Bwhaha! What is this nonsense I am spamming you with today? Why, this is the celebratory posting of something to mark my 5 year anniversary of writing fanfiction. I decided to give myself a gift. And that gift is for me to post one of my more nonsensical one-shots. You see, whoever is reading this, I have numerous unwritten oneshots which I deemed "whatisthisidonteven" and hid them away. