All Good Things

US/UK/US

Thrice Written and RipperJak

R18

Author's Notes:

RipperJak: Hey guys! I can't compare to Wenn's awesome writing skills, but I hope you all have as much fun reading as we did writing :'D

Thrice Written: My first legitimate RP ever! Can you believe it? Time's flown since the day I first set eyes on a Hetalia fanfic. . . . Anyway, I can't really think of a way to describe this story besides "gratuitous, scandalous teacher/student story with slightly questionable plot development and generous amounts of PWP." And since we tend to see a lot of teacher/student fics where Arthur's the teacher and Alfred's his student, Heather and I decided to switch it up a bit and make Alfred the teacher and Arthur the student. Hope you guys enjoy! (And yes, you did read the pairing right: it's going to be US/UK/US. XD)

And the cast:

RipperJak = Arthur Kirkland

Thrice Written = Alfred F. Jones

WARNINGS: ephebophilia (when an adult's attracted to a teenager), forbidden teacher/student relationship, age gap, sex in kinky places, sex toys (possibly)

Don't forget to review and give this story some love!

And, as usual, Hetalia belongs to Himaruya.

-x-x-x-

ONE

It's hot. Too hot. Far too hot for him to even bring himself to take part in the lesson today, never mind play football outside with the sun in his eyes. He'd tried his hardest to take part at the start, but with the pressure of having to take part in a team of annoyingly boisterous classmates that can even rival Mr. Jones at times, he'd soon given up. After the ball slips from his path once again, Arthur grunts, huffs, and kicks the dirt with gritted teeth before limping over to the side of the field.

His chest feels tight and his heart hammers against his chest as he pants, gripping the netted fence and wiping his sweaty forehead. He's done. Any more of it and he will drop on the spot, he's sure.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Jones sees Arthur heading off the field, and he quickly sidesteps a pair of players jostling each other over the ball (the one that Arthur had lost from his possession), slips down the sidelines, and joins Arthur. "Hey, what's up?" he asks rather senselessly. "Something wrong?" He sees the sweat matting Arthur's hair and the unhealthily red flush staining his face and deduces rather belatedly that maybe Arthur has had enough of soccer, but the words are already out. No wonder people like to call him insensitive.

"I have . . . had it with football today, Mr. Jones," Arthur pants, brows furrowed as he leans his head against the fence, silently thankful that the older male's shadow provides him with some shade from the sun — a small mercy. "This is pointless, I feel like my heart is jumping out my throat!"

"Yeah, you don't look so good. Hold on, lemme get you some water before you pass out on me." Mr. Jones dashes down the field, snatches his plastic water bottle from the bench on the other side, and returns. He's not winded in the least — he's in top physical condition from the couple of years he spent in the military, and the sun and heat don't bother him. Thinking about the military and why he got discharged early on makes him sad, though, so instead of wallowing in self-pity, Mr. Jones holds the water bottle out to Arthur. He has to admit that Arthur's always interested him, if only because he's secretly turned it into a project to make Arthur lose his ever-present scowl.

But at the rate he's going, he'll probably have more success turning bony, stamina-challenged Arthur Kirkland into a professional athlete.

Arthur takes the water bottle and presses it to his lips, all too happy to open his throat to the wonderful chilled liquid. He swallows and lets out a shaky, content sigh. "Th-thanks," he murmurs, cheeks tinting a bit as he wipes his mouth.

That one second — that one innocent little gesture, a dehydrated teenage boy wiping water from his mouth — is enough to plunge Mr. Jones's mind into the gutter. On second thought, maybe the heat really is getting to him. He manages to maintain his composure (if only barely — he's always been one of those people who wears his heart on his sleeve) and says with what he thinks is cool composure, "No prob, kid. You — you can sit out for a while, if you really aren't feeling up to rejoining the game. I won't mark you down."

Arthur sits at the edge of the field for the remainder of the lesson. He tunes into the game with only mild interest. He's never considered himself much of a sports man but he's always tried somewhat with football (not soccer!) if only for the pride of his nationality. His family's move to the U.S. at the start of his high school years has left him feeling detached and unsatisfied; he's never quite been able to settle down in the country. Arthur knows though, somewhere deep down, that his homesick national pride is more of an excuse than anything else. In reality he's never felt settled, never felt at home. He's lived his life walking the path of indifference, and such realisations always creep up on him during restless nights and idle spells, leaving a heavy feeling in his chest and a bad taste in his mouth.

Finding his gaze wandering over to Mr. Jones, Arthur watches the older man run for the ball, fully engrossed in the game with gleaming blue eyes and a wide grin. He'd be lying if he denies that his teacher fascinates him. From his appearance to his personality, how those eyes can go from shining with childlike excitement when interacting with his class to stoic and intense with competition or discipline (the latter never failing to make him weak at the knees, even if he'd only seen it once after a fight had broken out). With a body like a god, toned and strong, Mr Jones is a heartthrob to the women and an idol to the men. For one of the first times in his life, Arthur finds himself agreeing with the majority: Mr Jones is infatuating.

"Hey! Beilschmidt! Let him go!" Mr. Jones roars from his position near the goal. He had been poised to kick the ball into the net, but a scuffle between a pair of boys a few hundred feet down the field has caught his attention. God, he loves soccer almost more than he loves fast food and ogling a certain student sitting out for the rest of the class, but seeing two of his students' interactions progress beyond playful shoving frustrates him. Sports are all about teamwork; what good does it do to have the team members turn on each other? Why can't they all just cooperate? "Did you hear me, Beilschmidt? Cut it out!"

The other players stop and stare with mild interest as Mr. Jones abandons the ball and rushes across the playing field to break up the two boys' spat. As he approaches them, Gilbert Beilschmidt reluctantly lets go of his victim's hair and takes a step back. Mr. Jones gives him a look of reproach before saying, "Seriously, Gilbert, I expected better from you. Why don't you go cool down at the principal's office?" Gilbert glares back, holding his ground. "You know what? It's not a suggestion — go."

Gilbert storms off the field with his head held high, nose in the air.

Mr. Jones turns back to the boy whose hair Gilbert had been yanking on — Francis Bonnefoy — and directs him to the nurse to have something done about his aching head. As he points off to the school, his shirt rides up, showing several inches of tanned skin and toned muscle that's visible even to the eyes of one Arthur Kirkland sitting in the sidelines.

Arthur's breath catches in his throat at the sight of the tanned skin of Alfred's abdomen, the trace of a deliciously defined pelvic bone disappearing under the waistline of the gym teacher's underwear. He licks his lips before he can stop himself, teeth nibbling at the lid of the water bottle as the flash of skin disappears almost as quickly as it was shown.

Yes. Mr. Jones is handsome. Incredibly so and, even though it's frowned upon to think so, even though it's considered shameful, Arthur really can't care less. It's his mind and nothing can stop him from enjoying the occasional passing, dirty scenario his mind would conjure at times like these. When Mr. Jones pulls up his shirt to wipe his face on warm days, or when he flexes his muscle during explanations, or even how he always looks at the end of the day — exhausted and satisfied, cheeks flushed and clothes a mess.

He shoots a glare Francis's way as he passes and turns his attention back to Mr. Jones.

Mr. Jones turns his head and sees Arthur teething on his water bottle, and immediately has to look away again to stop himself from pitching a tent. Seeing a student — definitely off-limits, but he can't help himself, and a bit of fantasizing's never hurt anyone, has it? — gnawing like that on one of his personal items is sinfully arousing. And the way Arthur's tongue peeks out from behind his lips to swipe over the slightly frayed plastic . . . No. This is his student. Even if it's only in his head, Mr. Jones can't help but feel guilty about imagining Arthur's mouth somewhere else, somewhere that needs those lips and tongue so much more. . . . He grits his teeth and — perhaps more tersely than normal — tells the other students to keep playing.

Arthur looks at his watch to find that the lesson will be nearing the end soon. Half pleased and half disappointed, he puts the water bottle to the side and stands, the rest of the pupils idling between playing the game and chatting to their friends.

It's a magnetic attraction. What other explanation is there for the way Arthur seems to draw his eyes like flies to honey? Mr. Jones clears his throat and glances at his digital watch — oh, class is going to end soon. What better time to retrieve his (Arthur-marked) water bottle than now? He leaves the field, patting and high-fiving some of the students as he goes and returning every smile thrown his way with his usual thousand-watt grin, and reaches Arthur's side. He leans down to pick up his water bottle. "Feeling better?" he asks.

"Ah," Arthur mumbles, chest fluttering a bit as Mr. Jones walks up to him. "Er, yes." Clearing his throat, he dusts the grass off his legs. "Much better . . ."

Mr. Jones stares at his long, pale legs for a moment. Then he catches himself and grins awkwardly. "That's good. Next time, tell me sooner, okay? I don't want you to overheat and faint." As if on cue, the bell rings distantly in the school to signal the end of the period.

"If we have to do football outside again this week, I might just . . ." Arthur grunts. When the bell goes he feels his shoulders sag a little. He looks up at his teacher and bites his lip.

Playing favorites is not something Mr. Jones makes a habit of. At least, that's what he's been telling himself since the beginning of his teaching career at the Academy. But then again, he formed that view several months before he met Arthur Kirkland. "Uh . . . we're going to be playing soccer for the rest of this week and all of the next. Do you . . . um . . . would you rather have a pass to the library instead? I mean, I'll still record you as present, but I can understand how hard it is on you."

Stunned, Arthur gives Alfred a suspicious look. "Mr. Jones? Are you condoning that I skip out on class?" he asks, resisting the urge to smirk.

"Of — of course not!" Mr. Jones backpedals. "I'm just . . ." He scrambles for words. Oh, God, Arthur's smirk is really distracting. "I mean . . . I . . . I totally empathize with you about not wanting to play soccer. I used to hate gym back when I was in school. Mostly 'cause . . ." He winces. "I used to be . . . overweight. But this isn't about me! Would you rather be out here burning up with the rest of us instead of in the library?" His memories of his "fat" days are . . . unpleasant, to say the least, and he would rather not think about them. But he can't lose face in front of Arthur; he doesn't want him to think that he's anything less than a good, tolerant gym teacher! Because that's all he is. Honest.

Oh, but who is he trying to kid? He knows he's only doing this because it's Arthur Kirkland.

He bites his lip to stop himself from laughing. Oh, that was cute. That was really cute. Arthur knows his teacher likes to talk, but his embarrassed ramblings are priceless. "Actually, Mr. Jones . . . ," he says quietly, his nerves getting the better of him somewhat, though he does a good job hiding it. "I was wondering if you could . . . help me out."

"Help you out?" Mr. Jones echoes, momentarily puzzled. "What do you mean? Like — train you in soccer or something?"

"Yes," Arthur says, cheeks tinting a bit. "I'm usually free after school."

"Oh. Uh, okay." Arthur is asking him to stay after to train him? Really? His day just got ten times more awesome. "Um, let's see . . . I don't think I have anything important to do today. Today's okay with you, right?"

"Yeah." Arthur cheers internally. "Will you teach me?"

"'Course, if that's cool with you." Dammit, his face feels hot — is he blushing? Has Arthur noticed? Or is it just the heat? "I think you should get going — class'll be starting again in a few minutes. You'll need to change your clothes." Thinking about Arthur stripping is not doing his concentration — or his conscience — any good. Mr. Jones hurries on. "Uh . . . so I'll meet you out here after school. You don't have to change into your gym clothes again unless you want to. Just bring your sneakers. That sound okay to you?"

"That's fine," Arthur says quietly, averting his eyes as his cheeks tint a bit. He stands there fidgeting for a few moments before he inhales quickly. "Right. Okay. Well. I'll see you after class, Mr. Jones."

How Mr. Jones wants to hear Arthur call him "Alfred." If only once. "Yup, see you then." He stands there a moment longer, watching Arthur try to avoid his gaze and trying to avoid Arthur's gaze at the same time, before he gives himself a shake and reluctantly goes off to pack up the equipment.

After school, huh? He wonders exactly how much he and Arthur are going to get done. But he feels bad for thinking like that, because he's not sure if that . . . seductive note in Arthur's voice was real, or just in his imagination. Surely it must just be his brain being hopeful. Someone like Arthur Kirkland wouldn't just . . . put out for a teacher, would he?

Mr. Jones hopes he will. Oh, God, how he hopes, even though he knows he'll get fired if they're caught.

