Author!anon is astounded that no one has filled this before now. Sorry you had to wait so long, OP!anon. Hope you're still out there! Author!anon apologizes in advance for the fail!French and the general longness.
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Matthew drowsily watches as Arthur drags Alfred down the hall. The sound of the younger country's feet sliding along the carpet drowns out the string of curses that Arthur spits from his mouth like fire. Something inside Matthew's head is a little woozy, like maybe his brain's sliding around inside his skull, and he can feel Francis' fingers gripping him beneath his arm. Perhaps in hindsight, playing drinking games with Alfred was not a good idea. Matthew knows now that nobody really wins whenever they play the "My Dad's a Douchebag" drinking game.
Francis hoists him aside. "Ah, Mathieu, mon fils," he says. "You've had an exciting night, non?" Matthew falls against the older man as Francis pulls him sideways, and the warmth of his body makes Matthew smile a little. The man smells heavily of lavender and cologne. His head lolls sideways against Francis' shoulder.
He gurgles a little and says, "Mmuhah."
From down the hallway, Arthur turns and glares at Francis pointedly. "You'd better keep your filthy hands to yourself, France," Arthur says. Alfred is hanging off of his shoulder and snickering, one arm dangling forward to reach for the glasses that have slipped off of his face and onto the floor. "I swear to high heaven, if one hair is out of place on his head when I get back, I'll bloody ream you."
"Yes, yes." Francis waves a hand at him. "With your unicorns, no doubt. Come on, Mathieu."
He walks the Canadian towards the room close by, though Matthew isn't entirely sure if it is his own room or not. When he'd arrived at the hotel for the G8 summit, he'd barely had time to put his things down before he'd had to start shaking hands. The coolness of the air brings relief to his flushed face. Francis tosses him ungracefully onto the bed nearby, the door clicking behind them, and the sudden jolt causes a bout of nausea to wash over him. He feels overwhelmed by the largeness of bed, wanting to wrap himself up into the sheets and disappear until morning.
"Do you feel ill?" Francis asks him, and Matthew rolls over and groans loudly in response. "Of course. You should know better than to engage l'Amerique in such acts of foolishness, cher."
"M'sorry," he tells Francis.
Francis merely snorts and walks over to the window to draw the curtains, causing darkness to descend into the room save for a few slivers of light that slip through. Matthew rolls about in the blankets and stares at Francis' feet in the dim light, inhales the scent of Francis in the room. The bed dips, and he is mechanically drawn to the heat that Francis' body emanates. He feels the older man tug at the sheets.
"Shall we put you to bed?" he asks, reaching to pluck Matthew's glasses off. The side of his hand brushes Matthew's cheek, and Matthew can't help the way he turns into that contact.
He brings the covers up to hide his face. "M'not a child."
Francis clicks his tongue and wraps his fingers around Matthew's wrist. The contact sparks something warmer in Matthew's already-warm belly. "If you behave like a child, I shall treat you like one, mon petit chou."
"I'm not your petit anything," Matthew says, slapping Francis' hands away weakly. "You're not my father."
Re: Daddy Issues (2/?)
anonymous
May 6 2009, 18:08:30 UTC
Francis sits up straight and says, "Oho, is that so?" There is something in his eyes, dark and smoldering, but Matthew's head hurts too much to try and decipher it. "And who is? L'Angleterre?"
He shakes his head. "I'm a big boy, now, Francis. I don't need anyone to take care of me. I can take care of myself."
"But of course," Francis says, squaring his shoulders and slipping off of the bed. He glides towards the door, blond hair framing his face just so that Matthew cannot see his expression - not that he could in this light, anyway. "Sleep well, then, mon fils." Francis reaches for the handle to the door, but he pauses just as there comes a knock on the other side.
"France!" It's Arthur, Francis realizes, and he scowls. "France, open the door!"
Behind Francis, Matthew mutters, "Oh, Christ," because he can't imagine anything worse than being left with Arthur, who will surely berate him for his stupidity just as Francis had done. Only likely at a much higher volume.
The doorknob begins to rattle. "Mon Dieu," Francis says (in agreement with Matthew's earlier statement), swallowing back words of scathing aggravation about how he'd kindly let Matthew settle into his bed and about how he'd never let someone as savage as Arthur darken the doorway of his personal abode otherwise. He yanks the door open, intent on leaving the two to their own devices, and in the hallway Arthur stands openmouthed, eyes wide with surprise.
