America (Gilded Age) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
monopolies) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entranceway2014-03-01 04:54 pm
monopolies) wrote in entranceway2014-03-01 04:54 pm
( video )
[ He wakes up and he's back in Wonderland, and all those foggy memories snap into place. They still stick together like pages of a book that's had soda spilled on it, so it's impossible to separate them chronologically after so long away. But the things he remembers are sharp and clear.
Except he notices that Wonderland is sorta fragmented into pieces. He thinks something catastrophic has happened and, now more than ever, he desperately wishes that his friends are somewhere, happy, that they've escaped what's happened here. They can't still be around after so long. Then again, who knows how long it's been with this place?
The last time he was here, he probably would've sat down and spent an hour freaking out somewhere behind a bush. This time he does the exact same thing, except he doesn't feel ashamed or embarrassed about it. Fuck it he is a global economic power he'll do what he wants.
After a while of rocking and shaking behind a tree, he gets up, dusts himself off, and decides to reintroduce himself.
Somehow he's found his phone again, with everything on it and the chipped in the corner. Just the way he'd left it. Maybe he should take this as a sign that he hasn't been away so long, at least in Wonderland time, but he doesn't. Too busy preparing his reintroduction.
Normal people would probably just turn their device on, say their hellos and see who is around and who is new. If you are expecting normal behavior from America I don't know what to tell you. Except "lower your expectations because this asshole is still a crazy motherfucker."
He'd found himself on a lone piece of forest, which is not the ideal location for his reentry. In the distance looms the lone, floating entrance hall. After a few seconds of debating the value of his life, he realizes he's immortal and abandons the last fuck he could possibly give before making a running start to leap to the next floating island. A manic grin and one thought propel him to his destiny:
Do it for the vine. ]
[ Finally everything is set up just the way he wants it. Camera placed just behind the closed doors of the entrance wall, it's propped up to frame the hall in such a way that it looks like just any normal day in Wonderland. The real trick is turning it on at just the right moment. He decides to turn it on from behind so the video doesn't capture his initial appearance. Slipping away as quietly as possible, the video just captures a few silent seconds of the doors.
Which then BURST OPEN IN AN EXPLOSION OF SHRAPNEL AND FIRE. USA USA USA.
The smoke clears and, surprise surprise, guess who's standing at the center with arms cross and cocky grin in place? No Crowley, that's for fucking sure, like he'd be capable of anything this epic. For those who knew him the changes are small and subtle, probably nothing to catch amidst the chaos. A taller stature, unhindered by painful wounds, a face that's still young but no longer burdened by self-consciousness and undercurrents of fear.
In the split-second he opens his mouth, just before he speaks you might be expecting something like YOUR HERO HAS RETURNED. But no. ]
WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY RAPTORS?
[ Good news: he's even more of a selfish shithead than before. Bad news: that was the good news.
God help you all.
and now a million years later do I add an obligatory nsfw warning?? don't read my threads if you value your time and integrity ]
Except he notices that Wonderland is sorta fragmented into pieces. He thinks something catastrophic has happened and, now more than ever, he desperately wishes that his friends are somewhere, happy, that they've escaped what's happened here. They can't still be around after so long. Then again, who knows how long it's been with this place?
The last time he was here, he probably would've sat down and spent an hour freaking out somewhere behind a bush. This time he does the exact same thing, except he doesn't feel ashamed or embarrassed about it. Fuck it he is a global economic power he'll do what he wants.
After a while of rocking and shaking behind a tree, he gets up, dusts himself off, and decides to reintroduce himself.
Somehow he's found his phone again, with everything on it and the chipped in the corner. Just the way he'd left it. Maybe he should take this as a sign that he hasn't been away so long, at least in Wonderland time, but he doesn't. Too busy preparing his reintroduction.
Normal people would probably just turn their device on, say their hellos and see who is around and who is new. If you are expecting normal behavior from America I don't know what to tell you. Except "lower your expectations because this asshole is still a crazy motherfucker."
He'd found himself on a lone piece of forest, which is not the ideal location for his reentry. In the distance looms the lone, floating entrance hall. After a few seconds of debating the value of his life, he realizes he's immortal and abandons the last fuck he could possibly give before making a running start to leap to the next floating island. A manic grin and one thought propel him to his destiny:
Do it for the vine. ]
[ Finally everything is set up just the way he wants it. Camera placed just behind the closed doors of the entrance wall, it's propped up to frame the hall in such a way that it looks like just any normal day in Wonderland. The real trick is turning it on at just the right moment. He decides to turn it on from behind so the video doesn't capture his initial appearance. Slipping away as quietly as possible, the video just captures a few silent seconds of the doors.
Which then BURST OPEN IN AN EXPLOSION OF SHRAPNEL AND FIRE. USA USA USA.
The smoke clears and, surprise surprise, guess who's standing at the center with arms cross and cocky grin in place? No Crowley, that's for fucking sure, like he'd be capable of anything this epic. For those who knew him the changes are small and subtle, probably nothing to catch amidst the chaos. A taller stature, unhindered by painful wounds, a face that's still young but no longer burdened by self-consciousness and undercurrents of fear.
In the split-second he opens his mouth, just before he speaks you might be expecting something like YOUR HERO HAS RETURNED. But no. ]
WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY RAPTORS?
[ Good news: he's even more of a selfish shithead than before. Bad news: that was the good news.