The rest of the day drags on for Arthur. He finds himself picking at his food during lunch, mind wondering in maths class, and setting fire to the pans in cooking class. His mind fills with his teacher and the excitement of being able to be alone with him. Alone. Completely. The thought itself is enough to make him squirm with impatience.

The bell finally rings out for the end of the day and Arthur has to stop himself from grinning. Finally, he thinks, packing up his things into his schoolbag. He swaps his shoes over for his sneakers and heads over for the field to wait for his teacher.

He really hopes that his teacher feels the same way as him. He has to — Arthur saw the way he looked at him, how his cheeks flushed when his own did. Such an attraction is dangerous and risky, but if he's completely honest with himself . . . he doesn't really care.

Mr. Jones's heart starts pounding in a way that's definitely unhealthy when he sees the lone figure making its way toward him. It has to be Arthur. No one else would come all the way out here. Yet the racing of his heart is dictated not only by excitement (and slowly simmering arousal), but also by fear — fear that someone, an innocent bystander, will happen by and see him with Arthur. Of course, he's being fanciful when he imagines that he and Arthur will be doing something worth being reported for . . . who knows if that was even Arthur's intention in the first place? For all Mr. Jones knows, maybe Arthur really was just looking for help in the athletics department. Which means he himself is nothing more than a dirty pervert, a near-pedophile — someone unfit to be teaching at a school with so many guileless potential victims.

Oh, yeah, that's definitely Arthur walking towards him. His hair gleams gold even in the mellow afternoon sun. Mr. Jones straightens up from where he'd been lacing up his sneaker and waves. "Hey, Arthur! Over here!" he calls cheerfully, glad that his voice doesn't wobble.

Arthur's heart flips and rattles in his chest at the sound of his teacher's voice. He waves back and stops to fix the heel of his sneaker, though it's really only in order for him to get his bearings. He can't go up to his teacher looking as nervous and excited as he does. So, with a deep breath, he puts on his usual uninterested expression and makes his way over to his teacher who, by the way, looks drop-dead gorgeous in the orange evening sun.

"So . . . you ready to get started?" asks Mr. Jones. He's rather proud that his voice is still dead casual — no external sign at all of the chaotic emotions fighting each other for dominance in his chest. "I was thinking we could start off with some basic stuff, like dribbling." Just to give his hands something to do (he's always been somewhat awkward, and his hands have always been a sure sign of exactly how he's feeling since they tend to shake like crazy when he's frazzled in the slightest), he picks up the stack of orange cones he'd set aside with the rest of the equipment. These he begins to place at even intervals down the sidelines, careful not to look over his shoulder at Arthur no matter how much he wants to. He does trip once or twice, and to keep his mind off his embarrassment, he focuses on the feeling of Arthur's gaze alighting on his back as lightly as a butterfly on a flower petal. He wonders what Arthur's thinking. He feels like if he — if they don't do anything about the unresolved tension between them, he just might lose it.

"Dribbling," Arthur repeats to himself as he watches his teacher set out the cones on the sidelines. He picks up the football and spins it with his hands as his idle gaze near-undresses his teacher from behind. He licks his lips, trying to keep his lust at bay. Oh, the things he wants to do . . .

Finally done setting up the cones (and perhaps a bit more proud than he should be of himself for not falling flat on his face at some point), Mr. Jones turns around to face Arthur. And for a moment, he's mesmerized by the fluid twist of Arthur's pale wrist, the slender ribbons of his fingers, as the ball spins around and around between his hands. To buy himself a second to regain his cool, he props his hands on his hips and tries to look the part of the teacher, with everything under control. Though he has the inkling that his purely professional (oh, who is he trying to fool? He's never been "purely professional," and being around Arthur just makes him act like a downright idiot) demeanor is beginning to slip. "Uh . . . okay. Dribbling! Do you know how to do it, or do you want me to show you first?"

"I know how," Arthur murmurs, placing the ball onto the ground. "I've played with my brothers a few times before." Looking up, he locks his gaze with his teacher's and feels the air in his chest leave him like a punch. Those blue eyes are breathtaking, and the fact that he's going to be so close to his teacher, the fact that he's going to be the only one his teacher will be paying attention to, excites him.

Mr. Jones decides right then and there that green is his favorite color — mostly because Arthur's eyes have an abundance of it, and they're breathtaking. "Oh, really? Then you should be fine. Here, put the ball down in front of the cone at the end of the line and dribble the ball around the cones 'til you get to the end. Then we'll go from there." He watches Arthur as he moves to follow his instructions, and a sudden flash of an image — one of Arthur completely nude, pale and slim and needy — crosses the front of his mind with such vividness that it leaves a streak of white in its wake.

Holy shit. He really needs to get a grip. He's not so desperate that he'll molest his own student, is he? It's already enough of a crime to just strip the teen in his head and imagine all the things he wants to do to him even while they're keeping up the guise (is it a guise?) of soccer training. If they actually do something . . . Mr. Jones swallows.

He'll be arrested, and who knows what will happen to Arthur. But he still wants it. He wants it like someone who's caught a glimpse of paradise but knows it's just beyond his reach, hovering tauntingly before his fingertips. Or isit beyond his grasp? Arthur is right there; if he wants to, if he really wants to, he can step up around behind him and . . . Plus, what are the chances that Arthur will refuse? He's a teenage boy — he has hormones. There's no way he can't want it, too. Unless he doesn't swing that way, and Mr. Jones's perception of him has been wrong from the start. . . .

That possibility is awful to think about, because it means that whatever sick fantasy he has going on inside his head, it really is only that: a sick fantasy. And what does that say about himself?

Arthur tries his best to dribble the ball in and out of the cones, though he finds the task considerably more difficult than he had thought. With the thought of his teacher's eyes on him, concentrated and strong, his knees wobble. Nevertheless he persists, occasionally tripping up on the ball or one of the cones and letting out a huff. In reality, all he wants is his teacher's attention. It's wrong. God, is it wrong, but the many heated nights spent with the thoughts and fantasies of his teacher are enough to overpower the guilt. There is no guilt or hesitation left, and now all he wants is for his thoughts to become reality.

Arthur's clumsiness is incredibly endearing — and it goes to show that even the unflappable student council president, the resident ice "queen" of the school, has his weaknesses. Mr. Jones wonders if he himself happens to be one of them, and immediately feels ashamed right after. He jogs along beside Arthur as he makes his way down the line of cones, keeping up an easy stream of advice as Arthur trips and stumbles. When they reach the end of the line, he says encouragingly, "That wasn't too bad! Let's turn around and do it again, and this time you can . . ."

