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If U Seek Alfred	By : CyreliaJ Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 3629 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don’t own Hetalia or any of its characters. I’m also not making any money off of this.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Note: We are now getting deep into the England/Canada. I'm glad this hadn't taken as long but it's later parts that will probably need more work. Thank you for your comments and enjoy! :)

Part 3

Canada's eyes flickered to him, the ghost of a smile skirting his countenance before his entire focus returned to England with a fury. America hid an indignant scowl and tried to turn his attention elsewhere so he wouldn’t give that little jerk the satisfaction of seeing it bother him. God, that was a mistake. Watching fucking Prussia and Germany practically drooling over his brother wasn’t helping and even Austria’s complete indifference wasn’t enough to temper the aggravation he felt when he turned his head the other way and saw Russia’s hungry look from where he leaned against the back wall. It took everything he had to force his expression neutral. But fuck, hearing England’s “Of course daddy likes looking at you Matthew,” and seeing Canada’s answering smile was killing him. Alright, Mattie, what now huh? I mean this is the part where you turn around and say that I’m being punk’d or something, right? There’s no way you’re gonna do more than- He swallowed when Canada stopped toying with the strings and pulled the hoodie over his head careful not to take the shirt with it- Christ he was too good at teasing.

Canada was still wearing a faded black T shirt underneath that clung like a fucking second skin that America hadn’t noticed before when his brother was getting molested by Sealand but without that pint sized distraction, America could definitely see how that material clung to his slim hips. Canada didn’t immediately remove the shirt, instead looking up and seeking approval from England. The older nation was still seated with an utterly dismissive air about him- fucking prick just loved toying with people didn’t he?- as he easily filled the antique Victorian pipe with vanilla tobacco.

Canada looked like he was fucking hypnotized by those long slender fingers pinching and stuffing the first bit careful to pack it in only a little and then tighter with the second. America still maintained that cancer bowl was seriously gross. And England turned the pipe carefully, packing the tobacco evenly and methodically, the precious antique rotating, his forefinger circling inside and Christ how did that old fossil make that look so damn sexual? Canada tugged the shirt up as England added the third pinch, wringing the hem as if he were unsure before drawing it up between his teeth shyly revealing the smooth skin and hard muscles of his stomach and America swallowed hard.

“More, daddy?” he asked in his usual soft voice, and yet somehow that meek tone was tinged with an obvious need as he asked the teasing question which made America wonder what the hell he’d have to do to get to hear that voice directed at him.

Canada watched as England looked up with those smoldering green eyes for just an instant before patting his other pants pocket for the old butane lighter and if it wasn’t for that near imperceptible hitch of breath before he went back to lighting the pipe, Canada would’ve sworn he was nothing but an afterthought. England had always been so hatefully skilled at ignoring him.

“Don’t dawdle, Matthew,” he chastised cradling the pipe gently as Canada’s violet eyes greedily watched the flame of the old lighter flickering in a small circle around the top of the chamber and then drank in England taking the bit between his soft lips drawing it in. He tamped it down so consciously, so deliberately with the small metal tamper- no, Al the other part isn’t a fucking coke spoon- making it glow so beautifully. He pulled it back and Canada swallowed and nodded, voicing a strained, “I’m sorry daddy.” He pulled the shirt off slowly, torturing himself even as he missed the second circling of the lighter after the false light and Prussia whistled in the background when the rest of Canada’s naked torso was revealed.

America spared a glare for Prussia that went completely ignored. With nothing else to look at- he didn’t need to watch Russia’s fucking creepy ass leer, thank you- he watched his brother. It was impossible not to compare male and female Canada as he did so and somehow in this situation, Canada’s male side didn’t seemed to be nearly as lacking as he remembered. Had he been working out or something? No, no dammit that wasn’t it, but there was something about his brother’s broad shoulders, his skin just a shade more pale than his own, the defined ridges of muscle and dammit why the fuck was Canada looking at England like the stodgy old asshole was holding a bottle of maple syrup or the fucking hope diamond in his hand? America sniffed, smelling that unmistakable whiff of vanilla smoke and he wrinkled his nose. Oh god not that nasty pipe; it doesn’t even have a fucking filter. I thought Artie threw that old thing out decades ago. Jeez, Mattie I can’t believe you actually like that shit.

