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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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"W—what are you doing—this is embarrassing—"
Cheeks bright red, Arthur gazed over his shoulder at Francis carefully disrobing him with quiet proficiency.
"Ah, it's hard for you sober, isn't it,"
Francis laughed, long fingers delicate as they pulled the apron strings away from around Arthur's narrow waist.
"Easy for you to say, you—you're completely dressed—"
He considered how ridiculous his words were, considering how willingly Francis would otherwise disrobe before others; tonight's suit was specifically by request.
"Don't you worry, Russia will strip me soon enough,"
He crooned at Arthur's ear,
"if you want, you can stick around to watch—"
His large hands ran with elegant reserve over the skin at Arhtur's thigh, digits carefully interlacing at the elastic of his thong.
"Would you like that?"
He whispered,
"You wanna watch him give it to me?"
Arthur was going to reply, but shuddered instead when he felt Francis' hand come slowly around his member. There emanated wet, profane sounds from beneath, and Arthur blushed to realize he was that aroused already—
"I—"
"You do, don't you. England, you really are a pervert."
"H…hey! You're one to talk—!"
But he was breathless, heart racing fast against the bare wall of his chest as behind him Francis already was taking him over, the pressed fabric of his blazer sliding against his naked back.
"Ah, but I already know you're a pervert, this is nothing new—"
"Y—you—"
He kissed the crook of Arthur's neck, openly, so the ladies could get a good view, before, slowly lowering himself, he pulled down at the boy's underwear, only down to his thighs before carefully placing one gloved hand at the nape of his neck and urging him forth a bit.
"Bend over for Big Brother,"
He whispered, tongue trailing absently at his lip with quiet appreciation as he proceeded lower along his body, there's a good boy—
"N—now you listen to me, you wine bastard…! You can't talk to me that w—"
Arthur gasped with mute astonishment as he felt Francis' teeth come down gently, teasingly against his behind.
"Please, England, don't act so coy,"
Francis' voice came low, mocking, even as he continued to have at him then,
"I know you do this to yourself—"
His lips moved wetly against the soft skin of his behind, long fingers teasing, cruel in their ministrations as they danced just at the small opening beneath, I know you touch yourself here—
"Nnn—!"
Arthur blushed, too aroused and desperate for modesty now, and, long arms wrapped around the metal pole, he hissed at Francis with frustration,
"Damn you, curse you, France, stop messing around—"
"What's that?"
Francis asked with all the innocence in the world, "is there something you'd rather have me do?"
He wet his fingers, carefully inspecting the hot skin before him as he touched him there again, digits slick as they prodded ever so lightly—
Arthur's words were a string of indecipherable expletives now, teeth clenched and eyes closed in frustration as he gripped the pole, damn you, you wine bastard, damn you to hell—
"Why, England, I can't understand a thing? Maybe if you asked more clearly, I…"
Head still buried at the crook of Matthew's neck, Alfred softly laughed.
"You hear that? It's just like old times…"
Matthew grinned, hands moving protectively to his brother's ears and cupping them.
"Oh, no…" he mouthed with gentle recollection, "France and England are at it again…"
Both brothers laughed knowingly.
Alfred's large hands came slowly over Matthew's on his ears, carefully pulling them off. He gazed at Matthew, and Matthew gazed back, both of them knowing, it remained unspoken in the small space between them,
It's kinda hot, isn't it.
"I wanna do you right here,"
Alfred whispered, words echoing humid just at Matthew's ear, right now, let's do it—
Matthew wanted it, too.
Alfred's warm hand slid along the red fabric of Matthew's blazer, down to his belt, to his trousers from there, dangerously close—
What if someone sees us,
Matthew thought to say, and then realized how ridiculous the notion was, considering they all were to perform deliberately before an audience that night—
Considering that was what he, specifically, had wanted—
"Y—you just like me in this suit—"
"I love you in that suit—"
I love you—
In the living room, up on the stage, Arthur could barely maintain his balance as he leaned against the hard metal pole.
"England, you're very wet, you dirty boy—"
Arthur blushed bright crimson; it all were true. He really was very wet, and very aroused, mercilessly sober and aware of it all.
Francis was carefully licking him from behind, attentively, large hands firm and gentle at his thighs, wet and glistening, the fluid gradually streaming down—
"Oh, I can see you want it pretty bad—"
He said, as though thoughtfully observing a troublesome phenomenon, his French accent exasperatingly pronounced, Arthur wanted so much to tell him to shut up and get to it, but he couldn't find his voice—
Every touch was electric, every menacing nuance alive—
"Vas-y, Francis, tu ne vois pas à quel point il en a envie—"
Go on, Francis, can't you see how badly he wants it—
It was Belgium's voice, calling out empathically over the expanse of the room.
"You hear that?"
Francis asked, head tilted upward, lips and chin still glistening wet,
"The ladies feel for you, England, they really do—"
"Y…you—"
Ever comfortable before an audience, Francis turned to the ladies and, gently cradling Arthur's thigh from behind, he asked,
"You'd like to see me give it to Arthur?"
The response, of course, was affirmative then. Francis slowly tilted his head to bite at the boy's thigh, and Arthur gasped, he would never ask for it, himself, he was far, far too proud—
There came the low clinking of metal as Francis rose slowly to his feet, long fingers working at the clasp of his belt as, formal suit still on, he merely reached in for his member, still holding his breath as to withhold from succumbing to his own ministrations—
He was hard, and very wet, as well, the women leaned forth in their chairs as to see—
Truth be told, he wanted badly to have at Arthur, as well, lapping at him for so long had gotten him quite frustrated and aroused, he held himself back to torment him all the more, and now touching him at last, the hot, wet feel of his thighs against the tip of his member—
"We can't see, we can't see—!"
It was Taiwan, and, ever the gentleman, Francis rearranged himself in such a way that they could get a better view,
"Is this better?"
He asked, and it was, so, very slowly, one hand on Arthur's thigh, he guided himself luxuriantly inward, biting hard at his lip as he felt it slide inside, smoothly, effortlessly almost,
Comme un couteau à travers du beurre—
Like a knife through butter—
Arthur's long fingers tightened on the pole, stray wisps at his bangs hanging down, eyes closed, defeated, oh, he was so hard—
"Is that good?"
Francis whispered, and it was, Arthur would never admit it aloud, if he could find his voice, he'd probably curse him and tell him how awful he was—he could barely even lift his eyes enough to glare back, or seethe irritably at the audience, what are you looking at, he merely held on to the pole for dear life, Francis' lips gentle and taunting at his neck, his long fingers prying slowly at his mouth—
"Open,"
He whispered, and Arthur did, the slender digits moving slowly in, he sucked on them absently, blushing at the wet, obscene sounds, oh, Francis laughed, don't you blush like that, England, you pervert, don't you act so shy—
Feliciano and Lovino waded through the tables in the audience, carrying trays with drinks and food, both scantily clad and handcuffed together, they flirted with the ladies all the while, even though this was strictly against the rules, but, certainly, the women didn't mind—
They both stopped in place, however, trays in hands, at the sound of Arthur's soft cries against the palm of Francis' hand. Hopelessly sober, he'd gone past the point of shame and succumbed merely to the encompassing sensation of the other boy moving wetly within him, he'd lost all sense of time, all sense of pride or vengeance or rage, it was good, he hated so much to admit, it really was so good—
To be continued…
A/N: credit for lines in French goes to Sakurazukalori.
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Matthew is Mine