The only thing that I can tell you is that I am so sorry. This was never meant to happen. Its for Butterfish, that devious minx... Please forgive me.

He hadn't realized exactly how quickly CDs wore out, especially when they are abused so thoroughly. Apparently, smacking the "repeat" button on any single track was enough to wear it out within a few months. Stupid, cheap-quality American products.

Arthur ducked into the sleek, modern music store, hands shoved in his pockets as he slouched into the mass of air conditioning and preteen girls and tinny pop music blasting from in-store stereos. Really, he much preferred the old record stores, where they sold Beatles music and eight-tracks and real, quality products that had managed to survive fifty bloody years without breaking, no matter how many times he listened to them…

A girl who looked barely above fifteen lounged at the counter, her blue-dyed hair short and spiked in a fashion that looked almost magazine-worthy. Arthur shook his head, despairing how fast "punk" had become mainstream and fashionable. Sodding mainstream.

He knew exactly what he wanted, at least, so he didn't have to spend any longer than bloody necessary in the shop. He shuffled quickly down the "American Pop" music aisle and down the rows of alphabetized, glossy covers picturing tanned girls, swimsuits, and too much glitter to be healthy. His hands skimmed along the merchandise until he found the slot for the artist he was looking for. It was jammed with various albums, but he knew what he was doing now, he snatched one of the newer albums and hurried up to the front desk. The blue girl looked up, popping gum.

"Yeah?"

"Umm… I'd like to pay for this?" Why else would he be up here?

"Oh. Fine, whatever. Hand it over." Arthur did as he was told, opening his mouth to cut into the girl about manners toward her elders, when she finally looked at the CD cover and arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"Uh, are you going to listen to this?" she asked incredulously.

"O-of course not! It's – it's for a niece, for her seventh birthday, and I –"

"Ugh, I get it, you're a pedo who likes this chick. Just pay me £9.49 and go, okay?"

Inwardly, Arthur began to growl. Outwardly, he forked over his money and snatched the CD from the girl, not waiting for a bag or receipt. Really, most of his people were better behaved than this! She must be watching too many American shows on the telly; yes, that was probably it.

He hid the CD in his jacket pocket, taking the underground back to his flat in the city. Now that he had his prize in his grip, he was ready to use it, and he fairly shook with excitement as the train screeched to a stop and he hopped out at his station, walking hurriedly (but in a very sedate, gentleman-like manner) to his residence. He fumbled the keys into the lock, entered, and slammed the door behind him, dashing towards his bedroom as he used the keys to cut open the blasted packaging. He flipped open the top of the little stereo he kept on the nightstand, shoved the silvery disc in, and jammed the "play" button.

Jumpy, caffeine-fueled guitar filtered from the speakers. With trembling fingers, Arthur undid his belt and shoved his trousers down to his knees, sitting on the bed. The lyrics came a moment later.

Hopped off the plane at LAX, with a dream and my cardigan

Welcome to the land of fame excess, am I gonna fit in?

Arthur's hands found their way to his cock, half-hard already just from the opening chords. The twang of the instruments and the twang of southern accent in the singer's voice reminded him instantly of his trips to LA, the blue water and the blue sky that seemed to pale in an instant to the blue of a pair of eyes –

My tummy's turning and I'm feeling kinda homesick

Too much pressure and I'm nervous

Appalling grammar aside – and really, that was part of the charm, it was the way that he talked – Arthur felt a similar tug at his belly, although he supposed that Cyrus girl didn't mean it in quite the same way. His hand began to move up and down his shaft, slowly and lightly at first. After all, he just needed to press the repeat button should the song end too quickly.

So I put my hands up, they're playing my song, the butterflies fly away

Nodding my head like yeah

Moving my hips like yeah

He could imagine another American moving their hips, the slow, circular undulation as he thrust into Arthur, as he had so often in the past. Arthur hung onto the memory of being filled by him. In his mind, the thrusts took on the rhythm of the song, a steady, pulsing beat and Arthur's hand moved in time to it.

Yeah, It's a party in the USA…

Get to the club in my taxi cab, everybody's looking at me now

Arthur remembered the first time he was taken to an LA nightclub, straight off the plane no less. He doubted the girl would have had the energy to go party, much less be allowed to enter – what was she, fourteen? Nevertheless, Alfred had thought it would be fun to go dancing. It had not been, what with the bumping and the grinding all over the dance floor, the way their sweaty bodies had been pressed so close together as they twisted to the music….

"Unh…" Arthur let out a strangled noise, remembering, as he let the music wash over him.

Nodding my head like yeah

Moving my hips like –

"Yeah… yes… oh yes…" Arthur moaned to himself, fondling his balls with one hand as the other squeezed up and down his length.

Feel like hopping on a flight

Back to my hometown tonight

Something stops me every time

Arthur knew the feeling, oh too well. Again and again, he promised himself never to return to the land of horrible pop music and fast food, but something in those big blue eyes and that southern twang got him on a plane across the pond every bloody time. Though that gorgeous arse helped a bit, too. Mmm the feeling of being imbedded inside that toned, tanned hole, balls-deep in the grinning fool and making him moan against the mattress.

Yeah, it's a party in the USA

Yeah, it's a party in the USA

The last, drawn out "yeah" was in stereo with Arthur's own final moan as he spilled his seed across his fingers. Fumbling for a handkerchief with one hand, he stopped the CD player with the other, desperate that it not go on to the next track.

Party in the USA, his arse.

The next time Alfred came over for a visit, Arthur was in the kitchen, fighting his ancient coffee maker, when he heard a familiar tune being hummed. Blushing frantically at his body's response, he did not turn around as he snapped, "Cut it out, you wanker, and save the Miley Cyrus for your own home."

"Aww, Iggy, its not that bad," whined Alfred. "Really, if you'd just give the song a chance, it's kinda addicting."

Arthur could not fire off a reply. Really, you have no idea how addicting, git…