"You wine-guzzling bastard," he seethes. "What did you--" He's red in the face as he catches a glimpse of the younger nation prostrate on the bed, wrapped in the covers. "What? You brought him here?!"
Francis shrugs, mentally cataloging the bottles of alcohol he'd discovered in the mini-bar earlier that morning. Or perhaps he would visit the bar near the lobby. Wine sounded rather promising at the moment, actually. "I couldn't find his key."
Arthur marches into the room, but Francis remains in the doorway, hand firmly on the doorknob. "Well I'll take him with me then, for God's sake," the Briton says.
"Do as you wish."
"No, no." Matthew sits up, one hand against his face and the other outstretched towards the door. "Don't go, Francis." He hears the sound of the door shutting again, but when he looks up, he's relieved to see that Francis is still there.
The two older men regard each other with tense silence, then turn their gazes onto Matthew. It makes him nervous, heart pounding in his throat so tangibly he thinks he can taste the blood, causing him to pull the blankets to himself tighter until France walks over to the cupboard with a defeated sigh and searches for a glass and a bottle of champagne. Matthew wrinkles his nose, because it makes his head hurt and his stomach roll to even think about liquor right now.
Arthur brushes past Francis and moves to sit next to Matthew on the bed. "Are you all right?" he asks, placing a hand on Matthew's leg. Matthew flushes and nods, and Arthur's lips twist into a frown. "I can't believe you two. Honestly, acting so foolishly." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was, Matthew? Dragging the two of your sorry asses out of there like that? I thought you of all people would have more sense than to get caught up in Alfred's awful shenanigans."
Matthew looks away. "Sorry, Arthur."
The other man nods and says, "I know you are, lad." His fingers tighten on Matthew's thigh, and suddenly the air in the room becomes much hotter. "I'm just glad you're all right."
He feels so torn, because he can't bear all the attention he's suddenly receiving from Arthur and Francis, and yet at the same time, it makes a secret place inside of him very warm and fluttery. Part of him can't stand the fact that the two of them are only doting on him because of a fuck up Alfred instigated - always Alfred! - and so he wants to push them away because he can take care of his own messes, thank you very much. But, oh, the way Arthur's fingers are gently pushing upward--
"M'hot," Matthew says, twisting in the sheets and pulling at the collar of his shirt.
This. This aljsdkljlsdk anon isn't even coherent because she wanted this so much and omg omg it's finally getting filled. 8D aaaaa I love it so far--especially the tension between Francis and Arthur and the dynamic between them and Matthew and Matthew's awareness of how they got to this point.
OP Re: Daddy Issues (2/?)
anonymous
May 10 2009, 20:04:18 UTC
"I'm a big boy, now, Francis. I don't need anyone to take care of me. I can take care of myself." =D I'm sure Matthew is a big boy =D I loved that line.
"Don't go, Francis." He hears the sound of the door shutting again, but when he looks up, he's relieved to see that Francis is still there.
^ Another line a really like, 'cause it just works so well with Canada being all grown up and still kindof clingy at the same time.
The last paragraph + sentence = win of hotness and just uhgggg. I'm melting already.
Daddy Issues (3/?)
anonymous
May 7 2009, 13:52:18 UTC
Arthur's hands reach up to rest on the younger nation's shoulders, then slide down to grip at his lapels. "Of course you are. You're still in your good clothes. Come on, then. Let's get these off of you, shall we?" Matthew wants to help him, but he is frozen and limp like a rag doll. Moisture has begun to gather beneath his dress shirt and soak through the fabric, causing Arthur's touch to sear his flesh as he removes Matthew's jacket and sets it aside. As Arthur works nimbly at the buttons of his shirt, his fingers brush against the skin around Matthew's collarbone, sending an electric-like jolt straight to his cock. Matthew licks at his dry lips and begins to hiss softly from behind his clenched teeth.
Towering above him, he can feel Francis, who has set his glass aside to peel the shirt Arthur is unbuttoning away from Matthew's damp skin. He bends down to brush Matthew's blond hair aside, and he gently presses his lips against the lobe of his ear. Matthew can feel that little bit of stubble against his chin. "Petit chou," Francis murmurs, "if you needed help, all you had to do was ask."