Oh god, yes thank you. Canada thought in an opposite turn as he set the shirt aside and blatantly ogled the black pipe stem that disappeared between England’s lips. His own mouth was suddenly so dry and as he watched England close his eyes and inhale, his shaking hands stopped at the button of his jeans, watching the faint glow from the top of the chamber, dead to every other sight and sound in the room. He could smell the smoke almost as soon as it diffused in his direction, he was already breathing more deeply to drown in the vanilla tobacco haze and he found himself taking a few precious steps backwards, hitting the whiteboard, his own eyes closing losing himself in their little scene cause God England could make it so fucking good when he wanted to and if this was going to be that last time he was going to remember and savor every last touch and smell and even the soft deliberately accentuated fffuuuu of England blowing out. Yes daddy, more daddy, please god don’t ever let this end...

Canada moaned and America goggled as he watched his brother’s body arch, his shoulders flat on the whiteboard. Canada’s fingers trailed down his chest as if he were trying to rub the thick smoke into his body and America could see his feet rock, saw him rise up on the balls of his feet, the ratty old sneakers somehow adding to the sensual dance as if he were already being fucked and he wondered just when his brother- who wouldn’t even enter a damn bar if there was smoke- had been replaced by some amped up pod person. Fucking hell Mattie, how much shit have you been lying about or hiding? This really isn’t the first time you two have done this... God you have a fucking routine and everything... Not that he had a whole lot of time for serious contemplation when he felt that damn telltale warmth and heat and cursed up a mental blue streak at his dick for not realizing how imperative it was to stay the fuck down.

And England breathed in deeply, the familiar warmth in his lungs caressing him from the inside like an old friend, and he took the time to savor it, blowing a long stream of smoke out blissfully. It wasn’t often he indulged like this, America complained and France preferred those cheap and easy cigarettes and Canada was really the only one who seemed to share any real appreciation for a fine bit of pipe tobacco and it had really become something rather intimate between the two of them besides. He’d set the lighter down, right hand still holding onto the pipe stem as he smoked. In his left hand he caressed the old snuff box like a lover, his thumb running along the smooth curves and ample breasts of the woman carved into it ages ago with a delicate artist’s touch. The curl of smoke seemed to undulate in the still air lingering like the mist of a dream and England watched from where he sat as Canada’s hands moved long enough to drop to the button of his jeans but once again remained in stasis as he let the smoke wrap around him.

England reclined back like the most regal of kings and inhaled, exhaled, the top of the pipe’s chamber burning brightly as he did. The glow mirrored in Canada’s eyes and without looking away from the stream of smoke passing from England’s lips, his shaking hands undid the button and zipper. He toed out of his sneakers and paused when England instructed him to leave the socks; they slouched in a way that Japan would’ve likely found arousing were he there and just that small gesture was enough to make him feel so young and uncertain and so damn hard at the same time as he absently readjusted his glasses and looked down then over the rims. And Canada looked at England with a perfect contrived bashfulness because as much as England inspired that immature and unfettered side of him he was still a full grown nation who knew just how to act to get what he wanted and just how to turn his father figure on the most in turn. And as he stood in front of the lot of them wearing nothing but a pair of short red boxer briefs his love of their game was obvious.

“Jesus Christ, kid where the hell were you hiding that thing?!” Prussia exclaimed, staring at the prominent tent in the tight cloth. Canada made no attempt to hide the blush at the unaccustomed attention and the variance in their routine of the others in the room and he shifted somewhat uncertainly as both Germany and Russia joined in the staring as well. Austria’s brows knit in annoyance when Prussia jostled him with a rather obnoxious, “God, specs, whatever the hell boring music theory you’re reading can’t be hotter than this.”

“You act as if you’ve never seen another’s man’s genitalia before,” Austria replied curtly without looking up. He turned, book held tightly as Prussia swiped for it.

“C’mon, princess, we’re not talking just any dick here, even you haven’t-“

“Yes, as a matter of fact I have now if you don’t mind...” He waved him away clearly irritated and ignored every badgering question from his lover at that revelation until Prussia finally sat back with an annoyed humph. Feet on the table in front of him, he shouted out loudly ignoring Germany’s shushing,

“Hey kid, show us the goods already!”