God help you all.
and now a million years later do I add an obligatory nsfw warning?? don't read my threads if you value your time and integrity ]
no subject
He doesn't balk at the explanation or the tone it's delivered in. Distantly he wonders if Luke was the cause of that explosion, but really, the way he immediately perks up says it all. Not that America really cares. Space-squids aren't in his department. He has enough massacres to give a shit about, he doesn't need to add the murder of Luke's creators to the list.
Wavering or not on whether to continue his unwarranted sulking, America decides to go ahead and roll with the better mood. Plus, freedom. Always a topic to brighten his spirits. He can't help but grin right back at Luke with shining eyes an an inner glow that could probably summon bald eagles like a beacon if he dared to smile any wider. ]
Never.
[ A single word that he tries to decorate with a core ideology, the very fabric of his existence, until that one word weighs more than a brown dwarf. A single word that sounds like a bell ringing in his voice, clear and sharp, until it falls into dark brackish waters that beat wooden crates against the sides of English ships.
FREEDOM MOTHERFUCKER. America is so obviously enthralled with Luke's appreciation for freedom that he doesn't even mind that his fry supply has been depleted. It's better for his diet, anyway. ]
no subject
It can be easy to forget that Luke, looked at with complete neutrality, is also mad as an eel.
At least his madness is perfectly primed to respond to America’s intense sort of madness. This is what drives the buzzing obsession that underpins their cozy relationship. This is the difference between pining after a cute, funny bloke named Alfred, and being as strangely clingy as treacle on a walrus.
Yes, he’s undeniably attractive. America is blond, which is a terrible shame, but he’s still a beauty to set you aching. Clear, expressive blue eyes (not the chilling blue of photoshopped models, which makes every issue of Cosmo feel like it’s been populated by escapees from the Village of the Damned, but the same sort of blue as, say, some types of loo cleaner), and a smile that could burn three layers of skin off the faces of all onlookers.
But under all that, he brims and fizzes with the stuff humanity dreams of. So Luke dreams of it too.]
I haven't been able to sleep. Thinking of all the stuff I never got to say to you. Thought about writing you a letter, but I didn’t think you’d ever read it. Martha and Mister Crowley said you’d come back, but I didn’t believe them.
[He frowns briefly, thinking about some of the less-than-faithful things he got up to while America was away. He doesn’t know what’s going on in D’Artagnan’s head. Whether it was a one time miracle, or if he’s not expecting something more.
Swallowing thickly, his hands search out America’s.]
You know you were saying we should go as fast or slow as the mood strikes?
[He slouches lower, hands balancing in the crook of America’s knee. Although he twists their fingers together nervously, he looks up at America with a beam of delight.]
Think the mood is saying we should go really fast right now.
no subject
Already dizzy from the sudden mood whiplash, the declarations of freedom from an oppressive empire (of alien squids) leaves America feeling drunk on excitement and a deep-set pride. It's the same feeling he gets when people and countries alike congratulate him on his birthday.
His heart melts and he doesn't know whether to smile sweetly or drop his pants. Luke says, "I'm free" but America hears "You will never be more attracted to me now than you are in this moment." Correct.
If this were a romance movie starring competent people, America would take this as a cue to dramatically sweep the leftover food off the bed and give in to passion. Instead he springs up a little too suddenly, kneeling in some soggy fries as he stares over the rim of his dirty glasses. ]
Tell me now. Tell me everything, and I'll do the same, 'til we don't need words no more.
[ He squeezes Luke's hand, gentle as he was the first time they were in his room together, but he lurches toward Luke's lips with the reckless abandon of someone who looks at a mountain and spontaneously decides "I'm gonna climb that shit." It's more like he's trying to claim territory by mashing his face into it than a purposeful kiss, raw and unapologetic of the power he puts into his movements.
Apparently he expects Luke to say everything directly into America's mouth. Flawless plan. ]
no subject
Bloody Victorian boys and their sentimental openness.
Yet it seems America knows Luke well, because he does actually try muffling words into the overpowering kiss, before bodily moving him away with a palm flat against his forehead.]
Lunatic.
[What, were you expecting something sappy?
Except beneath the veil of exasperated humour, Luke sounds like he very well might cry at this emotional collapse. Maybe America was expected sappiness, and Luke feels the burden that expectation.
It’s still a second of weighty silence before he can say it.]
I love you.
[An admission apparently so difficult, he has to avert his gaze. Or maybe it’s because most of his introspection was trying to come to terms with his desperation to be a good human, but dating someone whose very nature of existence meant he couldn’t live up to that ideal. Because Luke believes himself to be an inherently bad person, and thinks America’s the nicest guy he’s ever met, and every attempt to sort it out only resulted in the suffocating paradoxes of their existence.
Because America is a gordian knot, and Luke was put on this earth not to cut through it, but to to fix him down into a series of smaller, neater knots, and probably order them by size too.
Bringing all that up seems kind of a downer.]
It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s good. That we had some time apart, I mean. I could actually think about you without getting distracted by wanting to gnaw on your lip.
[He waddles through a barrier of shitty takeout until he has to give up and collapse forward, attempting to wrap his arms around America’s shoulders without actually letting go of his hands.]
no subject
[ Is his rebuttal as his head his pushed away, pulling a word and its meaning out of the future just to shape it into a playful laugh. Such a nerd, with his logic and science and complexities. A big infinity of weirdness and humanity that America probably won't ever understand, but will inherently be drawn to.
He can bear the weight of Luke's silence even if he has no idea what will come next. As it turns out, everything Luke wants to say is only three words, but they're as fantastic and powerful as four elephants upholding a flat world as they ride on the back of a massive space turtle. Three words that manage to condense the vastness of America's being into a boy, the strangeness in his head, and an excited smile for the person who says them. Something that might be like feeling human.