Matthew groans softly, and his hips thrust upward involuntarily.
Arthur's fingers slide down his torso in a path towards his waist, the combination of the contact and the cool air on his skin causing his nipples to become erect. Arthur has a grip on Matthew's hipbone with one hand and is trying to unwork the latch of his belt with the other, and Matthew wills the throbbing hardness between his legs to go down before Arthur notices and becomes horrified, but oh, oh, Francis has grabbed him by the chin and is nibbling delicately on his ear, and it only makes him harder.
"Honestly, Francis," Arthur mutters. "The child is sick. Just because he hasn't got a shirt on doesn't give you an excuse to molest him."
Something inside Matthew is both repulsed and aroused by Arthur's reference to his age. He wants to tell him the same thing he told Francis - that he's not a child - but Francis is laughing in that smarmy way of his, asks, "I don't think that's quite the case, is it, mon fils?" And the way he says mon fils suddenly makes Matthew's whole body tremble with ache and need, even though Francis has called him that for as long as he can remember.
Belt loose, Arthur begins to work Matthew's legs from his trousers. The younger nation blushes and bites his lip when Arthur's hands trail along the skin of the backs of his thighs and come to rest on his ankles, gripping each one loosely as he slips the slacks off one leg at a time. Matthew's eyes flutter closed. He feels as though he is on fire. Francis pulls him closer and begins to pepper kisses up and down his chin and neck, whispering to Matthew sweetly and curling his hair about his fingers.
Below him, Arthur makes a quiet little gasp in the back of his throat, and Matthew knows why, because he can only imagine how scandalous he and Francis must look. But when he feels Arthur gripping him at the hips, he peers down and sees the older nation staring intently at the furious erection tenting his briefs. Matthew blushes an even deeper red, and suddenly, as Arthur reaches out to trace along the outline, fingers smearing into the wetness gathering at the tip, his chest feels heavy, and all he can hear in his ears is the pound of his heart and the rush of blood through his veins.
"Matthew?" Arthur whispers.
Matthew squeaks or groans or something equally as mortifying, and, oh, God. Oh, God. He buries his face into Francis' shoulder, because he can't bear to look Arthur in the face right now.
Francis shushes him with a mirthful chuckle and strokes his hair. "Does that feel good, petit chou? Do you like it when England touches you there?"
Matthew nods miserably.
"Do you want him to touch you again?" Francis asks.
Tears of frustration gather at the corners of his eyes as he nods once again.
"Now, Mathieu. You're a big boy, aren't you? You said so yourself." Francis licks at the shell of his ear, and Matthew shudders. "What do you say?"
Lifting his head, Matthew meets Arthur's intense gaze, and suddenly he realizes that Arthur is very aware of how the stakes have shifted. "Please," he croaks out.
OP Re: Daddy Issues (3/?)
anonymous
May 10 2009, 20:11:50 UTC
I think I just spontaneously combusted. Well, it wasn't entirely spontaneous because your writing caused it - but still! I think I caught fire for a moment this is so hot. "Now, Mathieu. You're a big boy, aren't you? You said so yourself." Francis licks at the shell of his ear, and Matthew shudders. "What do you say?"
^sexxxxy as hell. Authoranon, I think I love you. JUST GUH!!!!!!
I never dreamed if I was so lucky as to have my prompt filled (for which I am eternally in your debt) that it would be as absolutely purely hot-awesomeness-of-amazingness that is this fic.
Daddy Issues (4/?)
anonymous
May 7 2009, 17:23:00 UTC
"Please, what?" Arthur demands. His hand is hovering over Matthew's cloth-covered erection, and the heat of the proximity causes the cock to twitch in anticipation.
"Touch me." Matthew nearly cries as he says it, and he's sure that there are tears of relief streaking down his face when he finally feels Arthur tug his briefs down to free his swollen penis. Arthur's hand is so big and warm as it closes around Matthew and begins to stroke him gently, up and down and around. With his thumb, Arthur smears the wetness around and underneath the head, causing Matthew to screw his eyes shut and mewl pathetically, nuzzling his head back into the crook of Francis' neck. His flailing hands reach out and dig fingers into the Frenchman's side, pulling at the older nation and shifting his weight until he is fully on the bed, lying crosswise against Matthew's upper torso. Arthur's other hand has begun to roll and caress his balls in their sac, and desperate to silence the humiliating noises coming from his mouth, Matthew grasps at Francis' fine hair with one hand and crashes their lips together.