Canada was still, breathing heavily, and America clamped his mouth before he could yell at the lot of them to shut the hell up and stop staring his fucking brother or yell at Canada to put some fucking clothes on because this wasn’t a damn session for trade agreements and no one needed to see his fucking package or the outline of it or anything else. America forced himself to look at the ceiling, to block out Russia’s stupid fucking comment at his side of “well it is the second largest land mass,” and remember that he was here because Canada was a sore fucking loser and just couldn’t stand that America finally called him out on how-. America swallowed when Canada turned those violet eyes on him for just an instant- useless of a guy he was. He dimly heard England in the background saying “Ignore them, boy, focus on me, right?” and he wanted to shout at that limey asshole ‘cause he sure as shit didn’t just tell Canada to ignore him. Ignore me?! You can’t ignore me, I’m the whole reason the lot of you fuckers are here! I’m the whole reason you’re even doing this stupid show in the first place you jerk!

Canada however found himself brought back to focus, smiled softly, and dutifully obeyed England, keeping his attention on the older nation. And it’s not like it was hard to do while he was watching those lips smoke that pipe, watching those fingers holding the chamber as he exhaled the warm masculine puff of smoke; it was fucking hypnotizing. And when England finally ordered “come on then, let daddy have a look at you,” it was all he could do to approach slowly, hesitant, eyes flickering between the pipe and those vivid green eyes. He nodded, tucking his hair back behind an ear, ducking his head, trying hard to control his breathing as England blew another stream so close he could feel the warm smoke on his face. Canada licked his lips trying to taste it as he stood before him, nibbling on a finger because dammit he needed something to put in his mouth and he knew that America would recognize the gesture even if it’d been ages since Canada’s oral fixation was turned so fixedly to him.

England looked him up and down keeping his features impassive, hiding his amusement at Canada’s obsession with the old pipe. You’d rather I bugger you with this, I swear... He took another long drag of the pipe, eyes half shut enjoying the warmth and the full flavor of the tobacco and then gestured for Canada to turn around with a twist of his index finger.

“Naughty lad,” he said as he glanced to the other’s obvious arousal. “I think you enjoy this far too much.” His expression was thoughtful as he watched Canada turn in a circle for him taking note as the other nation still subtly sought his approval. He let an unseen smile flash at Canada’s back. Really think you’re rid of me so easily, Matthew? You’re looking at the pipe like a bloody addict and I can see your hands shaking. You think a little last slap and tickle is gonna get two hundred years of me out of your mind? We’ll just see then. Because Canada’s pupils were flickering back and forth like Prussia’s were wont to do except it wasn’t an odd genetic tic but that overwhelming need he’d fostered in him. It was fucking brilliant.

Canada shifted discreetly and as if ignoring him again England tipped his head back, puffing a cloud of smoke upwards humoring his little play for independence, his countenance considering. He put the small silver box back in his pants pocket and stood up, holding the stem of the pipe as if it were made for his hand.

“Is this what you think about when you have a wank, boy?” he asked waving it back and forth watching Canada’s eyes follow it like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. Canada swallowed hard and nodded, letting England back him up to the desk at the front of the room.

“Yes daddy,” he answered in a breathy hush. “I think about it… and you.” His hands caught the edge of the wooden desk and he shivered when England brought the lip of the pipe back to his mouth wondering what the hell was wrong with him that he let that last bit slip out so easily because God that was just the problem: that he couldn’t stop thinking about England. Because England wasn’t some one off like South Korea and Canada whined softly as he watched the bowl glow again and he shut his eyes excited when England blew the smoke right into his face.

Only England and himself showed no surprise that he didn’t cough. Canada didn’t smoke, but he did so have that urge to hang around here and there when others were, closing his eyes, inhaling, imagining a hundred years ago on his knees sucking England’s cock in front of the fireplace while the older nation inhaled, exhaled, in out and oh god his own cock fucking hurt so much he wanted to touch it and he could just hear that internal scolding to keep his hands back, his head bowed and focus only on England’s pleasure and how he’d come to realize that pleasing England pleased him Christ there was no way he was making it through this with a clean break.

“Daddy...” he breathed out as he smelled the thick smoke, the vanilla, that something that was only England that he could smell now that he was close enough again.

“Open up for daddy, love,” he heard England command and he kept his lips parted, leaning in, his entire body excited, the darkness disrupting his equilibrium and making him dizzy but oh god England was breathing the warm smoke into his mouth, so damn close to him that he could reach out and touch if he so dared.

Canada felt the heat seep into his lungs, felt his breath hitch and he panted out a delirious, “thank you, daddy” unaware of just how wide eyed America was staring as if he’d never before seen his brother so fucking aroused without any physical contact or a naked girlie magazine or fucking something that made sense. God, Mattie why the fuck didn’t you tell me you got off on that shit? Christ I woulda killed to see you like that ‘cause of me when were weren’t just sitting around high on the fucking beanbag chairs ‘cause you probably would’ve been just as hard watching the fucking lava lamp the way that crap alays messed with you head. You don’t need fucking Eyebrows to get you hot, dammit! You have me. Me! You know how many nation want a fucking piece of this?! Do you have any idea how much play I could be fucking getting if I wasn’t so hung up on... He shook his head and just barely stopped himself from stomping his foot on the floor like he used to when they were kids and it made that loud fulfilling bang on the wood. Fuck no he wasn’t giving his brother the satisfaction.

He continued to fume silently and Austria, peering up discreetly over the edge of the novel caught it and took a small mental note in his well organized mind. Good, all was going according to plan, then on that end. He also managed a quick glance to the others, and seeing Germany’s hungry look he felt more than justified in breaking that ridiculous PDA; he had others and heavens, this was worth far more than twenty minutes if America’s barely restrained anger was any indication. Though he couldn’t help but worry about Canada he knew he’d just have to have faith in all the sessions and work they put in because surely as with any mind control once one recognized themselves a victim it was impossible for them to fall back into it. England might have conditioned him but he knew that when Canada put his mind to something he’d see it through. Perhaps Austria needed to discreetly involve America more in the scene... He added that to the ongoing mental file as he continued to skim the pages of the novel he’d read a thousand times before trusting Canada to work through this unhealthy fixation on his own.

Canada was glad that France wasn’t here; his other father figure would never understand the nature of their relationship and he certainly wouldn’t understand that this was necessary for him to never need it again. Good God that made a lot more sense this morning when it was just him and Kumojima in front of the mirror. Because he knew exactly what England was going to do- every manner of execution and his body was already thrumming and hyper aware and want and as he breathed in the warm smoke and felt the burn in his lungs and felt more than heard England susserate out “Now show daddy how you touch yourself when I’m not here,” he was back in that old study again still a virgin standing naked before the older nation for inspection.

He was back in the dimly lit room where the fireplace and the gas lamp cast shadows on the wall and made England loom so damn large in his mind he didn’t hesitate when the other kicked his feet apart and drug the pipe chamber down the hollow of his throat, circled him like a major general and ordered him on his knees on the hard wooden floor. And then in his memories he was kneeling down, touching himself, watching as England stroked his cock through his trousers, whimpering as England berated and denigrated and finally brought him off with his fucking foot. He'd forbidden him from ever touching another nation back then refusing to touch him with his hands in turn even as Canada had his cock shoved halfway down his willing throat and god by the time he was finally allowed to it was like being reborn and fuck he had to bring his mind back from that place because he just couldn’t get sucked back into that beautiful darkness again.

And it wasn’ England who’d had him first besides, it was taken from him that day in 1918 when they threw Austria down and England proclaimed him the spoils of war, finally conceding it was a joke only when the aristocrat looked about to kill him and Canada looked about to rip the buttons from his uniform fidgeting, furious at the very thought that England would do such a thing right in front of him. But then Austria looked at Canada and with a nasty smile acquiesced to the ridiculous demand forcing England’s hand, taking what the gentleman had been saving and priming all for himself; they still were barely on speaking terms as individuals. And thinking of Austria brought him back, the other his trained focus away and he forced himself to focus on the seated nation reading the old book and not lose himself . He was back to the present in a matter of seconds when England stepped back. Canada smiled at him feeling more in control because he could do this without sinking in so deep he lost himself- that perfect smile that was only for daddy- and pushed the tight shorts down to the ground letting the lot of them get a good look as he stepped out not quite having to feign shyness at the others seeing him.

England let his gaze slowly move up and down the body of his former colony, moving from the soft shoulder length hair half hiding Canada’s face to the hollow of his throat and down to his chest. England recalled the woman’s shape that the other sometimes wore, the one that America seemed so ruddy obsessed with, and definitely felt the hard cording of muscles definitely suited his male self better. Canada’s body was far stronger than most of them would’ve guessed and infinitely more defined than the shapeless garments he favored would suggest. Oh but England certainly did appreciate having this to himself for so long and even after all these years Canada held still for his inspection waiting so obediently as England’s eyes took the place of his hands in caressing the cut pectorals, the ripple of his stomach and those slender hips that had just the right dimple for holding fast to.