A pleasant warmth spreads through America with each thump of his heart and a grin spreads over his face like a sunrise. ]
I love you too. But you already knew that!
[ It comes with much more ease than Luke's admission, but that's just how he is: wearing emotions on his sleeve and keeping memories in a chest. It makes sharing a whole lot easier.
Except there's always that little flicker of guilt, far away and getting steadily more manageable, but always present nonetheless. Because people shouldn't be falling in love with him when they have such short lives and so many fantastic ways to navigate it. Because he isn't human, and even if he has emotions and a body and dreams, he's still woven together with land and politics and the souls of millions of people and far, far too much blood than any normal person could bear.
But little of that matters here, he reminds himself as he throws a metaphorical blanket over the guilt like it's a bird cage with a bitchy songbird inside. Luke isn't normal; hell, most of the people who say those words to America aren't "normal," even the ones born from a biological family. They're soldiers and outlaws and rebelling daughters of elites and hard-headed working class girls and cartographers--cartographers and historians really have a thing for him, as it were--but they're all strange in some sense of the word. He loves it.
Settling into a dreamy comfort, he untangles one of his hands from Luke's clutches so he can wrap the arm around his waist, pull him closer so he can lean against America's chest now that it's finally free of pain. ]
I could've worn a sack over my head, but then ya would've been distracted by my fantastic body. Just ain't no winnin' when you're this handsome! [ he says with a snort as though he's joking, but we all know that there is some genuine arrogance imbedded in there ] But. Yeah. Me too, in a way. By now I figured you would've, I dunno, moved on. Forgotten. And I got okay with that, so now I'm prepared for when it happens.
[ Because it always happens. Inevitably, people leave. They forget or they die, and after the past few decades, America decisively prefers the former category. ]
But for now I'm... this is better than any fantasy I cooked up. Well, mostly. On boring train rides sometimes I'd daydream about cool adventures with you, usually in space, and we'd go to all these weird planets and save the day! One time we even teamed up with Sherlock Holmes!
[ Because he's totally one of those insane fanboys that will join the masses in flipping their shit over "The Final Problem." ]
no subject
[He says with warmth and affection, plastering himself to America’s broad, healthy chest and kissing his collar bone, running his finger over and under his vest like he’s wanted to for so long. Wherever America wants him to be is fine by Luke, even if he smells like he’s spent a month sleeping in a stable. Underneath that he’s America, so Luke will deal.
It’s a moment of pure happiness that drops into quiet solemnity. His fingers still, pressed against the relentless thump of America’s heart, and he sinks down until he can tip his head back and prop it on a steady shoulder. His voice drops to a quiet, croaky tone, barely above a whisper.]
But don’t talk like we’re already over.
[Because that hurts. Even when he knows why America’s developed this defense mechanism, it still pains him to hear America talk like he’s already on his death bed.
As much as he sympathises and wants to assuage the hurts and miseries of all his immortal friends, people he loves like family, he has even less of a grasp on this issue than most average people. He doesn’t have that many memories. And he won’t, ever. Not even as many as normal humans, because his life was cut short by a decade and a half before he ever opened his eyes. He’ll be in his fifties when he looks seventy, when he’ll die, and that’s if no one kills him before that. He’s okay with his lot.
But there’s a pit of coiled resentment and fear that squirms in his stomach. Luke’s so fundamentally terrified of death that he’ll do anything to avoid it. Anything to buy himself a bit longer to cling to the Earth and stay alive. Sometimes he wants to shake all those self-pitying immortals, shout at them for complaining about something he wants desperately. More time. Any time at all.
But he’s too British to voice any of his internal conflicts. With forced airiness, he refuses to address the issue at all.]
A Smith is never in one place long enough to lick a stamp, but I’ve got a freaky alien brain, remember? [He arches his back, in an awkward crab bend that’s mostly flailing limbs, just so he can tap his forehead while grinning at America’s ear.] I never forget anything.
[Maybe he will, one day. He thought he would forget Wonderland once he left it. That’s what everyone said would happen. America didn’t. Luke probably will. But it doesn’t hurt to talk about fantasies where they get to stay together, does it?]
Future’s not set. Who knows what we could do! Maybe we won’t move on. Maybe we’ll go planet hopping one day. Probably not with Sherlock Holmes, you giant nerd.
[He turns the laughter back on America with breezy joy, because secretly, he thinks that sounds like the coolest thing ever.]
Maybe we’ll go see the diamond spiders and the singing plants on Karfel, and fight Daleks… You’ll have to defend me if the space police catch us, ‘cos I’m sort’ve… not allowed off-planet?
[What an awkward admission for someone who’s trying to build the reputation of being a worldly adventurer. He hums thoughtfully, playing with America’s fingers, and then decides to try and appeal to his interests so he won’t ask too many questions about what Luke did to earn his space ASBO.]
I hope a shoot out with a bunch of giant talking rhinos is on your bucket list. They’re very… execute first, ask questions later sorta guys.
no subject
Admittedly the fantasies of something brighter are much more appealing. Even if they're just that: fantasies. But then again, who knows? With the way America's world works he could see Luke in some place between afterlife and a parallel reality. Like Estonia's visions of another world dominated by female countries. Anything is possible in a world where the Abrahamic God can be bound and gagged by the ghost of Ancient Rome just so he can go visit his grandsons and interrogate Germany about his virginity.