Francis licks at Matthew's tongue and then runs his own tongue along Matthew's teeth. As their lips tangle, he brings a hand up to tenderly wipe away the moisture on Matthew's cheek, then he pulls away and says, "Sit in my lap, enfant," and Matthew does. He allows Francis to sit him upright and settle behind him, feeling the press of the older nation's erection against his backside as Francis begins to bite and suckle at the juncture of Matthew's neck and shoulder while his thumbs brush over the hardened nubs of the younger nation's nipples. "Tres beau, mon petit chou. You are so lovely."
Matthew can feel Arthur's breath on his straining cock, the pink tongue from behind Arthur's plump lips. "Is this what you want, boy?" the Brit asks. From this angle, he has an oh-so-perfect view of Arthur bent over him, no longer on the edge of the bed but straddling Matthew's legs now, green eyes peering up at him from underneath his fringe. Arthur's gaze lingers on Francis for a moment, looking something of a mixture between stern and determined, before it flicks back to Matthew. His hand is still stroking and pumping firmly, the brush of his jacket sleeve rough against Matthew's sweat-slicked skin. "Do you need special attention tonight? Do you need us to take care of you, my child?"
"Do you want l'Angleterre to suck your cock, mon fils?" Francis breathes the question into his ear.
Matthew nods, and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. That mouth is so close, he's fisting the covers tightly, and Arthur's breath is so hot.
"Then tell him."
"P-p-please," he whimpers, feeling more tears spring forth. "Arthur, s-suck me. Please."
Arthur continues to stroke Matthew a few more times before he bends down to wrap his lips around the head of the cock, running his tongue in circles over it before delving into the foreskin around it. Trembling in pleasure, Matthew sucks in a loud breath through his teeth and bucks his hips upward, trying to get more of his cock into that warm, wet mouth, but Arthur places a hand on his stomach and pins him to the bed. "Ahahoooh," Matthew says with a groan, half from the pleasure and half from the ticklishness of his midsection. He can feel Francis gently thrusting against his rear, and he reaches up again to grasp at the Frenchman's hair, leaning his head backwards so that their lips can meet for another kiss.
Eyes closed, Arthur bobs up and down on the length of the penis, sucking and nibbling along the sides, kissing down to the base, and lapping at his testicles before moving back to the head. Matthew's free hand, still fisting in the sheets, comes up to rest on top of Arthur's head, guiding him further down the erection until he can nearly feel it at the back of Arthur's throat, and when the older nation sucks in his cheeks, oh, God, Matthew's toes curl in his socks. He knows he won't last much longer.
He tears his mouth away from Francis long enough to cry, "Oh, oh. Oh, I'm going to--" He can't stop the words from slipping off of his tongue. "Daddy, I'm going to come."
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/3274.html?thread=2412490#t2412490
Author!anon is astounded that no one has filled this before now. Sorry you had to wait so long, OP!anon. Hope you're still out there! Author!anon apologizes in advance for the fail!French and the general longness.
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Matthew drowsily watches as Arthur drags Alfred down the hall. The sound of the younger country's feet sliding along the carpet drowns out the string of curses that Arthur spits from his mouth like fire. Something inside Matthew's head is a little woozy, like maybe his brain's sliding around inside his skull, and he can feel Francis' fingers gripping him beneath his arm. Perhaps in hindsight, playing drinking games with Alfred was not a good idea. Matthew knows now that nobody really wins whenever they play the "My Dad's a Douchebag" drinking game.
Francis hoists him aside. "Ah, Mathieu, mon fils," he says. "You've had an exciting night, non?" Matthew falls against the older man as Francis pulls him sideways, and the warmth of his body makes Matthew smile a little. The man smells heavily of lavender and cologne. His head lolls sideways against Francis' shoulder.
He gurgles a little and says, "Mmuhah."
From down the hallway, Arthur turns and glares at Francis pointedly. "You'd better keep your filthy hands to yourself, France," Arthur says. Alfred is hanging off of his shoulder and snickering, one arm dangling forward to reach for the glasses that have slipped off of his face and onto the floor. "I swear to high heaven, if one hair is out of place on his head when I get back, I'll bloody ream you."
