Yeah, so, this is what I worked on during the long flight over the Atlantic. Gang bang fic. Main pairing EngCan. Mentioned USCan, RusCan, BelCan, PruCan, etc, etc). There’s also a healthy dose of angst, btw.
It’s all under the cut. Enjoy, darlings.
From the bathroom doorway, Alfred looked at where Matthew was starfished on the bed and forced himself to keep his smile out of his voice. “Shove over.”
“Don’ wanna. S’warm.”
“I know, buddy.” He snagged his boxers from the floor, shimmied into them while Matt looked vaguely in his direction. “But I want to be warm too.”
“And I’m the one who got you cleaned up so you wouldn’t have to leave the bed. So make me some room.”
“Dick,” Matthew said, but he rolled onto his right side, facing away from Alfred, leaving more than enough room for Alfred to tuck up behind him.
“Awesome dick.” He lifted the quilt just enough to slide under, and curled around Matthew’s back. Matthew grumbled a little, but settled when Alfred wrapped his left arm around him. “That’s not so bad, is it?” he murmured into Matthew’s ear.
He wiggled. “Tickles. Wanna sleep.”
Alfred moved to nose against the nape of Matt’s neck, which was still a little sweaty from earlier. “Better?” he asked, pressing his hand against Matt’s sternum and pulling them closer together.
“Yeah.” Matthew yawned, settled back against him. “Night.”
It didn’t take Matthew long to drop off, it never did after he orgasmed, and Alfred enjoyed every minute of having Matthew relaxed and pliant against him until Matthew’s soft, even breathing lulled him down to sleep.
It’s quiet, both inside and outside the West Virginia cabin that’s all John Denver and country roads and makes the two men, men who are older than the hills but younger than the winds that whisper through the forests, long for times far simpler than these. Sometimes the nostalgia cripples them even though they know romanticizing the past will get them nowhere, because there’s nothing romantic or at all Shelley and Wordsworth about the times they’ve already seen - the world behind them is nothing more than crumbled kingdoms and sunken treasures they’ll never set their sights upon again. But long they do, wistfully or not. Early autumn sunlight pours in through the window of the shabby little kitchen, pooling like spun gold on the floor in front of the dishwasher, and two cats lie basking in it, too sun-stunned to even lift their head at the sound of their owner’s voice. The man being addressed, however, is too engrossed in a novel to properly reply and he just grunts.
That answer is good enough for America and he shuts the fridge, turning on his heel and leaning his weight against it. Running his hand down over his face and letting it sit on the hollow of his throat, fingers wrapped around his neck, America feels his throat close over when he opens his mouth to speak. Only a few moments ago he had the words he needed, but now they’re gone and he’s speechless. Funny how these things happen, some nameless little monster sneaking up on you and stealing away your ability to form coherent thoughts, let alone speech.
America thinks it’s something worth smirking about but he doesn’t, because he can’t. Even his lips feel numb and beyond his control.
The silence presses on long enough for Canada to lift his nose from his book, and something crosses across his face. Shadows, too. There are a lot of those. A lot of indecipherable emotions and even more shadows, more darkness engulfing him with each day.
(What happened to the kid you knew so well? Where did he go? When did he fall, like an angel with the wings ripped from their spine?)
“Al? What is it?”
America licks his lips, shifts, and then moves to rest his back against the counter, the chipped wooden top digging into his spine. Awkward. Part of him wonders why he even thought about asking about this - this topic is almost taboo between them, between Canada and all the other nations who know about it. No one asks, he doesn’t tell. America wonders briefly how many of the others really do know what kind of monster - (how dare you say that about him) - was sitting on the other side of the table, looking like a marble saint carved by one of those renaissance sculptors, a piece of art who’s drank too many cups of black coffee and has been in too many fist fights to count. How many of the nations know his nature, his true nature? The nights he can’t remember and the ones America wishes he never knew about? The body count, the gallons of blood that would make 1793 look like a joke?
France knows all about it, was the first to find out, as does England, although he tries to deny it and spent several years of his life in an opium-induced haze as to forget about it. America wonders if he was successful at all. Probably not. And maybe it is just the three of them who are aware, maybe it’s just them three who—
The feeling of eyes being locked on him, latched onto his face, makes a shiver roll down America’s spine. No matter how long you’re submerged in the Arctic, you never get used to it. Hypothermia never feels like a mother’s embrace. Canada prompts him again, gently, those unintentionally steely eyes searching his face, like they always do.
“Uh, I’ve always wondered, what causes your transformations? Y’know, into that th… thing. The wendigo?”
“Matthew! How dare you bring an American into my house?” Arthur glared at the pair on the bed.
Alfred, dryly, still blindfolded, tilted his head, “Hi to you too Arthur.”