Best to stay positive then. So he nods slowly, not quite an apology, but an acknowledgement. The future isn't set. The smile he forces in place relaxes with each suggestion until it's a full out grin, and he can't suppress the bark of laughter at the sheepish mention of space police. ]
The hell did you do to piss off the fuzz! [ He can't stop sniggering. The thought of Luke doing anything seriously, grossly terrible doesn't really enter his mind; he's thinking something along the lines of joyriding in one of their cruisers. Maybe some morally explicable murder. You know, the usual shit. ] And here I was thinkin' my outlaw days were over. Don't worry, I've made it outta a fair share of shootouts. Never against a talking rhino, but they wouldn't be the first big game to see the end of my gun. Or the first lawmen.
[ The way his smirk sharpens is either exciting or worrying. He's definitely excited by the possibility of taking on aggressive rhino cops. ]
Don't you worry, I'll keep ya safe! [ He says while refusing to think of the last boy he said that to. ] Singing plants and sparkly spiders sound right up my alley. You sure know how to charm a guy! Any planets that're fulla bunnies? 'Cause if ya take me to one like that I'll let ya dress me up however ya want!
[ America wriggles excitedly at the prospect. Years in the future, long after the end of its horrific role in WWII, America will be an enthusiastic visitor to Okunoshima and its massive population of semi-tame rabbits. He will smother himself in bunnies. ]
no subject
So it ain’t over til it’s over. There’s plenty of time to be miserable in the future. There’s plenty of lost friends to be sad about now. But the universe will always have an adventure for you in the meanwhile. Luke’s not ready to mourn someone whose heart thuds so heavily under his hand, almost unnaturally, given how unused Luke is to holding America this close.
But most importantly, America promises to protect him, and Luke starts dissolving into warm, fuzzy, emotionally compromised feelings. He’s made his decision about His eyes squeeze shut, his fingers push into America’s spine and the kiss he presses to America’s throat is mostly teeth, from how wide he’s smiling.]
What, didn’t you know? I’m hard. Really bad. I thought that was, like, the reason you fancied the pants off me.
[He pulls away so America can get the full effect of his dopey smile. There are many ways to react to the admission that the police have you on a shoot-on-sight policy, but laughter is one of the best. Even if America’s admission that he’s killed a police officer sends a frission of ’oh shit’ down his spine (and big game, but Luke is less morally interested in ill-advised Victorian safaris than he is dead humans).]
What did you do to piss them off?
[Somehow, his vision of America’s Wild West outlaw adventures had an hilarious theme park sheen to them. He hasn’t yet cottoned on to the cold, hard reality.
Probably because America shines all his brutality with fluffy fuzzy wubwubs.]
Sooo… [He drawls the word, which sounds rather childish in an accent not designed for drawling.] My dangerous outlaw wants to go play with bunnies, huh? [That’s adorable. Somehow, with the way he handles his dinos and sheep dogs, Luke never pictured him as a cuddly rabbit type. Once again, America turns on a dime from kinda frightening to total cutie.]
On Dagomere, they have giant ones. Thirty-six feet tall. One of ‘em’s the delegate for the Intergalactic Peace Corp.
[He clutches America as he squirms, like he can drink in every movement.]
Why won’t you let me dress you up now? I’d get you looking all cool.
no subject
I hung out with rough crowds. [ With a melodramatic sigh, he pulls Luke flush against his body, arms draped over him in a smothering bear hug. The effect is completely ruined by America's hand dipping down to cop a feel on Luke's ass with the subtlety of a train wreck. ] I guess I just got a thing for bad boys! Good thing I don't have parents or my antics would damn near break their hearts! Luckily for your ma, you get to bring home the embodiment of liberty.
[ Just try to pick out which parts of that were a joke and which parts were blatant preening. It's impossible.
Little has changed in that even his ego can be pushed aside in favor of excitement over fluffy animals. Disney is trying desperately to get the rights to make him the next princess, but each time the President (every president) sorta just shakes their head and whispers, "Don't make it a musical he'll never stop singing and not even the oval office is soundproofed enough to escape that." ]
A giant bunny in charge of intergalactic peace?! [ Can you see the stars light up in his eyes? Galaxies of joy and memories and bunnies. ] That's gotta be our first stop on our grand adventure! Can you even imagine?! Just think how fluffy its tail will be! No wonder they work for peace, who could possibly resist a big ol' bun-bun askin' 'em to be nice?!
[ Not America. Luke has inadvertently discovered the key to peace on Earth, or at least a much calmer tide from Western shores. ]
Can't dress me up now 'cause I already look cool. And 'cause I need somethin' to entice you with. It's my only bargaining chip!
[ He nudges the side of Luke's head with his nose like an affectionate horse. Already smells like one. ]
no subject
The only concession to dignity he makes is to remind America that he currently doesn’t have a roof and this is technically a step over the PDA.]
I don’t think liberty means you can feel me up where anyone could see!
[A sentiment ruined by the happy noise in the back of his throat.
But any mention of his mother is enough to turn stir up his melancholy. At least now he can assuage it by reaching over and tapping the photograph that’s been carefully taped to his wall. The only decent thing to come out of the mansion’s flirtation with the Christmas spirit.]
My mum might have a heart attack. But you’d like her.
[A phrase that somehow never comes out as “Mum would like you”. Sarah Jane doesn’t just like people. If Luke actually brought America to meet Sarah Jane, it would lead to the biggest “Don’t repeat your parent’s mistakes” bust up since Robb Stark showed mercy to Roose Bolton.
But right now excitement bubbles in his chest, building to airy laughter at how easy things feel, how America feels imperceptibly, impossibly bolder now than he ever did before, and it’s almost like nothing’s changed between them at all.]