And England unlike the rest, he didn’t linger terribly long on the large uncut erection. While he enjoyed the feel of the heavy cock in his hand, the prominent vein running delightfully along the underside, he much preferred to focus his attention on Canada’s other prominent assets. Of course those large breasts weren’t there on Canada’s natural form and while the nipples of Canada’s female body were dusky pink and delightfully large the small hard nubs standing out now from the faint chill of the room were no less enticing and a sight he was far more accustomed to. England took the pipe and gently ran the bowl around one, prodding, watching Canada squirm and struggle to hold still.

“Well go on, then,” he said looking back up, making Canada feel as if he were instead looking down, and taking the cue, Canada licked his lips and moved his hand up to take the place of the pipe to pinch and squeeze the hard nub only half as hard as England knew he really liked because the buildup always had been more than half the fun for him; he’d conditioned him well.

Sometimes when he was feeling particularly deviant he pretended that it was his brother’s body he was groping and not his own. It was easy to caress, the fondle his own chest knowing how close it felt to America’s and he could pretend it was his brother’s tanned muscle that he squeezed and massaged without the loudmouth telling him to hurry up and get to the good stuff. “You’re such a damn girl, can’t you just put it in already?” America would always complain when he spent an extraneous amount of time worshipping his chest, always impatient to feel Canada fucking him. Maybe I should’ve just ignored him, Canada thought as he pinched and tugged both nipples red. His head was turned faintly aside and he dug his nails into the soft skin whimpering. He was glad he was half seated on the table for support because his legs sure weren’t going to hold him. England wasn’t so close anymore but he could still feel him as if he were right there, his essence lingering in the air.

Canada opened his eyes again when he smelled another puff of smoke and saw that England had reseated himself, legs spread, palming his erection through the tan khakis thoroughly unrepentant because christ this show was all for him, wasn’t it? Canada loved it when he could see how turned on his father figure was and he swallowed, mouth dry, wanting to sink to his knees and bury his face between England’s legs right where Cornwall was and just fucking smell the musk of his arousal and sweat and the faint salty sea air that seemed to linger about him. I do that to you, don’t I, daddy? he thought excited, his focus dead to everyone in the room now but England and from the wall, still discreetly tugging at the chains America was wishing like hell it was him sitting there as the subject of Canada’s lust and not some nasty old fart puffing on a fucking pipe.

“Daddy~” Canada purred making sure to keep his eyes locked with England as his slightly calloused palm circled his stiff cock. His thighs tensed, his entire lower body wanting to vibrate off the damn table when he gently, with such a torturous light touch, rubbed up the shaft. He tugged the foreskin of his cock up over the sensitive glans and back down breathing heavier, feeling the smoke in his lungs, tasting it, loving it, slit dribbling out precome and Canada circled his thumb around the head, milking more out cause the wetter he got the hotter he got and right now his cock was nearly at ninety fucking degrees flush to his stomach as he worked it. Palm flat, he rubbed his cock against his quivering stomach, getting the skin of his abdomen sticky and wet with the precome that leaked out thinking of all the times he’d frig himself as both man and woman til his underwear was soaked and he felt like the dirtiest little slut all for England. God, He’d spent so many fucking decades with nothing but his hand for company at England’s direction, the older nation promising that the seemingly eternal wait would be well worth it, that he knew exactly how to tease himself, how to draw out every agonizing second until he thought he’d die.

And even after he’d slept with Austria and had gone to England repentant and not terribly sure there was anything left that he hadn’t experienced, England had proved to his defiant territory that yes, daddy always did it masterfully. “I told you, Matthew, that daddy knows best, didn’t I?” That was what England had said to him as he lay limp half off the bed, the room spinning, his ass so wonderfully sore and leaking come and just thinking about that night Canada whimpered. He’d never trusted America to be that rough and perhaps he should’ve but fuck America was so much longer than England and had shown on more than one occasion he just couldn’ fucking control himself when he was about to come and on some level he’d always made his brother nervous with his rush to the damn finish be it manifest destiny or ramming his dick into virgin territory in one swift motion. And that night in October America had held him against his will and forced compliance out of him in a fucking Blitzkrieg where England had spent decades breaking him down and conditioning him to respond just so, so fucking eagerly to his every subtle cue- there was no comparison. But still... why couldn’t he just have them both?

And America seemed to sense it too as he watched his brother wantonly stroking himself in front of everyone in the fucking room where he could barely coax any dirty talk out of him without a roll of his eyes. He looked at the others, wondering if Austria excepted they all knew, they fucking knew that when he and his brother fucked it was with a sometimes heated but more often passive acquiescence and never with this much goddamn desire. Why, Mattie? Why didn’t I ever even know you had all this in you? I know you wanted me and I know I wanted you so badly but you’d push at me or tell me to slow the hell down or something. God I didn’t even think you had this in you anymore. That one night at Woodstock was fucking incredible and then you just got all weird and pulled back. Until you turned into a fucking girl I didn’t even think you liked it when we fucked anymore. Hell, he’d thought that he’d had Canada’s submission all along without even trying but looking at his brother chanting out a near religious, “daddydaddydaddy,” he wondered what it even was that he and Canada had. I loved you, I wanted you so why doesn’t it work like this without a stupid magic trick?

Canada, eyes hazy and half shut watched England who stared back with promise, and he stretched the foreskin of his cock over the head, pinched it tight, and brought his left hand up, index finger to his lips, teasing it with his tongue. Do you remember? his expression said as he nipped the tip of his index finger, tongue circling, laving saliva, getting it good and wet. Do you remember what it’s like with my mouth around your cock, daddy? He teased England as he teased himself, moaning, the head of his cock continuing to stream a trickle of sticky precome inside the skin that he’d pinched off. Canada sucked that finger, adding a second, treating them both as if they were the best fucking thing he’d ever tasted. Do you want me to fuck myself, daddy? He didn’t even have to ask to know the answer.

England was unabashedly rubbing his cock hard through the thin khaki material, his breathing heavier, his lips parted just slightly around the pipe held with his teeth as he enjoyed the show that was solely for his benefit. His reward to Canada was a faint grin and another few precious puffs of smoke, this time in a series of expertly formed rings, rising up like clouds. He watched Canada squeak and bite his fingers harder unconsciously in response. How hard did you bite them, Matthew? How much did I excite you? Canada loved to bite his fingers and when England pushed him just right, oh how he would torment himself. England hissed softly as he squeezed his cock harder and knowing just what would do it took a long, deep drag of the pipe and then exhaled a slow, steady stream. Without missing a beat at the same time he inhaled the thick smoke back through his nose and he watched Canada shake, bite down harder with a sobbing whine, and when he finally blew out the second breath England could see the blood trickling out the side of his mouth

That’s right, boy, you bleed so beautifully for daddy, don’t you? And fuck you, frog, French inhale my arse, I knew that trick a damn sight longer than you ever did. He saw Canada withdraw his fingers for his benefit alone and look down as the knuckles of his middle and index fingers bled. Canada let them bleed out, holding them exactly so that the blood dripped down obscenely onto his stomach, running in slender red trails through the ridges of muscle like a fucking maze. His lip had healed easily from earlier, mouth just the slightest tinge of red still, but the new wound flowed beautifully, and Canada, knowing how England loved watching the red of his blood pouring out, lapped at the tear slowly, languidly, forcing it to bleed even more, leaning back further so that the droplets that escaped dripped a series of pretty red splatters up to the hollow of his throat.

America went tense as a board as Russia next to him whispered in a lilting tease that only he could hear, “I didn’t know your brother liked the taste of blood, Alfred. Maybe I’ll let you watch him bleed even more when it’s my turn, yes?” America’s head turned and he jerked violently with a hiss, mad as fuck that the chains did little more than pull taut and loose a few piddling bits of drywall over top whatever the hell they were fastened to on the other side.

“Back off, Ivan so help me I’ll-” Out of the corner of his eyes he swore he saw Canada wink at him and he clamped his mouth shut, his body rigid. You little asshole. I will not give you what you fucking want. Goddammit I will not make this that easy for you! His eyes were furious but he forced his arms back down, forced himself to ignore fucking Russia’s commentary on “his turn”, forced himself to ignore Prussia loudly whispering to Germany how good a little cocksucker he must be and dammit why the fuck couldn’t Canada have just talked to him?!