Matthew, absently wiping his mouth, frowned, “It’s been decades. Are you still enforcing that stupid rul—“
“As long as you are under my roof, you will not have any sort of relations with the United States of America.” Arthur shook his head. “And you could’ve had the decency to at least go to a hotel. Or, gag him.”
“Hey! Matthew likes it when I make noise.”
“You’re the one who wants me to be more fiscally responsible.” Matthew sulked, tracing loops on the inside of Alfred’s thigh. “And my Boss is actually monitoring my bank account and—“
Arthur made a frustrated noise and pulled out his pocketbook. “Will fifty pounds cover it?”
“I am worth more than that!”
“…We could go to France?”
“I am not paying for you to go have sexcapades across the globe—“
“Do you really want to know that I’m banging Alfred in your precious capital?”
Within twenty minutes, Arthur had bought two economy tickets to Paris, bundled up the boys, and kicked them out of his house.
“…Good heavens, Matthew. Don’t you have paperwork?”
“I did but then the Australian Prime Minister arrived early. And I rarely see Jack.”
“Doesn’t anyone knock?” Jack muttered, hiding his face in the crook of Matthew’s neck. “I thought you locked the door.”
Matthew just smiled sweetly at Arthur until the Englishman slowly backed out of the room.
Both his boys had certainly grown.
“Matthew, have you seen my…oh bloody fu—“ Arthur trailed into mangled syllables, covering his eyes and almost backing into the doorframe.
Belle laughed, idly pulling up her black lace bra over the swell of her breasts. “Hi, Arthur.”
Matthew, at least, was blushing. He probably would have covered his face if his wrists weren’t bound to the headboard.
“Will you be staying for dinner?” Arthur asked, voice a tad too high.
“Are you cooking?”
“Well I just put a roast in the—“
“I don’t think we’ll make it.” Belle interrupted smoothly. There was a creak from the bed and Arthur quickly turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.
“Okay. Now this is getting out of hand.” Arthur signed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I didn’t think you’d approve.” Matthew looked embarrassed, pink high on his cheeks.
“…I’m just appalled at your taste.” His former guardian sighed.
“Still here.” Gilbert announced, shaking his hands as though to cement his presence in the room.
“Unfortunately.” Arthur retorted, lip curling. “Be sure to burn those sheets, Matthew.”
“Matthew, do you know where—“ Arthur froze, blinking.
Matthew swore in choked off French, turning his face into the pillow. He smacked the mattress. Then he raised his head, glaring, face red and hair smeared across his cheeks. “I put a sign on the door, Arthur!”
But Arthur seemed to be too busy staring at Alistair…and the fact that he was currently balls-deep in Matthew. He might also have been crying. Or it could’ve been blood.
“Hush now.” Alistair kissed his shoulder, still catching his breath. His rough brogue brought another rush of red to Matthew’s face. “He’s slow. Try using smaller words, next time. Maybe pictures?”
“I thought you locked the door.” Matthew elbowed Alistair when he tried to pull out. He elbowed him again when the Scot wrapped one arm around his waist and tried to stroke his dick.
“Nah.” Alistair shrugged.
“…What do you mean?”
“I just didn’t.”
“Did you want him to walk in?”
“…I thought it would be funny.”
The first time Arthur walks in on them, Alfred is fucking Matthew.
Matthew’s more than a little drunk and Alfred had nursed the same beer over the course of the night and, when Matthew had gotten a little frisky at the bar, he flew out of his seat and away from the thin fingers pressing against his crotch and manhandled Matthew into the car so they could have a little more privacy.
Long legs coiled around Alfred’s hips, Matthew has a grip on each of Alfred’s biceps and is red-flushed in the dim lighting and his eyes are closed. When Alfred hears the door open and his thrusting falters once he looks toward the sound and sees Arthur just staring at them, Matthew opens his eyes and, one hand creeping towards Alfred’s polo collar, says, “I let you top because I thought you were going to fuck me.”
Pairing: USCanUS, USUKCan
Warnings: Smut (so much smut /sobs brokenly into hands), angst, and everything I pretend I’m known for, and other stuff
Last words: Its done oh thank god its done sobs brokenly
“The way you talk about him makes me think he hung the moon,” Arthur grumbles, accepting the tea cup held in front of him.
Matthew laughs, light and genuine, and waves a dismissive hand. “No, but he’s walked on it. You know, the moon doesn’t have wind—he asked if I wanted something like ‘Matt and Al forever’ written up there in moon dust.” He’s grinning as he takes two pills out of an orange bottle and holds them out to Arthur. “I told him to stop being silly, but I think he did it anyway.”
Arthur’s mood dips; he takes the pills and discreetly places them under his tongue—because he’s not sick—and sips at his tea, watching Matthew’s retreating back.