Disclaimer: Do not own.
"Ah…perhaps this was a bad time." Arthur said hurriedly, green eyes wide beneath thick, black eyebrows as he stared at the pair on the couch.
Matthew, who was straddling Alfred's stomach, slowly lifted his head from where he was lapping at the trail of maple syrup that was sluggishly making its way down his boyfriend's right pectoral. There was a smear of the sticky syrup on his reddening cheeks and his mouth was slightly slack, as though Matthew had yet to comprehend that his older brother had accidently just walked in on him in a kinky position.
Alfred just rested his head against the armrest of the couch and sighed loudly. "I should have known." He mused, his voice on the verge of hysterical.
"I'll just come back later…" Arthur said quietly, slowly inching back through the door. "…Have fun."
And then the apartment door shut, Matthew still staring at the spot where Arthur had stood and Alfred loudly lamenting that his dick was gonna shrivel up and fall off and he'd have to get a prosthetic and that just wasn't fair because he liked his God-given cock.
"He didn't mean it Al." Matthew said quietly, scrubbing at the dried syrup on his boyfriend's chest. "He just has really bad timing."
"…Really? I hadn't noticed Matt." Alfred responded flatly, grabbing his boyfriend's hand and bringing to his lips, pressing a kiss against his knuckles. "But I'm not mad."
"You're not?" The other blond asked, eyebrow quirked, brushing his fingers across Alfred's cheek and cupping it in his hand. "Really?"
"Really." Alfred smiled reassuringly (and lying straight through his teeth).
"So you won't hurt him?" Matthew fretted, his thumb brushing against Alfred's lower lip.
"Of course not." The other blond soothed, his blue eyes turning devilish as his tongue flicked out against the pad of the other's thumb. He wrapped his arms around the other man, pulling Matthew flush against his chest. "He's your brother and I'm sure he needed to talk you."
Violet eyes widened and Matthew's lips curved into a brilliant smile. Then, without warning, he surged forward and captured his lover's lips in a needy kiss. Alfred, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, swiped his tongue across the other's lower lip, slipping in and tangling with Matthew's when the blond opened his mouth willingly. When the two pulled apart, their lips equally wet and bruised, Matthew murmured, his breath warm against Alfred's lips, "You barricade the door and I'll assume the position."
No sooner had the words left his mouth, Matthew found himself thrown backwards on the couch as Alfred dashed to the door, pausing only to grab a chair from the kitchen table to shove under the doorknob.
Laughing, Matthew leisurely kicked off his boxers and slung on leg over the back of the couch, the other hanging to the other side. One hand slipped down between his legs and, inhaling sharply, one then two fingers breached the small ring of muscle. With a half-sighed whimper, the blond arched his back as his fingers stretched and twisted and scissored inside of him.
Panting and eyes screwed shut, Matthew didn't see Alfred return but he sure as hell felt a pair of large, strong hands grip his inner thighs and push his legs further apart.
And when something wet and wiggling and warm joined his two fingers, indigo eyes flew open and his hips bucked upwards as a strangled mewl tore from the blond's throat.
When Matthew was dozing on his bare chest, warm and sated, Alfred's mind was whirring. One arm wrapped around the other's shoulders, fingers stroking the area between his boyfriend's shoulder blades, the American was in deep thought.
Though Arthur said he would back off and stop interfering, Alfred really had no reason to believe that the Englishman would mind his own business. And even if he gambled and took the man for his word, Alfred wouldn't bet on Arthur finding romantic success. He just couldn't leave it up to chance.
The longer that Arthur remained single and failed on his blind dates, the greater the chance of the Brit throwing in the towel all together.
He'd have to take this into his own hands. If that meant being the Brit's wingman, fine. If he had to pay someone to keep Arthur busy, so be it.
He wasn't about to let Arthur, inadvertently or not, come between him and Matthew again.
And if Arthur found someone, Matthew would eventually learn to let go and stop worrying.
"Sorry about earlier." Arthur muttered, reluctantly and not meeting either Matthew or Alfred's eyes, still haunted by what he had walked in on (in all his attempts to cockblock, never had he seen that much skin since he bathed his younger brother). "Had I known I wouldn't have even entered."
"It happens." Alfred replied, equally reluctantly. "No hard feelings…"
Unless it happens again and then I will go nuclear, Alfred swore internally.
Okay, that was a little harder to say. But the approving smile on Matthew's face was worth.
"What did you need, Arthur?" Matthew asked, then.
"Well...I just got off with a blind date." Arthur began. "And he was a total twat."
"…Okay." His brother said slowly.
"As much as I appreciate you handpicking my dates, Matthew…" the sandy-haired man shifted, his expression apologetic. "I think that perhaps I should take it upon myself to find someone."
"Whatever you want!" Matthew said brightly. "I'm so happy you're being proactive, Arthur."
Alfred looked horrified, but neither brother noticed.
How the hell was he supposed to rig Arthur's love life now?
The bar was packed, a cloud of pale blue cigarette smoke hanging overhead. Big screen TVs lined the wall, showing the same college basketball game.
"What the fuck was that play?" Matthew bellowed, shaking his glass of beer at the screens, the liquid sloshing over the rim. "Fucking Americans can't play basketball for shit!"
Arthur was downing his martini (holding it up after every sip and proclaiming the next one for the Queen). "Bloody Yanks!" He slurred in agreement, not quite drunk but drunk enough to be well one his way to shitfaced. "Good-for-nothing, ungrateful tossers!"
Thankfully everyone else in the bar was too drunk or absorbed in the games to notice the two men bitching and cursing and being generally belligerent.
Alfred, who was stuck between both men, just sighed and sipped his club soda and lime (since it was his turn to be the designated driver).
"I think you two have had enough." He said quietly, wincing when Matthew slammed his glass onto the table.
"Silence thyself cur!" The Brit agreed, stumbling off his stool and staggering off to a pair of girls next to the pool table (He was fairly certain the buxom redhead was eyeing him lustily).
"This is why I hate going out drinking with you two."
Suddenly Matthew giggled and he leaned over, resting his chin on his boyfriend's shoulder. "But you like it when I'm drunk." He purred, reaching up to tug gently at the hair on Alfred's nape. "Because I'm more susceptible to suggestion." His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, his violet eyes hooded and predatory. "Buy me another drink?"
Alfred, already feeling the slow unfurling of arousal low in his stomach, laughed shakily and took a calming sip of his drink. "Hehe, Mattie. I think I should cut you off."
He tried to ignore the wavy-haired blond by watching Arthur make an ass of himself with the two women (apparently the redhead wasn't eyeing him lustily).
Matthew smirked and leaned closer, lips a hair's breadth from his lover's ear, "Road head."
"Please tell me you sell Molsons." Alfred gasped out after shoving his way through the crowd around the bar, slamming his hands palm down onto the wooden surface.
The bartender, now an attractive blond man (apparently the stern-faced Swede who usually bartended had to leave early for the night), chuckled, drying a shot glass with a white towel. "Out of curiosity, why?" His voice had a faint accent and, if Alfred wasn't in a rush, he'd try harder to place it.
"Road head is at stake." The American retorted seriously. "And with the right drink I can convince him to play naughty schoolgirl later."
The other man looked up at him, an impressed expression on his face. "You are a lucky man."
"I'd be luckier if you slide me an ice-cold Molson." The man countered charmingly.
The bartender returned the smirk. "I'll be right back." He turned and left, disappearing into the back.
Alfred, drumming his fingers impatiently against the counter, nearly whooped in joy when the bartender appeared with two bottles.
"They're on the house." The blond man said with a wink, sliding over the chilled beer. "Have fun with your delectable little blond, mon ami."
"Thanks…" Alfred glanced at the other's nametag. "Francis." And with a wide grin, the American strode back to the table.
"Ah, to be young again." Francis mused, shaking his head and smiling.
"Dry martini. Shaken, not stirred." Arthur muttered, tapping the bar authoritatively, surprisingly swaying very little on his feet. He dragged his gaze away from his feet—having made sure that he wouldn't trip over any elves—to face the bartender. Immediately his expression turned dark and he snarled, "You."
The bartender, who was flirting with a gaggle of pretty women a little ways down, looked up, only vaguely interested. When he noticed the enraged Englishman, his lips curled disdainfully and he slowly straightened from where he was leaning on the bar. "Rosbif." He sneered.
"Frog." Arthur retorted, packing as much malice as he possibly could into that single word (which, interestingly, was a lot).
"I knew you'd be a drunkard like the rest of your countrymen." Francis said lightly, azure eyes narrowed.
"I am not a drunkard." Arthur snapped, furry eyebrows knitted together. "I am not drunk."
"I am over here." The Frenchman smirked. His smirk only widened when Arthur stiffened and looked at him properly, face scarlet in fury, stopping in his berating of the beer taps.
"Your belt makes you look like a poof." The sandy-haired man replied, a smug expression on his face when Francis squawked indignantly.
"This is Dior, you fashion-challenged hooligan!" He gestured at his black sequined belt.
"Is…is that Arthur?" Matthew asked breathlessly, dragging his fingers through Alfred's hair. "Al." He whined again, tugging at the dark blond strands when his boyfriend didn't stop kissing his neck.
"Probably." Alfred mumbled dismissively, voice husky as he sucked hard on his boyfriend's pale neck. "Does it matter?" He kneaded at Matthew's hip, pushing up the man's shirt, his own stool wobbling dangerously as he tried to move closer to the other blond.
"Y-yeah…it actually does." The other squinted. "Because right now he and the bartender are trying to strangle each other."
Never let it be said I do not love my readers. ^_^ Three updates in one night. Good start to the new year y/y?
Stay out of trouble, my loverlies. ;)