"Yes, yes." Francis waves a hand at him. "With your unicorns, no doubt. Come on, Mathieu."
He walks the Canadian towards the room close by, though Matthew isn't entirely sure if it is his own room or not. When he'd arrived at the hotel for the G8 summit, he'd barely had time to put his things down before he'd had to start shaking hands. The coolness of the air brings relief to his flushed face. Francis tosses him ungracefully onto the bed nearby, the door clicking behind them, and the sudden jolt causes a bout of nausea to wash over him. He feels overwhelmed by the largeness of bed, wanting to wrap himself up into the sheets and disappear until morning.
"Do you feel ill?" Francis asks him, and Matthew rolls over and groans loudly in response. "Of course. You should know better than to engage l'Amerique in such acts of foolishness, cher."
"M'sorry," he tells Francis.
Francis merely snorts and walks over to the window to draw the curtains, causing darkness to descend into the room save for a few slivers of light that slip through. Matthew rolls about in the blankets and stares at Francis' feet in the dim light, inhales the scent of Francis in the room. The bed dips, and he is mechanically drawn to the heat that Francis' body emanates. He feels the older man tug at the sheets.
"Shall we put you to bed?" he asks, reaching to pluck Matthew's glasses off. The side of his hand brushes Matthew's cheek, and Matthew can't help the way he turns into that contact.
He brings the covers up to hide his face. "M'not a child."
Francis clicks his tongue and wraps his fingers around Matthew's wrist. The contact sparks something warmer in Matthew's already-warm belly. "If you behave like a child, I shall treat you like one, mon petit chou."
"I'm not your petit anything," Matthew says, slapping Francis' hands away weakly. "You're not my father."
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He shakes his head. "I'm a big boy, now, Francis. I don't need anyone to take care of me. I can take care of myself."
"But of course," Francis says, squaring his shoulders and slipping off of the bed. He glides towards the door, blond hair framing his face just so that Matthew cannot see his expression - not that he could in this light, anyway. "Sleep well, then, mon fils." Francis reaches for the handle to the door, but he pauses just as there comes a knock on the other side.
"France!" It's Arthur, Francis realizes, and he scowls. "France, open the door!"
Behind Francis, Matthew mutters, "Oh, Christ," because he can't imagine anything worse than being left with Arthur, who will surely berate him for his stupidity just as Francis had done. Only likely at a much higher volume.
The doorknob begins to rattle. "Mon Dieu," Francis says (in agreement with Matthew's earlier statement), swallowing back words of scathing aggravation about how he'd kindly let Matthew settle into his bed and about how he'd never let someone as savage as Arthur darken the doorway of his personal abode otherwise. He yanks the door open, intent on leaving the two to their own devices, and in the hallway Arthur stands openmouthed, eyes wide with surprise.
"You wine-guzzling bastard," he seethes. "What did you--" He's red in the face as he catches a glimpse of the younger nation prostrate on the bed, wrapped in the covers. "What? You brought him here?!"
Francis shrugs, mentally cataloging the bottles of alcohol he'd discovered in the mini-bar earlier that morning. Or perhaps he would visit the bar near the lobby. Wine sounded rather promising at the moment, actually. "I couldn't find his key."
Arthur marches into the room, but Francis remains in the doorway, hand firmly on the doorknob. "Well I'll take him with me then, for God's sake," the Briton says.
"Do as you wish."
"No, no." Matthew sits up, one hand against his face and the other outstretched towards the door. "Don't go, Francis." He hears the sound of the door shutting again, but when he looks up, he's relieved to see that Francis is still there.
The two older men regard each other with tense silence, then turn their gazes onto Matthew. It makes him nervous, heart pounding in his throat so tangibly he thinks he can taste the blood, causing him to pull the blankets to himself tighter until France walks over to the cupboard with a defeated sigh and searches for a glass and a bottle of champagne. Matthew wrinkles his nose, because it makes his head hurt and his stomach roll to even think about liquor right now.
Arthur brushes past Francis and moves to sit next to Matthew on the bed. "Are you all right?" he asks, placing a hand on Matthew's leg. Matthew flushes and nods, and Arthur's lips twist into a frown. "I can't believe you two. Honestly, acting so foolishly." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was, Matthew? Dragging the two of your sorry asses out of there like that? I thought you of all people would have more sense than to get caught up in Alfred's awful shenanigans."