Damn you, you passive aggressive little fucker I... dammit I know you think I wouldn’t listen or some shit but how the hell do you not even try?! How are you just gonna chain me up and make me watch all these guys fucking you!? He steadfastly ignored the voice that said he hadn’t seen his brother as being sexual in ages, that until now he joked they weren’t exclusive but never for one second believed Canada actually was having sex with anyone other than him, didn’t think that any one of them would even give his brother an honest to god second look. He ignored that nagging image of him constantly writing off Canada’s usual mentioning of their relationship as useless junk that didn’t warrant discussing and shit why were the chains so fucking strong?!

Canada turned back and continued to focus solely on England, only barely hearing the clank of the chains in the background. The clear precome continued to pool in the stretched foreskin, causing it to start to balloon out just slightly and Canada whined the barest rush of endorphins from the injury, the throbbing sting turning him on even more, blurring that line between himself and England’s obedient little colony who would do absolutely anything to be recognized and acknowledged and just even fucking touched. His nipples were still hard even though his body was hot as hell and not cold, and he let his fingers trail from his lips back to over his cheek to tuck another errant bit of hair behind his ear leaving a wicked red trail just tempting England to get up and lick it off because dammit England could play him but he could play too and he didn’t spend all these years dead to what the other desired. His eyes were bright and he finally released the foreskin, slowly drawing it back letting the copious sticky fluid spill into his hand, some drizzling through his fingers onto the floor between his spread legs.

“I love it when you’re inside me, daddy,” he panted out to England as he stroked his cock, making it nice and wet, running his fingers beneath the foreskin over his cockhead, caressing and teasing more sticky clear fluid from the slit. England took another puff of the pipe, his hand only trembling slightly as he held the bowl. The show, only for him, was so damn sexually charged and bloody hell if he didn’t just want to bend the little cocktease- he still thought of Canada as little even standing over him- over the desk and fuck him til he couldn’t remember his own name. Ah, but that was the biggest part of their game after all- the steady excruciating climb until Canada was sobbing, his entire body shaking with need as he begged “daddy” to do anything to bring him off and he might think he was the one in control now but England knew that it would only take the right word, the right scene to bring him back to be his and show America that missing piece of the Canada puzzle that he just wasn’t getting.

And now Canada was looking a right mess in fact. Yes, Matthew, you’re doing a fine job. Keep going until you can’t stand it and maybe when you beg me nicely enough daddy will bend you over that table and fuck that sweet arse so Alfred can see exactly why you come for me when I bloody tell you and not for him. You really think he can do all this for you? You’re mad as a bag of ferrets if you think that upstart brat knows the first thing about what you need. Your people might have outgrown the grown but the three of us will never be finished with each other.

“Show me,” England ordered and to the rest of them, his voice hadn’t lost its crisp composure but he knew that Canada could likely hear the faint ragged traces around the edge.

England didn’t care who the hell was looking right now as he continued to rub at the heavy ache of his cock. Let them look. Let the fucking frog talk about his sexual deviance, that french lush only wished he could get himself off so easily. Let America watch his brother too as Canada sat down on the desk, laid back, and spread those long muscular legs wide open to give England and the rest a perfect view of that tight, inviting hole. England loved fucking him like that. He loved gripping the milky baby soft skin of Canada’s inner thighs until there were bruises as he fucked him breathless.

And oh how the little bugger knew, his hands, left sticky, right bloodied, both slid oh so slowly across his knees, to his outer thighs covered with only a sparse dusting of light blonde hair, to the inviting and so fucking tempting smooth skin. God those hands moved so damn slowly, but England could see him squeeze, hear him moan as the sensitive nerves picked up every caress, every scrape of nails and he realized that Canada was mirroring the languid and steady motion of England’s own hand perfectly and that thought alone made him give that fucking throbbing ache an extra hard squeeze. Mmm, you remember just how daddy does it, don’t you?

His thighs stained and dirtied beautifully, Canada brought his left hand up again, licking his own salty essence greedily up, making sure to wet his fingers until they were practically dripping with slick saliva. He sat up supporting himself with one arm, the muscles of his stomach tense and trembling even so but God he wanted so badly to watch England watching him as those wet fingers stole down between his spread legs. His middle finger circled the tight opening and he held his lower lip between his teeth until it turned white. He could see England’s hand rubbing at the bulge in his pants and it made his mouth so fucking dry just thinking about his cock, sliding between his lips, sliding into his ass and- Dammit, you’re going to draw it out like you always do, aren’t you? Oh God maybe Ludwig should’ve only given you twenty minutes ‘cause I don’t think I can take it today… Not with Al watching… I don’t know why that makes a difference and if anything it should’ve just made this easier but just knowing he’s there, even if I don’t look at him it just makes me so-

“Matthew,” England warned him at first sight of the distant expression, that emerald gaze hard. “Focus.” His smile was wicked as he teased, “or is daddy going to have to punish you?”