And their impromptu little practice session goes on in the same vein for just over an hour, with some other drills thrown in. Arthur isn't quite athletic material, Mr. Jones thinks, but he's a fast learner. The sun is setting rapidly by the time they finish up, and as night begins to creep in, he starts to feel vaguely uneasy. Everyone knows that inhibitions tend to lower as soon as the sun goes down. And Arthur is looking as appealing as ever, especially with his shirt dampened with sweat and his pants beginning to ride low on his hips, sliding down from all the exercise. . . .

"Good grief . . ." Arthur pants, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I swear, I think you must be bonkers to do this for a job," he murmurs in good heart. With the cones stacked and football put away, there's nothing to keep them there. Arthur should just say his thanks and head off home. Something stops him however, and by the looks of it something is stopping his teacher too. He can't help but let his eyes roam over the older man's well-worked frame. The cold night air cools the sweat on his skin and sends goosebumps up his arms and, licking his lips, he glances up at his teacher once again and exhales quietly. "Mr. Jones . . . ," he purrs out, as if just to feel the words on his tongue.

"Y-yes . . . ?" Mr. Jones says, and this time he can't keep the nervousness from seeping into the edges of his voice, because his blood is pounding in his ears and rushing into every corner of his body and threatening to unbalance him entirely. This might be it, he thinks. I can still turn back.

But he doesn't want to. Oh, God, he will never want to, if only because it's Arthur Kirkland.

"It's cold . . . ," Arthur says quietly, voice but a whisper as he bites his lip. He steps forward, watches the way his teacher's eyes light up with excitement and wraps his arms around the man's waist slowly, carefully. There is no turning back, he can never take this back. The thought only excites him further and he presses his chest against Alfred's.

Arthur's frame is so much smaller, so much more . . . delicate than his own. That's the first thing Mr. Jones notices. And then his scent . . . sweat, fabric softener, a hint of tea. His body is warm.

He feels Arthur's narrow ribcage press against his own, feels his arms wrap around his waist. Such thin arms, but Arthur's touch . . . He lifts his own arms up and, after a second of hesitation, slides them loosely around the small of Arthur's back, feels the bumps of his spine through his shirt. He can still turn back. They haven't done anything, not yet. But he knows it's already too late.

Arthur gasps quietly and his eyes flutter shut. The feeling of Alfred's hands on him is better than anything he's felt before, and it only leads him to imagine how strong Alfred must be, and how much he wants Alfred to use such strength on him.

The sound of Arthur's breath in his ear is such a turn-on, if only because it's so raw, so honest. He likes being touched by me, Mr. Jones thinks in a daze. "Arthur," he breathes into Arthur's hair. "Are . . . are you sure you want to do this?" He needs to know.

"Yes," Arthur breathes without hesitation, the murmur of Alfred's voice sending a shiver down his spine. He shifts and presses himself closer to the other. "Touch me."

Oh, Jesus. Should he . . . ? "Can you — can you call me Alfred? Out loud?" Does he sound too desperate? Will it turn Arthur off? "Just once?"

"Alfred," the teen whispers, loving how it sounds to him out loud. "Touch me, Alfred," he repeats, running his hand up Alfred's back.

As Mr. Jones, Arthur is off-limits to him. A student. Untouchable. But as Alfred . . . it's a whole different matter. "Okay," Alfred says, just as softly. He's afraid of breaking the bubble that's formed around them. He's afraid of what they're going to do. He's afraid that he'll overstep his bounds, that he'll hurt Arthur, that they'll be caught. But those fears are nothing compared to the feel of Arthur's hand against his back, the touch of his hot palm sliding up between his shoulder blades.

No, it's too late to turn back now. He's too far gone. They're both too far gone. All he'd needed is Arthur's confirmation, his consent, and now that he has it . . . Alfred lets both of his hands drop. Lets them slip down Arthur's back as Arthur's hand is sliding up his (he has to bend over a little to do it, because Arthur's several inches shorter), and molds his fingers over the curve of Arthur's backside, hitches him up against his thigh, surprised that Arthur's so light. That he himself is so much stronger.

Arthur lets out a gasp as he's lifted. Letting out a soft moan of excitement, he wraps his leg around the other and wraps his arms around Alfred's neck to secure himself. God, does he want this. He's been waiting — wishing — for this for so long.

Alfred effortlessly holds Arthur up, supporting him with his arms. The light in the sky is dying, a shadow falling over them, and for a moment Alfred wonders if it's wise to stay out when it's getting later and later and when their excuse to train is slowly becoming obsolete. Such thoughts are wiped from his mind when he deliberately moves one hand to cup the underside of Arthur's thigh to keep him up and uses the fingertips of the other to slide between Arthur's legs, graze his perineum through his pants, feel the burn of his skin through layers of clothing that he desperately wants removed.

He doesn't have the courage to touch Arthur where it matters just yet. He's been with other men (though not many), but Arthur is so much younger, prone to his teenage hormones, and Alfred doesn't want to go too far, too fast. He doesn't know how Arthur will respond to any of his advances, so he continues to stroke that bit of concealed skin between Arthur's legs and waits breathlessly for Arthur to make the next move.

Alfred's touches send shocks through his skin and he finds himself writhing and moaning. Though the excitement and pleasure is wonderful he feels somewhat embarrassed for his uncontrolled behaviour. He's the council president, assertive and strong in his actions and yet here he is, panting and writhing under his teacher's touch. The more he thinks about it though, the less he cares.

He breathes against Alfred's neck and kisses along his jaw, loving how the older man gasps. Cupping the back of Alfred's head, he presses his lips against the other's, gently rutting his hips forward.

Arthur's movements are so typical of a horny high school boy. But it's sinful how much Alfred likes feeling him grind himself against his leg, feeling his lips on his jawline and then on his mouth before they're kissing like they're trying to devour each other. Arthur's kisses are shaky but confident, slightly off-center but achingly sincere, wholesome but nowhere near chaste. He doesn't taste like much . . . but just the feel of him and his wet tongue is making Alfred lose his head.