Matthew looks away. "Sorry, Arthur."
The other man nods and says, "I know you are, lad." His fingers tighten on Matthew's thigh, and suddenly the air in the room becomes much hotter. "I'm just glad you're all right."
He feels so torn, because he can't bear all the attention he's suddenly receiving from Arthur and Francis, and yet at the same time, it makes a secret place inside of him very warm and fluttery. Part of him can't stand the fact that the two of them are only doting on him because of a fuck up Alfred instigated - always Alfred! - and so he wants to push them away because he can take care of his own messes, thank you very much. But, oh, the way Arthur's fingers are gently pushing upward--
"M'hot," Matthew says, twisting in the sheets and pulling at the collar of his shirt.
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DO WANT MORE PLEASE. *spams F5*
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=D I'm sure Matthew is a big boy =D I loved that line.
"Don't go, Francis." He hears the sound of the door shutting again, but when he looks up, he's relieved to see that Francis is still there.
^ Another line a really like, 'cause it just works so well with Canada being all grown up and still kindof clingy at the same time.
The last paragraph + sentence = win of hotness and just uhgggg. I'm melting already.
authoranon, you have my most sincere thanks.
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Towering above him, he can feel Francis, who has set his glass aside to peel the shirt Arthur is unbuttoning away from Matthew's damp skin. He bends down to brush Matthew's blond hair aside, and he gently presses his lips against the lobe of his ear. Matthew can feel that little bit of stubble against his chin. "Petit chou," Francis murmurs, "if you needed help, all you had to do was ask."
Matthew groans softly, and his hips thrust upward involuntarily.
Arthur's fingers slide down his torso in a path towards his waist, the combination of the contact and the cool air on his skin causing his nipples to become erect. Arthur has a grip on Matthew's hipbone with one hand and is trying to unwork the latch of his belt with the other, and Matthew wills the throbbing hardness between his legs to go down before Arthur notices and becomes horrified, but oh, oh, Francis has grabbed him by the chin and is nibbling delicately on his ear, and it only makes him harder.
"Honestly, Francis," Arthur mutters. "The child is sick. Just because he hasn't got a shirt on doesn't give you an excuse to molest him."
Something inside Matthew is both repulsed and aroused by Arthur's reference to his age. He wants to tell him the same thing he told Francis - that he's not a child - but Francis is laughing in that smarmy way of his, asks, "I don't think that's quite the case, is it, mon fils?" And the way he says mon fils suddenly makes Matthew's whole body tremble with ache and need, even though Francis has called him that for as long as he can remember.
Belt loose, Arthur begins to work Matthew's legs from his trousers. The younger nation blushes and bites his lip when Arthur's hands trail along the skin of the backs of his thighs and come to rest on his ankles, gripping each one loosely as he slips the slacks off one leg at a time. Matthew's eyes flutter closed. He feels as though he is on fire. Francis pulls him closer and begins to pepper kisses up and down his chin and neck, whispering to Matthew sweetly and curling his hair about his fingers.
Below him, Arthur makes a quiet little gasp in the back of his throat, and Matthew knows why, because he can only imagine how scandalous he and Francis must look. But when he feels Arthur gripping him at the hips, he peers down and sees the older nation staring intently at the furious erection tenting his briefs. Matthew blushes an even deeper red, and suddenly, as Arthur reaches out to trace along the outline, fingers smearing into the wetness gathering at the tip, his chest feels heavy, and all he can hear in his ears is the pound of his heart and the rush of blood through his veins.
"Matthew?" Arthur whispers.
Matthew squeaks or groans or something equally as mortifying, and, oh, God. Oh, God. He buries his face into Francis' shoulder, because he can't bear to look Arthur in the face right now.
Francis shushes him with a mirthful chuckle and strokes his hair. "Does that feel good, petit chou? Do you like it when England touches you there?"
Matthew nods miserably.
"Do you want him to touch you again?" Francis asks.
Tears of frustration gather at the corners of his eyes as he nods once again.
"Now, Mathieu. You're a big boy, aren't you? You said so yourself." Francis licks at the shell of his ear, and Matthew shudders. "What do you say?"
