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Matthew is Mine	By : flagfish Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 9688 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia, nor do I make any money from writing this story.

Chapter List
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“Look,”
Francis crooned in low tones, breath coming humid against Ivan’s mouth, and, eyes tilting downward, he motioned to Matthew serenely tucked against his chest.
Ivan smiled, moving just enough apart as to tilt Matthew’s chin in his direction.
“Do you want more to drink?”
He asked with feigned tenderness, ready and absolutely willing to drown an entire bottle of vodka in him just to see him helpless to its effect.
“Nn…” Matthew moaned, slender fingers cutely attempting to adjust his glasses back in place, “I—no, no thank you—“
Ivan laughed quietly as he proceeded to slide the boy’s glasses entirely off his face.
“Do you want more of anything else…?”
He whispered, and it wasn’t so much a question as a courtesy notice of what was to come, because he didn’t give him a chance at all to respond before taking his lips again.
And, very slowly, Matthew’s slender arms came around his large shoulders, accustomed as he was to taking refuge in the arms of older boys who had guided and raised him throughout life.
Francis watched with a combination of amusement and mute horror as this went on, uncertain whether to feel angry of jealous or—or—aroused—
“Ivan, you’re sick,” he laughed, and it was almost a compliment, a title of admiration previously belonging to him alone. Ivan merely gazed back through diffuse strands of hair, still kissing Matthew, eyes filled with mockery as to say, I’ve conquered him and now he’s mine.
Beneath him, Matthew’s cheeks were hot, red with liquor and glistening just the slightest bit with salty warmth, and, ever the gentleman, Francis began gently to unbutton the boy’s shirt.
“He’s so hot…”
He murmured quietly to himself, and, against Ivan’s mouth, Matthew gasped just the slightest bit at the exposure to the cool air as beneath him his shirt slid off.
“Here we are…” Francis said as Matthew helpfully pried his arms from around Ivan’s neck just enough to allow the shirt to come down,
“that’s a good boy…”
There was on the other side of the room a very attentive gallery of patrons consisting of Taiwan and Hungary and a quietly astonished Liechtenstein, the three mumbling to one another in low tones as they passed amongst themselves the Jaffa Cakes that Arthur had left behind, and also a bottle of Merlot that none had even thought to open.
Gazing out the corner of his eye, Francis crooned with polite tranquility, “Please, ladies, is there any more wine?”
“Haven’t they had enough,” Liechtenstein murmured, but Elizabeta slid the bottle across the tabletop in silence.
“Thank you,” Francis said, attention momentarily occupied away from Matthew and in the unscrewing of the bottle cap.
Momentarily neglected, Matthew resumed his place against Ivan, and as the long articulations of his arms slid again around his neck, he began to mumble something indecipherable.
“What’s that?”
Ivan asked, and Matthew murmured again,
“J’ai chaud—”
“He’s hot,” Francis said, and then, for lack of a proper goblet, proceeded to pour the wine into one of the emptied shot glasses on the tray.
“Even after we’ve disrobed you…” Ivan murmured with feigned reprimand, “whatever shall we do…”
After taking a long sip, Francis returned the glass to the table, and now, at last a bit drunk, he proceeded gently to part the hair at the back of Matthew’s neck before beginning slowly to kiss him there.
“I don’t think it’s going to get any cooler,” he breathed, and Matthew cried softly at the feel of his mouth at the sensitive skin there.
“He’s unused to so much attention,” Ivan whispered, handing him to Francis as he sat back momentarily to gaze at the naked expanse of the boy’s chest.
“Is this any better,”
he asked, taking the wine from the tabletop and tilting it slowly over Matthew’s bare skin, and Matthew gasped at the cold, watery trickle as it poured down.
Before he could reply, Ivan leaned closer, and, soft hair brushing against his chest, he began to lap at the fluid, Matthew crying with innocent surrender and blushing as he attempted to stifle his voice with his palm.
“Don’t tell Belarus,” Taiwan murmured to her friends, “Canada would never survive the beating.”
Upstairs, Arthur had slowly kissed Alfred. His touch was deceptively sensitive, gentle, careful behind a wall of cynicism so deep and dark that Alfred sometimes wondered if there was anything behind it at all.
This boy he raised, once a helpless kid who was manageable for the most part and decently controlled, had grown somehow into a tall giant of a man, bright-eyed and fearless as he towered over the very guy who brought him up.
It was irritating to Arthur, Arthur who had grown weary of the confidence and stamina with which the boy had trampled and stomped over everything that was sacred and holy to others far beyond his years.
But he was gentle nonetheless, somehow boyish and cute behind the curious shimmer in his eyes, because his self-righteousness and pride were founded never in malice, but in genuine belief that he was out to do good.
Even now his large hands felt gentle on Arthur’s thighs, a boy many years his younger who nevertheless was confident and strong, his touch reassuring and secure despite all else.
He was annoying, this was true without a doubt, but also it went without saying that he knew his way around.
Unquestionably, America was a top.
But not that night.
No words were exchanged as, very slowly, Arthur’s slender hands worked at unfastening the latch on Alfred’s belt. There was just the clinking of metal, the soft slide of cloth and the echo of breath as, silently, Alfred raised his hips from the floor so that Arthur could slide his trousers down.
The cool air of the attic, and Alfred oddly helpless in his arms, gazing up with innocent curiosity and interest despite his undeniable potential to affect.
That’s my boy, Arthur almost thought, almost, because the idea was ridiculous now, so long faded and so far changed.
But Alfred’s large hands were gentle on his thighs, despite it all innocent and warm, and it was with good intent and trust that he let Arthur disrobe him then.
He wasn’t embarrassed. He really didn’t mind.
He loved Arthur all the same.
“Is this okay?”
Arthur asked, hands deceptively proficient as his long fingers slid insistently over the white fabric of the boy’s briefs, and, nodding in response, Alfred quietly replied,
“Yes, that’s very nice—“
He was aroused behind the thin restraint of the cloth, hard and responsive under Arthur’s touch without shame, and he actually propped himself up by the elbows to watch as Arthur bent down to run his tongue slowly over the fabric there.
He was so hard. So undeniably big behind his briefs.
He watched with childlike interest as Arthur slid the elastic back, down his long legs and narrow thighs, and he cursed Alfred in his mind, because the guy really had nothing to hide; he truly was beautifully built.
Instead of touching him, or caressing or holding or attending to Alfred’s neglected anatomy that so insistently wanted his care, Arthur proceeded instead to pry open his jacket, he wanted him naked all at once, naked and vulnerable beneath him on the attic floor, he wanted to take him like that.
Impressively well-behaved, Alfred allowed him to slide his clothes gradually off, his jacket and then his shirt and the undershirt beneath, until he was completely nude, only his glasses still in place as he gazed quietly up, expectantly, not the least bit embarrassed or upset.
To be continued…
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Matthew is Mine