His hand strays from Arthur's thigh — letting him down onto his feet again — and instead dips under the hem of Arthur's shirt, knuckles brushing the warm skin and smoothing over it before he finds Arthur's hipbone and grasps it with a sturdy grip.

Arthur lets out a moan at the feel of Alfred's firm hand over his hip and breaks their kissing, instead going to nibble and suck at the other's lower lip as his own hands trail up his teacher's arms, feeling the strong and firm muscles under his fingertips. "Alfred . . . ," he moans again, suckling on the skin of his neck.

"Ouch," Alfred says absently, his words losing themselves in the slight hollow behind Arthur's ear, as he feels the edge of a tooth against his skin. Not hard enough to leave a hickey or any sort of mark, but . . . "Arthur." He shivers when Arthur's hands reach his shoulders. "Oh, God." With more boldness, he shifts one hand downward from where it had been gripping Arthur's hip and feels for his balls. When he encounters softness right below Arthur's groin and feels the heat grow, he knows he's found them, and begins rubbing soft circles into the sensitive skin.

It's like heaven. He wants so badly to see Arthur naked, to feel his bare skin without clothes hindering his touch. He wants to kiss him again. He wants a thousand things at once.

He begins to work his way toward getting them, and lowers them both down on the grass, letting go of Arthur to lay him down on his back, so close that his scent is everywhere.

The teen feels his breath rush out of him at the feeling of Alfred's hands on his balls, rubbing and fondling gently. The pleasure makes his cock twitch in anticipation and as Alfred lays them both down on the ground, he spreads himself out and tries to relax.

He's so caught up with the excitement than when he locks gazes with his teacher he can't help but want him. He wants everything Alfred will give him. For the first time in as long as he can remember he feels excited, he feels secure and he's never felt more right.

"Hey," Alfred whispers, leaning down so that their faces are close together. "Is it . . ." He swallows, then gently nuzzles Arthur's neck. He can't resist him. He's so hopeless. "Is it okay if we don't . . . you know . . . do it?" He prepares himself for Arthur's disappointment, because he's sure sex is what Arthur wants. But it's too soon. They barely know each other, and they don't have any of the things they need to make the experience enjoyable and painless for the both of them. He's content with just touching Arthur, and he wants to know if Arthur will be satisfied with just that as well. He doesn't want to crowd him; but he doesn't want to deny him, either.

Arthur's brows furrow and he lets out a small huff before rolling his eyes and nodding. "Yes . . . ," he whispers. Deep down he knows that it isn't the right time or place, though he can't deny his slight disappointment. His cheeks warm and his face softens however once he realises that his teacher is thinking of his comfort. Yes, Alfred is right. Now is not the right time. "That'd . . . be best, I think."

Alfred pauses for a bit, chewing his lip and staring down at Arthur's body and rumpled clothing as he contemplates their alternatives. Then he has an idea. His hands follow his eyes downward to Arthur's waist and begin to unbutton his pants.

"We can still do something else, though. Do you . . . mind oral?"

Eyes widening and cheeks flushing, Arthur somehow manages to lose all of his cool from earlier on. "Wha — I, uh — well — uh." He furrows his brows and bites down on his lip to shut himself up. Where is your composure, Kirkland? God. "No . . . I don't mind."

Alfred hears the poorly concealed uncertainty in Arthur's voice, and thinks that maybe he's coming on a little strong. He has to keep in mind that Arthur's only in high school, that he most likely doesn't have that much experience tucked away under his belt (in both the literal and metaphorical sense). Making himself slow down, Alfred coaxes Arthur's zipper open, tooth by metallic tooth. "Okay," he says, trying to sound as soothing as he can. "Just . . . let me know if you want to stop." With the fastenings out of the way, he gently presses Arthur's cock through the fabric of his underwear. Arthur's hard; it shows that he's getting some pleasure from all of this, at least. Arthur's knee bumps into the back of his shoulder as Alfred feels him jerk instinctively in reaction to his touch.

Once it seems that Arthur's had enough of the teasing and wants the real thing, Alfred slides the waistband of his underwear down. He runs his thumbs through the trail of golden hairs that begins low on the plane of Arthur's pelvis and, with gentle fingers, takes his cock in his hand. Just looking at it makes Alfred want to close his mouth around it, put his tongue to good use, suck until his cheeks hollow out, until Arthur's taste is ingrained into his palate. He wants to hear Arthur's voice rise, soft and needy, into the dawning night. He wonders how long Arthur will last. Ever so carefully, Alfred slides Arthur's foreskin down to expose the tender head and the moisture beginning to gather there.

He is made of wants. He is a bundle of desire. Lifting his head briefly and making eye contact with Arthur to make sure he's watching, to comfort him with his steady gaze, Alfred eases Arthur's erection into his mouth.

He's going to go to hell for this; he's dragging Arthur down with him by association. But if it means he'll get to be with Arthur as a result . . . so be it.

He hopes Arthur will forgive him.

"Oh God —" the teen gasps, feeling Alfred's warm mouth close around the sensitive head of his cock. The wet warmth sends shivers down his body, causing his muscles to tense and legs to spasm.

He's never felt so good, feeling Alfred's teeth gently graze the skin of his shaft. He has to close his eyes for a moment, indulging in the bliss of it all. Alfred — his teacher — taking his cock into his mouth and looking at him with such lust and desire . . . he's never seen something more erotic, never felt so aroused.

"Wh-what about — ah! What about y-you?" he pants, brows furrowed and cheeks flushing hot pink as he looks down at the glorious sight once more. "Ohhh . . ."

"Wha' 'bou' me?" murmurs Alfred. He lets the vibrations from his throat press against the head of Arthur's dick and travel down the length of the shaft. For a brief moment, he grazes his lower teeth up the delicate skin of the underside, and when he reaches the tip, he flicks his tongue over the slit to taste. Salty, almost bitter, but the sound it draws out of Arthur is sweet to his ears.

"Uhhn . . . ," Arthur moans lowly, back arching up off the ground as Alfred's tongue causes him to inhale sharply. "S-surely you want to . . . to get off too?" he breathes, biting his lower lip to cut off a rather high-pitched cry he won't be proud of.

He trails his hands up under his shirt and shudders at the feeling of his cold hands on his body, sliding up past his stomach and navel to his chest. Pinching one of his nipples, he lets out a high-pitched gasp and bucks his hips up, causing Alfred to choke slightly around his cock. He would apologise but he quickly finds himself too far gone in pleasure, wrapped up in not only the arousal, but the sheer lewdness of the entire situation.