Lifting his head, Matthew meets Arthur's intense gaze, and suddenly he realizes that Arthur is very aware of how the stakes have shifted. "Please," he croaks out.
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(hey, if I had hot daddies like France and England, I'll be pretty turned on, too)
reCAPTCHA says: skill yes.
...I love reCAPTCHA.
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reCaptcha: rosaries Alabama
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*fans self*
It's getting a bit hot in here, I think. So, uhm, MOAR PLEASE?
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f5f5f5f5f5f5f5f5
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^sexxxxy as hell. Authoranon, I think I love you. JUST GUH!!!!!!
I never dreamed if I was so lucky as to have my prompt filled (for which I am eternally in your debt) that it would be as absolutely purely hot-awesomeness-of-amazingness that is this fic.
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"Touch me." Matthew nearly cries as he says it, and he's sure that there are tears of relief streaking down his face when he finally feels Arthur tug his briefs down to free his swollen penis. Arthur's hand is so big and warm as it closes around Matthew and begins to stroke him gently, up and down and around. With his thumb, Arthur smears the wetness around and underneath the head, causing Matthew to screw his eyes shut and mewl pathetically, nuzzling his head back into the crook of Francis' neck. His flailing hands reach out and dig fingers into the Frenchman's side, pulling at the older nation and shifting his weight until he is fully on the bed, lying crosswise against Matthew's upper torso. Arthur's other hand has begun to roll and caress his balls in their sac, and desperate to silence the humiliating noises coming from his mouth, Matthew grasps at Francis' fine hair with one hand and crashes their lips together.
Francis licks at Matthew's tongue and then runs his own tongue along Matthew's teeth. As their lips tangle, he brings a hand up to tenderly wipe away the moisture on Matthew's cheek, then he pulls away and says, "Sit in my lap, enfant," and Matthew does. He allows Francis to sit him upright and settle behind him, feeling the press of the older nation's erection against his backside as Francis begins to bite and suckle at the juncture of Matthew's neck and shoulder while his thumbs brush over the hardened nubs of the younger nation's nipples. "Tres beau, mon petit chou. You are so lovely."
Matthew can feel Arthur's breath on his straining cock, the pink tongue from behind Arthur's plump lips. "Is this what you want, boy?" the Brit asks. From this angle, he has an oh-so-perfect view of Arthur bent over him, no longer on the edge of the bed but straddling Matthew's legs now, green eyes peering up at him from underneath his fringe. Arthur's gaze lingers on Francis for a moment, looking something of a mixture between stern and determined, before it flicks back to Matthew. His hand is still stroking and pumping firmly, the brush of his jacket sleeve rough against Matthew's sweat-slicked skin. "Do you need special attention tonight? Do you need us to take care of you, my child?"
"Do you want l'Angleterre to suck your cock, mon fils?" Francis breathes the question into his ear.
Matthew nods, and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. That mouth is so close, he's fisting the covers tightly, and Arthur's breath is so hot.
"Then tell him."
"P-p-please," he whimpers, feeling more tears spring forth. "Arthur, s-suck me. Please."
Arthur continues to stroke Matthew a few more times before he bends down to wrap his lips around the head of the cock, running his tongue in circles over it before delving into the foreskin around it. Trembling in pleasure, Matthew sucks in a loud breath through his teeth and bucks his hips upward, trying to get more of his cock into that warm, wet mouth, but Arthur places a hand on his stomach and pins him to the bed. "Ahahoooh," Matthew says with a groan, half from the pleasure and half from the ticklishness of his midsection. He can feel Francis gently thrusting against his rear, and he reaches up again to grasp at the Frenchman's hair, leaning his head backwards so that their lips can meet for another kiss.
Eyes closed, Arthur bobs up and down on the length of the penis, sucking and nibbling along the sides, kissing down to the base, and lapping at his testicles before moving back to the head. Matthew's free hand, still fisting in the sheets, comes up to rest on top of Arthur's head, guiding him further down the erection until he can nearly feel it at the back of Arthur's throat, and when the older nation sucks in his cheeks, oh, God, Matthew's toes curl in his socks. He knows he won't last much longer.
He tears his mouth away from Francis long enough to cry, "Oh, oh. Oh, I'm going to--" He can't stop the words from slipping off of his tongue. "Daddy, I'm going to come."
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