It isn’t your only chip.
[He rasps as his hand glides over the front of America’s kinda cool, but also kinda ridiculous pants. Just a glancing movement before settling on his hip, where it hovers inches shy from that gun with all the anxious curiosity of a kid who keeps thinking about poking a poisonous snake, just to see what it’ll do.]
I'm looking for excuses to undress you! Like a shower, if I you're not going to be corrupted into wearing hoodies. I don't think the pipes are connected right now, but... I don't actually think the pipes connect to anything in the first place, so maybe it doesn't matter.
no subject
Don't tell me you're shy now! Let anyone see; ain't like anyone's forcin' 'em to look into your room. [ Still, he withdraws his hand obediently even if the crooning sends a shiver down his spine.
Plus it's a little weird to clumsily grope someone under a picture of the mom and friends they've been separated from. Almost as awkward as making out with someone's mom and friends. America leans toward the picture, mouth open to form questions that would only dredge up more melancholy. Later. There will be time later to share the sweet things of their lives outside of Wonderland. ]
Bet I would. [ Is all he offers because his expression is melting into pure bliss at the mention of indoor plumbing. ] But you can tell me all about her and the other people in that picture after a shower! Oh man, you don't even need to use that as an excuse. You know how long it's been since I've had one proper? Got me one of those fancy bathtubs since I can finally afford it now, but on the move, out on the plains and deserts, ain't exactly a lot of options.
[ The explanation sounds antiqued. Not even his most impressive innovations or displays of industrial power can compare to the electric lights and robotics of Luke's present. To compensate, he tries to polish it into something that sounds mighty. With a sense of pride he doesn't have to feign, he slaps on a lopsided grin. His drawling travels up the Eastern coastline until his accent skirts around the boroughs of New York City, the twang getting ground down into something that underscores his already nasally voice. ]
'Course if Wonderland took me couple months ago, you would've seen me at my finest. All dressed up and fine for the Manhattan Music Hall, hair combed back and fancy.
[ He's trying to paint a picture of splendor when the truth is that no amount of cleaning up could wash away his personality. He greeted Russia and his famous composer with a sidewalk hot dog hanging out of his mouth and, despite his best efforts, fell asleep on Russia's shoulder halfway through the performance. Needless to say, Carnegie Hall has not invited him back. ]
We could always give the showers a shot. Unless you're afraid of someone seein'.
[ The grin turns playful and he takes the opportunity to prod Luke in the side. The vicious cycle will never end. ]
no subject
With all the relish of someone who’s been waiting a long time for this moment, he shoves America back until he’s crushed into the corner of the bed and the wall, propping himself up with hands splayed over America’s chest.]
Prat.
[Which is when he slides down until their lips are parted by mere centimetres and he can feel America’s breath on his chin… and runs his fingers through the roots of that stupid cowlick that will not be tamed by mere physics.]
I didn’t even know it was possible for you to comb your hair back. Sounded like a rumour, like yeti’s and sewer men.
[Thinking about history as a progressive series of innovations is as boring as reading an ikea catalogue, anyway. Much more interesting to see people being wonderful, doing wonderful things and taking steps forward on their journey to universal acceptance. It’s exotic and different and exciting, and that’s something that really gets him stirred up, voice going all hoarse as he stares dreamily into America’s eyes.]
I’m not afraid if you’re not.
[He pushes up, settling on America’s thighs as he tugs his shirt over his head. A move he miraculously manages to make look sexy, and by look sexy I mean he pulls it off without breaking his elbow or getting his head stuck in a sleeve. Buoyed by this triumph, he follows it up with trying to strip America out of his vest.]
I like this better than a suit. You look… [He pauses, plucking at America’s buttons before spluttering out] really, really gay.
[He cracks up. Cowboys might be rugged and manly, but Luke’s main associations are still YMCA and Brokeback Mountain. Fearing another jab to his ribs in retribution, he pelts to his feet, trips over his own toes and crashes out onto the floor, legs in the air because they’re still caught between America’s knees.]
Oww—
no subject
He missed this so much. He missed Luke and his squishy cheeks and hazel eyes and his awkward attempts at seduction that somehow work on him.
The moment eases into something more comfortable with Luke's laughter. The last time he was in Wonderland, the declaration might have made America self-conscious, worried that if people can see that much, they might see more. Now he just snickers along with him, too preoccupied with eying Luke's chest and the smooth plain of his abdomen. Thirty years and he still thinks it's fascinating. Adorable in a weird way. ]
Um, I think ya mean I look smokin' hot! But I guess this means I can complete my ensemble with your dick in my mouth--
[ Whatever further boasting he's about to make is cut short by his own sharp laughter as Luke trips over his own two feet trying to escape America's grasp. ]
Oh no ya don't! You might be able to slip by the space police, but I've been both outlaw and marshal so I know how both sides think. Ain't no way you can get by me!
[ Grinning like the child he is, he scrambles off the bed to scoop Luke up by his hips and drape his body over America's shoulder like he's a sack of potatoes. With his other hand propped on his hip to further flaunt his gay cowboy look, he casually scans the fragmented room before sauntering toward a door he estimates is the bathroom. ]
Sorry, Luke, but I gotta throw ya in Wonderland Jail for the crime of bein' too cute. You've been judged by a jury of your peers--well, peer--and I sentence you to one whole shower with me! Show ya just how nice my hair can look once it's cleaned up.
no subject
The jury is corrupt! Help! It’s an unfair extradition!