"Ah . . . um." Alfred raises his head up. How does he put this without sounding completely cheesy? "I'm . . . fine either way. I just want . . . I just want you to feel good." He feels Arthur shift under him. What is he doing — oh! Alfred can feel his eyes widen as he watches Arthur work his own nipple with his fingers. Oh, God, he's kinkier than Alfred had given him credit for. As if responding to the additional stimulation, Arthur's cock spasms a little in Alfred's mouth. If that isn't a good reason for him to come spontaneously in his pants, then Alfred doesn't know what is.

But at this rate . . . he doesn't think Arthur's going to last very long. As he reaches up to continue fondling Arthur's balls in his free hand, he can feel them beginning to tighten up. "Arthur . . . ," he mumbles around his dick. "Are you getting close?"

"U-uh-huh." Arthur nods, licking his lips and panting softly. He feels his abdomen clench and convulse as the pleasure increases, the pit of heat in his stomach slowly but surely rising as he gasps and pushes his hips up to meet his teacher. Good God, he's never felt so good, never felt so needy or desperate for someone's touch. . . .

"Don't come just yet. It feels better if you do this," Alfred whispers. Sliding his fingertips up to the base of Arthur's balls, he cradles them in his hand and gives them a very gentle tug, drawing them away from Arthur's body. The technique is good for fending off orgasm and making it feel a lot more pleasurable, but Alfred hasn't had the opportunity to try it out on anyone but himself (and he usually gets mixed results). He unlatches his mouth from Arthur and switches to stroking his smooth navel instead to still his trembling.

"A-ah God . . . ," whispers Arthur, eyes hooded and cheeks warm as he looks down at his teacher. Alfred's hands are soothing and warm against his stomach and he focuses on the sensation to keep himself from reaching the end too quickly. He wants to come, he feels like he should, but his body doesn't seem to be catching up with his mind. "Al . . . Alfred . . ."

Arthur is so beautiful. Even in the semi-darkness, Alfred can see the flush that has bloomed in his cheeks, the glimmering green of his half-lidded eyes. And the way Arthur says his name in a voice so husky with arousal . . . that's probably the best of all. On a whim, Alfred lowers his gaze from Arthur's face and kisses his abdomen, warms the cooling skin with his lips. He's so beautiful, he thinks again, and nuzzles his nose down Arthur's ribcage, pausing to suckle his belly button and lick the inside of it.

"Alfred," the teen whispers, brows gently furrowed as he lets his eyes flutter shut, indulging in the pleasure and gentle touches from the older man. "I want to . . . I can't —" he murmurs, though the growing heat in his groin cuts him off. He hopes Alfred will take the hint.

Alfred can't deny Arthur want he wants. He really can't. Even earlier in the day, during gym class, he was giving him the chance to skip class without marking him absent. What has Arthur done to him?

Slipping down once more, Alfred gets Arthur's cock into his mouth again and sucks hard. This time, he doesn't let go.

Arthur chokes on a moan. He wants to tell Alfred that no, he doesn't have to do that and that he doesn't want to gross him out with the taste, but alas his words are cut off as his orgasm catches up with him and courses through his body.

Clenching his eyes shut, he grips at the grass below him hard enough to tear it out as he arches out, legs trembling and body tensing as a wave of heat and pleasure washes over him. An overwhelming surge of feelings for the man between his legs hits him at the peak of his orgasm, followed by a stream of weak whines and lastly a desperate "A-Alfred . . . !" before he collapses again and rides out the last of his climax in the small sparks of the now over-sensitive nerves.

Arthur's pelvis connects with Alfred's nose as he arches up, and Alfred winces, but then he feels something wet and hot in his mouth and he loses himself all over again.

It's not the most pleasant taste in the world, but it's Arthur's. That realization alone makes Alfred take it without complaint, and he keeps pulling at Arthur's cock with the suction of his mouth until he feels as if the cum is going to spill out. Then he releases his hold, sits up a little, locks eyes with Arthur (the feverish look in those green eyes is captivating), and swallows before wiping his lips on the back of his wrist.

The teen lets out a weak moan at the sight and bites his lower lip. The sight itself is very erotic, however Arthur finds himself blushing and averting his eyes after a few moments, heart battering against his chest as his body tries to recover from the post-orgasmic bliss.

"That was . . . great," he murmurs breathlessly, mind hazy.

"That's all?" Alfred grins at the expression on Arthur's face. "Oh, don't take it personally. I'm kidding." He leans forward again and sprawls across Arthur, taking care not to crush him with his weight. He does it because he wants to feel close to Arthur — because he wants to hear his heartbeat, made rapid by the ebb and flow of his recent orgasm — but he accidentally grinds his crotch into Arthur's upper thigh and makes it really obvious that he's aroused out of his mind. "Ah — sorry!" he mumbles in a hurry.

"You're hard . . . ," Arthur murmurs quietly, finding no need to raise his voice with the older man so close to him. He can feel Alfred's body heat against his and it makes him never want the moment to end, makes him want to . . . to . . . cuddle. Maybe in a bed, together, warm and tired.

Arthur's realisation that he's clingy after sex (can this be called sex? It's close enough) doesn't come as much of a surprise to him. But it's embarrassing and it's odd, and he'll never admit it out loud. He blushes softly and turns his attention back to Alfred's obvious erection. "I can help," he whispers, raising his thigh up to Alfred's crotch again. "If you want . . ."

Alfred swallows again — this time out of nervousness. Having Arthur's thigh against his groin makes him tremble inside. He wants him so badly . . . "Uh . . . no, it's okay if you don't want to. Please, don't feel like you have to do it. . . . Oh, God," he breathes as Arthur begins to massage him with his knee. He buries his face into the crook of Arthur's neck, shuts his eyes, his muscles quivering as he continues to hold himself up. Arthur's leg is so warm . . . he can feel it through his pants . . .

"Let me . . . ," Arthur breathes out softly, hand coming up to cup the back of Alfred's head as his other hand trails down to Alfred's crotch. His cheeks heat up as he feels the hardness through the material and he feels a moment of pride for being the one to make it happen. I did this, he thinks. He wants me . . .

