned quietly and pointed at his duffle bag.
While Arthur was bent over, rifling through Alfred's smelly football gear, the git had the nerve to sidle up behind him, pinch him on the bum, and say "so, is this the part where I get to fuck you into oblivion as a consolation to losing the game?"
Finally closing his fingers around the little bottle of lube, Arthur swatted Alfred upside the head and kissed him to wipe that cheeky grin off his face. While Alfred was distracted, he drizzled some lube on his fingers and rubbed them together to warm it up before pulling away slightly, touching his clean hand to his lover's cheek.
"You're not too…sore?"
"Never too sore for you, babe," Alfred replied, melting Arthur's besotted heart against the Brit's will.
"All right then, leg up," he said, patting Alfred's thigh to get him to curl his leg around his hips again. Once Alfred complied, Arthur began circling his entrance, gently probing a finger inside. Alfred immediately relaxed around him, taking the finger in easily. Arthur shuddered, hardly able to wait for Alfred to be stretched properly. Alfred moaned and took in two more fingers, effortlessly accepting Arthur's scissoring and shuddering when Arthur hit is prostate.
The Brit groaned in relief when he finally slid home, encased in that familiar tight heat. Alfred's fingers scrabbled at his back and Arthur forced himself to hold still. Even though Alfred's body had willingly accepted his fingers, it had been a while since he'd bottomed and Arthur really didn't want to hurt him.
Alfred had other ideas, though, and used his leg to draw Arthur in further, moaning brokenly. "Ah! Jesus Christ Arthur, fuck me!"
Arthur drew out and snapped his hips back, starting a rather vicious pace. Alfred threw his head back against the lockers and Arthur winced in sympathy as the American's head smacked loudly against the metal. A second later, Arthur found his prostate and from then on Alfred didn't seem to care too much about the pain in his head, instead letting out a long string of garbled curses mixed with Arthur's name as the Brit bent forward to suck at his neck. Alfred's hands came up to cradle his head and bury in his hair, encouraging the Brit to go faster and harder.
Arthur shuddered, unable to stop the chant of 'Al, Alfred, oh Christ nng' as Alfred's inner muscles began to spasm around him, sure signs that they were both getting close to orgasm. Arthur trailed a hand down his lover's torso, paying special but fleeting attention to the American's sensitive nipples and twitching stomach muscles before wrapping his fingers around Alfred's straining erection to help him over the edge.
The blue-eyed blond came with a cry, back arching away from the lockers. Arthur kept pumping until he was done, then set his hands to Alfred's hips in a bruising grip and began to artlessly grind into him, teeth gritted against pleasure so intense it was almost painful.
Alfred moaned quietly, thoroughly spent, and leaned forward to smooth back Arthur's sweaty hair and whisper "I love you" into his ear. That was all it took, and Arthur came so hard he saw white.
Once Arthur came back to earth, he realized that they had sunk to the floor, and that Alfred's long fingers were carding through his sweaty hair. He hummed in contentment, happy to nuzzle into his lover's chest despite how cold and uncomfortable the floor was.
Of course, Alfred, the wanker, decided to open his mouth and spew idiocy.
"So. I think I was sufficiently comforted, but I might need more convincing once we get home. I mean, it was a pretty hard loss, with the Jets being our rivals and all –oof!"
Arthur smirked as Alfred rubbed the spot on his abdomen where Arthur had just elbowed him.
"Congratulations on successfully dragging me to an American football game, love." Arthur gently traced Alfred's features, slowly drawing him in for a long kiss. "Come on, I'll help you clean up."
He stood up and walked unabashedly naked toward the showers, putting a little extra swagger in his steps when he realized that Alfred was watching him.
"Oh," he said, smirking over his shoulder at the staring American. "I forgot to tell you. If you ever bring me to a Patriots game again, you'll be sleeping on the couch. Permanently."
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© TG December 2011