[He continues to moan his objections into America’s back, but he doesn’t squirm too much, lest he fall off and smack his head on the door frame. Just fists the hem of America’s vest with both hands and complains as he’s carted around the room like a baby calf.
His bathroom is way too small for two people to stand and strip, so when he’s unceremoniously deposited on the tile, he collapses back onto the closed seat, hands immediately going for the jean zipper.]
I could’ve gotten out of that if I wanted to.
[He fakes some teasing smugness, eyes all aglitter at the prospect of what they’re about to do. Only a week, but a week is too long to go without this weightless joy that expands his chest and makes life so easy and wonderful.
This kind of giddy boldness leads, of course, to Luke trying to copy America’s crazy accent wandering. A New York accent is easier to do than any kind of Southern one, but it’s still not good. It’s never going to happen for him.
Even worse, Luke isn’t entirely fluent in English, especially not foreign Englishes, and he has a history of trying to get creative with slang. Despite having been told a million times you cannot get creative with slang. Which leads to him expressing rather confused and poorly accented sentiment:] Guess I’m good at sucking fer yer.
[He means ‘sucker’. He’s blissfully unaware that ‘sucker’ is unrelated to any sort of verbal noun.]
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[ He manages to get it out through all the laughter at Luke's feigned complaints. As soon as Luke flops down on the seat, America lazily undoes his vest and gets as far as tugging his shirt off before he finally notices Luke, legs spread and tugging at his zipper, and he thinks fuck it. He isn't even going to try to wriggle his way out of grimy jeans that have probably caked to his skin from all the dirt and sweat on him. Luke's week has been America's twenty seven years. Nearly three decades away haven't made him forget entirely, but it feels almost like falling in love all over again, the nervousness and excitement of rekindling a friendship that trudges into something more.
And though he hadn't been entirely alone those years, none of his relationships were the same as any other. None of them were Luke Smith. He's not as jittery as their first time together, but America's heart still jumps up into his throat looking at Luke with his hand down his pants. ]
I know. [ he croaks, the playfulness momentarily forgotten. At least until Luke slurs something that sounds like Queens resident has been struck in the head, then he can't help but laugh. He completely misunderstands what Luke is trying to say because Luke cannot get creative with slang.
Luckily in this case it's working out in Luke's favor, because America saunters over to Luke (except it's really hard to saunter when there's only like a foot or two space between them already), kneeling between his legs and nudging his legs apart. He tries to make it look appealing, but in reality he sorta flops onto the floor and has to bite back a curse as he bangs his knee on the tile. Trying to recover from the sudden grimace involves leaning close enough that his breath ghosts over the seam of Luke's jeans. As he tilts his head up to grin at Luke, he murmurs over a patch of skin bared from his shirt riding up. ]
You'll have to remind me how good at sucking you are. Right after I remind you. And complete my ensemble like I said!
[ An ensemble that's been half stripped away but who cares. His hands slide up the inside of his partner's thighs, waiting to see his reaction before edging closer. ]
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He loosens his fingers from his death grip to stroke along America’s jaw and card fingers through his hair. In a nod to propriety, he glances at the sky without really seeing. Whether they have any voyeurs or not, Luke’s going to pull him into a forward bow so he can kiss the back of his head.
Which is a mistake. Luke never knew lips could feel greasy. But it’s also very nice because it has the completely unintentional effect of shoving America’s face into his crotch. This is a definition of ‘suck’ he knows perfectly well.]
The integral piece that pulls it all together.
[Anticipation gives the joke a ragged edge. He spreads his legs wide, slouching down so he’s open to whatever America wants to do with him. Because what Luke wants to do is touch him, and curse him for not removing his pants and getting under the water this very minute.]
Are you saying you’ve forgot what the sex was like? After all that bloody effort we went to?
[Luke turns gooey at that grin aimed up at him. He loves the way he looks, especially when he’s ridiculous. He loves that America talks about wanting him, even if he does it almost in the same breath as his thought-out expectations that one day Luke will leave and forget how happy he is right now. He loves everything about his boyfriend and it’s hard to focus on any one thing in particular when America’s lips on his skin leaves him twitching.]
I’ve never forgotten. I’ll never forget a single thing about you. So you better make this good, or you’ll be so embarrassed when I publish my memoirs.
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But it's okay, because this way he can revel in the tender brush of lips in his hair and the way Luke curls over him (like their first time, America remembers clearly, when America was hunched over and pleading at Luke and he should be embarrassed by his begging but America can't bother to give a damn). And when he's finally able to pull away, grin and drink in the adoration scribbled over Luke's squishy face and he just wants to shower him in kisses.
Alternatively, he can reach up and open up his fly, which does. ]
Oh, I haven't forgotten the most important parts! How I felt when ya kissed me the first time, [ jumping out the fucking window with a boner, ] the worlds we made, how your face looked in the light of the stars right when you were about to come.
[ Idly his finger traces up along the shaft still hidden under the silky fabric of his boxers. Exploratory and slightly cautious, like he's making sure that this isn't all an elaborate dream. God knows it wouldn't be the first he's head about Luke since their parting. ]
It's just some details that got muddled. Like what touches made ya loudest, how much tongue or teeth ya liked... [ Pulling away the fabric, America murmurs against the hot flesh of Luke's cock, eyes roving down the length like he's gazing along a territory he'd mapped but nearly lost in the tides of time. His fears aren't completely misplaced, which is why he squirms even closer under the promise of always remembering America. It's almost like forever, and that's a thought that forms a lump of emotion in his throat that, obviously, can only be dislodged with dick. That's America's logic and he's sticking to it. ]
Guess the pressure's on to find out so I'll get a whole chapter dedicated to my talents!