He trails his hand up and pushes past the band of Alfred's pants, feeling the soft trail of hair as he wraps his fingers around the pulsing cock. Alfred stiffens above him and the choked grunt against his ear gives him enough courage to start stroking and touching, thumb gliding over the sensitive head and fingers massaging his balls.

Did Arthur's hand feel warm before? Now it feels slightly chilly on his cock — probably because Alfred is so hot down there that it almost hurts. One of his hands gropes about blindly and lands on the shoulder of Arthur's shirt, where it tightens into a fist. Arthur's fingers are slender, his touch butterfly-light, but he's going for all the right places. Alfred can hardly breathe. And he doesn't mind, not at all, because it feels absolutely incredible.

He lets out another (embarrassing) noise at the feeling of Arthur's hand on the back of his head, stroking his hair. And chokes up when Arthur's cool fingertips find his balls and begin to roll them gently. His legs — he's still on his knees — are threatening to give out; he dimly hopes that he won't end up falling on Arthur.

The teen buries his face into the side of Alfred's neck and squeezes Alfred's cock gently, loving the way his teacher flinches and grunts. He can see how Alfred struggles to keep himself upright, obviously wanting nothing more than to just collapse and indulge. "Does that feel good?" he asks into the other's ear, almost purring as he feels what can only be pre-cum dripping down Alfred's cock and making the whole process a lot easier and less chafing.

Since when has Arthur become so dirty? Since when has his voice become so goddamn sexy-sounding? "Y-yes," Alfred gasps into his collarbone. He can feel dampness near his groin; his pre-cum must be making a mess. He lets go of Arthur's shirt and, grasping the waistband of his pants and his underwear, slides them down his legs and out of the way. The cool air hits the back of his thighs without mercy, but then the sensation of Arthur's hand on his shaft sends him spiraling back down (back up?) into his pleasure-high. Arthur's grip is getting softer, and Alfred wants more — he closes his hand over Arthur's and squeezes his fingers. The added pressure on his dick is amazing. Unable to help himself, he begins guiding Arthur's hand as he helps him pump his cock. His pre-cum slips and slides between their fingers, sticky and slightly obscene — but Alfred feels too good to let self-consciousness get the best of him now.

Arthur moans at their lewd behaviour. If he hadn't just come, he'd be hard again at the sight. Looking into Alfred's eyes he can see the older man is almost completely lost in pleasure. He lifts his own shirt up past his chest to expose his lithe frame, letting out a breathless laugh as Alfred's breath hitches and eyes instantly roam over the new teasing show of skin. If he were in his normal state of mind, if he were with anyone but Alfred, he knows he would be embarrassed. But this is Alfred and his presence alone has always done strange things to him.

Oh, Jesus. Alfred stares. Arthur's nipples are dusky pink against his white skin, and they look irresistible. Without thinking twice, Alfred nudges his glasses off — to keep them from digging into Arthur — places them in the grass at their side, and bends over to suck on one of those little nubs. It hardens under his tongue almost at once. Alfred resists the temptation to bite down (he doesn't think Arthur would appreciate that very much, unless he happens to be into pain) and angles his head to lightly nip at the bud, teasing it until it turns a tender shade of red. He speeds up the rhythm of their hands on his cock, moaning into Arthur's skin because it feels so good.

Arthur moans Alfred's name and arches his back out ever so slightly, the touch on his nipple sudden and unexpected, but incredibly enjoyable. He tightens his grip around Alfred's dick, slowly becoming just as desperate to get Alfred off as the man as himself. He wants to make Alfred feel good. He wants to make Alfred moan. "Are you close?" he whispers, the small jolts of pleasure from his nipple causing him to twitch.

Hearing his own words from just minutes ago falling so seductively from Arthur's lips makes Alfred shiver. "Ah . . . almost . . . ," he replies shakily. "Just a little . . ." He spreads his legs out a bit wider and anchors his knees more firmly against the ground, rests his cheek against Arthur's chest, listens to him breathe in little excited hitches. "Ah, ah . . ."

"Let me finish you off . . . ," the teen whispers, gently removing Alfred's hand from his cock before he picks up the speed and uses his other hand to fondle the man's balls. He can tell by the way that Alfred's breath hitches and labours that he's close, and it only makes him more excited.

"Come," he moans into Alfred's ear, hands tightening as he reaches the head of the man's cock. "On me. Please . . ."

On him? "Are you . . . hah . . . sure?" Alfred barely manages to get out. He's about two seconds away from climaxing, and at this point, he doesn't really think he has a choice ofwhere. Their bodies are so close together that it'll be unavoidable, and Arthur's bare skin is just begging to have his cum on it. . . .

"Yes." Arthur nods, licking his lips. "On my stomach." He can think of a few other places he wouldn't mind as well, but even this far caught up in the moment he feels a little too embarrassed. Again, something that can wait until they are in private."Come on, Al . . ."

Much as he wants to blurt out Arthur's name, Alfred isn't even able to form a coherent word as his body goes numb for half a second before he comes on Arthur's skin in the rush brought on by his orgasm. He moans, low and deep, feeling the vibrations of his voice spill over his lips and settle against Arthur's neck. Arthur's scent is so good, so beautiful, and his head is in a whirl as his body is washed along in the pleasure and all he can think about in those five seconds is how vivid the world is, how complete it feels to be with Arthur, and how the feeling of Arthur's hand tight around his cock is driving him beyond heights he's never reached before with another person.

When he's done, he really can't stop himself from collapsing onto Arthur. His limbs just won't hold him up anymore. His dick, trapped between their bodies, rubs up against the soft lower part of Arthur's abdomen, and even though he feels sated and exhausted, it still sparks a reaction somewhere deep in his gut. Not enough to make him hard again — biology is such a bitch sometimes — but if he could . . .

Feeling bubbly and content from his orgasm, he laughs faintly and echoes Arthur's earlier words to make them even. "That was great."

"Mhmm . . . ," chuckles Arthur, arms winding around Alfred's back to rub in slow circles. They must look like a mess, sweaty and panting, covered in dirt and grass. Arthur will have to take a shower when he gets home. The thought of returning to his empty house makes him frown a bit though.

Alfred is happy to just cuddle with Arthur on the cold grass . . . hell, he'll gladly to do it for the rest of the night. Which reminds him . . .