Canada’s violet eyes blinked sharply back into clarity at the threat. There was an odd hush in the room at those words but oh they had no idea how badly Canada wanted it. He looked carefully and saw England’s hand stealing up to the soft leather belt around his waist and he whimpered softly. Oh god you did, daddy, you did bring it... He licked his lips, following the movement of England’s long fingers toying with the silver buckle and damn if he wasn’t already seated his legs would’ve given out.

“Oh no... pleasedaddydon’tdon’tdothatI’llbegood,” he rushed out as his fingers dipped inside the small tight pucker and he knew that England didn’t buy for a damn second that he didn’t want to feel the sting of the leather against the backs of his thighs ‘cause if England really wanted to punish him the worst thing of all was to ignore him or forget him or pretend that he was America and not Canada even though now he fucking knew the truth behind that nasty little game.

“Terribly sorry about that, Matthew,” England had said without the slightest hint of repentance after the conference. “You and Alfred look so awfully alike it’s hard to tell you apart.” He’d shrugged as if that were the end of the matter and Canada, furious, had wanted to grab him and shake him and scream that he knew exactly who he was and this was exactly why France expressed concern whenever he said that he and England were still intimate and exactly why America didn’t even believe him when he told him flat out and the two of them were fucking. He could feel more than hear the blood pounding in his ears, even as he smiled on the outside and nodded, and felt as if he were watching himself from the outside turn away from England with his shoulders slumped. And then he heard England say to him

“Of course if you’d worn that little gift I’d given you perhaps I’d know the difference.”

Canada was still, and had he truly been America as England had pretended to mistake him for he’d have hauled off and punched that bastard. So that’s what this is about? I finally gain true independence from you and you’re mad that you can’t still control me? Dammit, Arthur you- But it was then that he looked back just for a moment and realized that there was a nearly imperceptible tension in the other’s shoulders as he spoke and Canada realized that it wasn’t “Canada” that he’d intended the piece for but “Matthew Williams.” That had given him pause because he knew as uninterested as England was with him as a territory that Arthur Kirkland had always been there even when…

“You know that right now Alfred and I are…” he trailed off with a sigh. How the hell could he honestly finish that sentence when he still let England screw him?

He never did put the collar on but he never stopping sleeping with England either. Because God as much as he loved America, as much as he felt like he wanted to be with him and him alone he just couldn’t do it. Every time he’d lay next to America in bed and swear to himself he’d never call England for... that again inevitably he’d find himself alone and wanting and burying his face in the other’s sweater vest in the darkness with his hand around his dick jerking it fucking raw as he whispered to himself in that deep accented english “c’mon my boy, you can do better than that, do it for daddy” because if there was one thing he never thought he wanted his brother to be it was that. And yet just when he thought he could live without the constant fight for control with America or the unconditional surrender that he gave England he found himself inevitably aching for the other- God it probably made him a terrible person.

America’s eyes on him, here he was, sliding a finger into his anus, putting a show on for England, wanting England to fuck him right here and now so he could “save” his relationship with America. Good God how did I let Roderich talk me into this insanity? How the hell can I even save this when I can’t even stop thinking about Arthur? How the hell am I supposed to just stop this when it’s like a part of me and Oh God he’s standing up… he’s taking it off oh please daddy yes daddy… He watched as England rose with a put upon sigh, taking another puff of the pipe with his left hand as he approached, undoing the buckle with his right. He stopped with a put upon sigh and Canada could smell his hot, smoky breath as he leaned in. He just about fucking came when England breathed out for his ears only, “You’re such a naughty little colony, Matthew... rebelling against daddy like that,” ’cause god did England always just know exactly how to take his focus from the wandering inner soliloquies he was prone to, to thinking only of him in whatever moment he wanted to capture. “”A spot of tea” if it beomes too much,” And with those words he took him right back to his most deliriously dark fantasy. With those words, Canada forgot all about America.
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If U Seek Alfred