[ Any hopes that he'd somehow gotten better with experience are immediately dashed when he tries to grin up at Luke again and ends up jabbing himself in the eye. Awkward sex is just America's life there is no fucking escape. ]
Ow-- And lucky you! Guess who still don't got a gag reflex?
[ As if it wasn't bad enough, he waggles his eyebrows and shoots a finger pistol. ]
If ya guessed anyone but me, your alien brain is wrong.
[ Somehow he gets the feeling that there is some inevitable snark waiting for him, so he tries to cut it off with a slow lick down a pulsing vein. ]
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A feeling that lasts until America pokes his eye out and his sort of laughter combines with a whine of sympathy and pains his throat. America barrels right on like nothing happened, but Luke strokes his cheek with a loose hand and makes it up to him anyway.]
I don't like teeth. You like biting me!
[Sometimes, he even likes the bites and the marks they leave behind, because it's emotional and edgy in a safely teenage way. All the thrills of danger, but if they don't screw up too bad, no one dies at the end.
But luckily for everyone, it seems the choking risk is still at an all time low, something that makes him laugh meanly until a tongue sweeps all those thoughts away and he curls up under America, and keeps him trapped in place with legs wound round his head and hands that scrape over his shoulder blades.]
Thought you might have levelled up after all these years. Or don't you get much chance to have a night in when you're being an outlaw cowboy millionaire?
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Hah, you're right! Duly noted: no teeth nowhere.
[ He grins wide and taunting, flashing his pearly whites (that are more coffee stained than pearly) only centimeters from Luke's cock. Not that he's likely to notice from his hunch over position, but maybe he can feel the smugness hovering right by his skin. Instead America pulls back the skin to give a wet, sloppy kiss to the head. ]
What can I say? I lead a busy life! And I'll have ya know that the once-in-a-blue-moon leisurely nights I get aren't full of dick sucking. [ he says as he's sucking dick ] Most of the time I'm finally gettin' some decent sleep after months usin' rocks as pillows are partying with socialites, or I'm out doin' charity work--I know, I know, that ain't promoting survival of the fittest, and while I'd usually be inclined to agree, I can't help but bein' a do-gooder! I like seein' people smile. Or animals. Which is why I love my whale Moby so much. You ever see a beluga? Always smiling!
[ At this point he's not even doing anything, he's just talking. It's like Luke's penis is a microphone and the audience is no one who cares. ]
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[It’s amazing what you become amenable to when a mouth is wet and warm and right where you like it. The taunts go right over (under?) his head, but America’s penchant for promising mind-blowing sex and then becoming distracted by whatever random shit is going on in his brain is something that’s sweetly amusing in memory, and incredibly, sighingly frustrating when it happens in real life.]
Belugas don’t smile. They just have unfused cervical vertebrae. And ‘survival of the fittest’ is a guideline for the heritable genetic traits of replicating population entities, not social behaviour.
[There you go, a whimpered crash course in twenty-first century science and anthropology. Luke’s own, personal favourite form of dirty talk, here to compliment America’s version. Did you miss this, America? Did you really?]
Cooperation- [Luke flops onto his back so he has purchase to push his hips up into the tight friction of America’s grip that, much like nineteenth century capitalism, has so much potential, and yet is so poorly applied.] -is the best survival strategy for a species.
[Fearing the hint might not be big enough to make a dent in America’s thick skull yet, he resorts to some desperate pleading and brushing his fingers over America’s.]
I’ll smile if you’ll just give me a hand job.
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Even though he still thinks Luke needs to get a little fantastical imagination going in that factory-made brain of his.
Glancing up, America opens his mouth like he's going to say something in response. And he will, just as soon as he swallows Luke to the root, nose pressed to his pelvis as his hands wander away, aimlessly tracing over clothed thighs and over Luke's hips. Time and practice have not improved his skills or control over his saliva, but at least now he can multitask. He can pull back, throat constricted and attentive, while still rambling through every inane thought in his head. ]
Unfused cervical vertebrae or not, they still smile! [ Except as he bobs his head, it comes out as a garbled "u'used cer'ical 'erdeb'ae 'r no', 'ey s'ill smi'e!" Nothing else he says is any more comprehensible. ] You gotta read it in all the features! Dogs can smile too, and horses and cats and raptors, you just gotta see how their eyes light up. That's the difference between smiling and having a weird jaw.
[ Sentences are broken up by failed attempts to swallow all of his spit, which might feel nice for Luke but doesn't help the slurping noises or stop his spit from smearing all over his chin or the fine hair speckled over Luke's pale skin. ]
If you're gettin' all ecological, cooperation among groups helps survival! A wolf pack who hunts and plays together, they help each other, but that don't mean they gotta be nice to another pack that invades their territory.
[ Can Luke even decipher what he's saying? If not, at least that means he gets the last word, even if no one but America can understand what the word is. ]
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[He loses his goddamned mind to a moment of bliss. Luke tries to watch as America sucks his dick like it’s about to melt, until everything goes tight and smooth and Luke’s head knocking against the cistern from how hard he jerks. It’s like an itch he’s been waiting a lifetime to scratch.
The promise to smile is immediately broken, but maybe it doesn’t matter so much to America because Luke’s eyes are lit up too, with an aching need that’s starting to spread through his belly as he watches each bob of America’s blonde head with unfocused intensity.]
They do not.