"Oh, shit, what time is it?" He abruptly jerks up and checks his watch. "What? Have we really been out here for two and a half hours? Holy crap, that went by fast!" Alfred looks up at the sky. It had gotten dark while they were still preoccupied . . . the first stars are already out. Why didn't he notice earlier? He grabs his glasses from where he'd put them down and jams them back on his face before turning back to Arthur. The sight of him still spread out on the ground, his shirt lifted up to his chin and his stomach splattered with his cum, makes Alfred flush.

Oh, God. They did it. They really did it. It wasn't full-out sex, but . . . "What time are you supposed to get home? Will your parents be looking for you?" Something close to panic wells up in Alfred's throat.

"Oh, don't worry about that," Arthur chuckles, pulling himself up into a sitting position. He dusts off his shirt before standing up on slightly wobbly legs. Ugh, his clothes are definitelygoing to need a wash. "They're out of the country right now."

"Really?" Alfred relaxes — then tenses up again when another thought hits him. "Wait, then who's looking after you while they're gone? Will they be worried about you?" He becomes aware that he still has his pants and underwear around his knees, exposing his nether regions to the air, and quickly pulls them back up as he gets to his feet. His hand feels stiff. Jeez, he hopes he didn't get any cum on his clothes — what will people think if they see him covered in dried semen, heading off school grounds?

"I'm fifteen, Alfred. I think I know how to look after myself," says Arthur, eyes glittering with slight amusement. Honestly, his teacher is hopeless. A total dork.

Oh . . . oh, crap. Alfred blinks and tries hard to keep himself from going pale. Fifteen? Seriously? He knows that Arthur is a sophomore — a tenth grader — but . . . somehow, he'd figured Arthur would be older. Because he LOOKS older. Oh, shit, jail has suddenly become a very real possibility. "Uh, I see. Okay. Um, so there isn't anyone who'd be looking for you right now?"

"No . . . don't worry," Arthur says, noticing the look of guilt and panic in Alfred's eyes. He wants to tell Alfred that it's okay, that he shouldn't worry . . . but he's unsure if that'll help right now. He puts his hands in his pockets.

"Okay. That's . . . good." Alfred shifts awkwardly. Now that the lust between them has been (mostly) resolved, and they aren't caught up in sort-of-not-really sex anymore, he's not really sure how to act. Should he go back to being Mr. Jones, his cheerful, optimistic self, or does Arthur prefer him to act more intimately now that they've . . . done stuff? He tries to find something to say, and what pops out of his mouth is, "Your fly's still open."

"Wh — oh." Arthur's cheeks flush as he frantically works to zip his fly back up, breaking his usual mask of indifference to show that yes, he's feeling awkward too. He's not really sure what to say. Should he just go back to being Alfred's student? Just another teenager out of many?

The atmosphere is getting too tense for Alfred's liking. He watches Arthur for a moment, uncertain of what to do; then he finally breaks out into a smile. "I can't believe we actually did . . . that," he says. He doesn't really care that he sounds stupid and giddy. He just wants to get it off his chest, say it out loud, have Arthur confirm that yes, it really did happen, and that it won't have been a dream when he wakes up the next morning in his bed, all alone.

"Heh, eh . . . yeah." There's a moment of awkward silence between them again before Arthur visibly relaxes. "I won't . . . you know. Tell anyone," he says. "So don't worry about that."

"Thanks. I won't, either." There are so many things that are different now. They'll no longer need to sneak glances at each other during gym class and wonder if the other realizes just how attractive he is. They'll no longer have to be uncertain about what they feel (though what they mean to each other is a whole other thing to agonize over). Maybe, Alfred thinks,Arthur'll even agree to do it again in the future. Maybe they'll actually have sex next time.

Does what occurred between them mean that they're now "together"? That they're committed? Alfred wonders if Arthur entertains thoughts like that about them, if he's still young and hopeful and hopelessly romantic. Either way, he knows that he himself won't be seeing anyone new anytime soon. Perhaps what they're doing would be considered unhealthy by other people, but to him, it's the most wholesome, fulfilling thing in the world.

It's time to leave, and he can see that Arthur silently agrees with this; they've lingered long enough. Suddenly, Alfred feels uncharacteristically shy. There's something he wants before they part ways, and he quickly voices it before his cowardliness can get the best of him. "Hey . . . can I, um . . . can I have a kiss? Before you go?"

The request catches Arthur off guard and he feels his cheeks heat up. It seems strange that someone almost twice his age can be so . . . shy. Regardless, he complies and reaches up to give him a peck on the lips. Such a chaste kiss doesn't seem enough though and he soon finds himself leaning against the man and pressing his lips against his in a soft, but sure, kiss.

Alfred presses back with equal tenderness, and when they finally pull apart, he finds that his arms are around Arthur and that Arthur's body is flush against his in a real embrace. He blinks, surprised that they've gotten to that point without his even realizing it.

They slowly draw back their arms. "Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," Alfred says after a bit.

"Yeah . . . ," Arthur says, and smirks somewhat. "I might give you a little visit after class. I want to . . . discuss things further." It seems like a good plan to him. He wants to see where Alfred's mind is in all of this after a night to reflect.

Alfred, for once, catches on to Arthur's meaning. Which is a rather hefty accomplishment, in his own opinion. Grateful for the opportunity for a bit of lighthearted banter, he grins. "Are you going to bring the 'discussion' materials? Or should I do that?"

The teen chuckles. Alfred really is a fool. A lovely fool. His endearing personality is one of many things he finds himself attracted to. "Well, I think you might be better at that than myself."

Alfred can't keep that grin off his face. "Okay, then. Same time, same place?"

"Sounds good to me." Picking up his school bag, Arthur says his goodbyes to Alfred and walks back home. It's a cold night and he feels the warmth from earlier slowly die down. Suddenly a shower sounds wonderful. A shower and some tea.

Ah. For Alfred, there's nothing to do now but put away the equipment and go back to his empty, Arthur-less apartment. Alfred does just that, and kicks back on his couch once he's home. He has a sudden craving for a bubble bath — so he goes to fix one up. After that, it's video games, and then sleep. Sleep and reflection and wondering whether or not his pleasure is worth his guilt where Arthur's concerned. Somehow, he feels it'll turn out in his and Arthur's favor, in favor of the existence of them.

Tomorrow has never looked brighter.