[He says in response to the only words he catches over the blood pounding in his ears. Something about smiles, whales and rats? Whatever, all he knows is that America is contradicting him, so he is automatically wrong.
Apparently, the fact that America is the one who lives with a Beluga and interacts with animals on a daily basis, while Luke has done nothing but read a National Geographic article several years ago, makes no dent in his argument whatsoever.
He understands more as America keeps talking, but large swathes of context are lost every time America’s throat tightens and swallows and Luke loses a little bit more of his mind.]
I don’t see any wolves in my bathroom.
[He sighs, taking back some control from America’s best efforts to wrest it away from him with his fucking inappropriate deep throating. He curls his hand around America’s jaw, a light touch that doesn’t push or pull him anywhere, even if his knuckles are pressed uncomfortably against the swell of America’s throat. The small press of his fingertips grounds him, even if they only cause discomfort for his poor boyfriend as Luke swipes his thumb over a trail of saliva running down his jaw, smearing it to the corner of his open mouth.]
Mm. We’re not in the same pack. We- ah, we’re cooperatin’ okay.
[The fact they are still talking about this irrelevant shit at this stage can only be proof of how emotionally damaged these two boys are.]
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[ Even though Luke is too hazy to smile, America can do it for him even with his lips wrapped firmly around his cock. Luke may be completely wrong, sure, but the way he looks at America stops him from arguing further. It ignites a blaze that clatters down his ribcage like a fallen comet and settles below his belly button. He shuffles a bit on his knees, a little because of the discomfort of kneeling on tile, mostly because he's trying not to stuff a hand down his own pants.
The rhythm he'd been building falters slightly under Luke's fingertips. They smudge spit along his cheek and add unneeded pressure to his throat, but it's the small intimacy of the touch that makes America's eyelids flutter. ]
That's 'cause I love you! We're more like a menagerie than a pack; like domestic animals that are friends cross species.
[ Somehow his point got away from him, and now he may ever associate cute friendships between goats and horses with swallowing Luke to the hilt. Tragedy.
But then his attention snaps back to the task at hand, the intensity in Luke's eyes and how his boyfriend shudders in his mouth and under his palms. So he decides to reiterate the only point that's made sense so far and the only one that's been suited to this whole fucking context: ]
'Cause I love you.
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He's turned into one of those crazy men who cry during sex and the only surprise is that it hasn't happened sooner.]
I don't care.
[He squeaks out, wiping his wet eyes and biting hard on his lip. The emotional roller coaster that is their relationship has finally caught up with him.
Six months of worrying about what it means to date someone on the verge of becoming a global, oppressive superpower. Five months suffocating under the weight of his own secrets, hiding a past where he's dealt so much damage to the North American continent, if he ever admitted the extent of his crimes America could check into a shelter for battered spouses. Four months since the helpless realisation that America was depressed and traumatised; two weeks ago he watched him ripped apart by a twisted psychopath; and for three hours he's tried not to show the unsettled anxiety that comes of having kissed another boy when America was away, when he was pretending he was okay and fine with losing the one person who understood him, forever.
All that, and America's still here. Kneeling on a hard floor, holding him steady and close and talking about love.
Luke is in dire need of a xanax right now.]
I don't care! [He sobs out, curling over America's head and trying to drag him closer. If he could just shove America's face through sternum, everything would be okay.] I don't care what you are, what you do- I love you. I don't care- I'll never let anyone hurt you. I'll never let them.
[And then he comes. It's the worst sexual experience anyone's ever had.]
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Honestly he's too baffled to feel hurt. Luke doesn't care? About what? He doesn't care that America loves him, or he doesn't care about interspecies friendships? How could someone not care about baby animals snuggling together?! The muffled start of a question gets cut short as Luke tries to simultaneously stab America with his bony chest and smother him with his dick. Even without a gag reflex, it's still not comfortable to have a cock shoved down your throat while you're trying to ask your emotionally volatile boyfriend is okay.
Except one of his questions is answered, yet so many more are raised. He has no idea who Luke thinks is going to hurt him or what he intends to do about it, but it makes his heart prickle and whole body feel floaty. Luke's earlier admission of love had been a set of polished words that he cradled with care; this, though, this is a tempest of raw emotion that batters against his heart and head, demanding to be felt with more force than any storm that's torn up his coasts. His hands desperately grab the hem of Luke's shirt like he's afraid of losing anything between them, even if it is laden with more feelings than America knows what to do with, like if he holds onto Luke than he'll know that America takes his words to heart even if he doesn't fully understand them.
Even if the sudden rush of feverish promises is bizarrely out of place for a blowjob on the bathroom floor.
America doesn't have time to dwell on the possibility that Luke bared his factory-made soul to the country. The moment he takes a hiccuped breath so he can say something, that's the moment Luke fucking comes. Typical. Here he was hoping to enjoy the fine sight of his recently-reunited boyfriend shake with ecstasy and he's inhaling the jizz of a sobbing wreck. You know how it feels when you're drinking something and you accidentally inhale so that it splashes over your windpipe? That's happening, but with semen, which is actually so much worse.
He writhes out of Luke's grip, not caring that as he pulls away as quick as he can, he gets come streaked over his brow and cheeks like a poor imitation of his scar. He doesn't care because he coughing violently and clutching his throat. It takes a long, awkward minute for him to get back to normal, and by then his eyes are watery and red for a whole different reason than Luke's.
Squinting up through splattered glasses, his hoarse voice rasps: ]
You alright?
[ He pats Luke on the knee gently. There there, squishy Brit, his stilted gesture says. It was fun until you started crying. ]
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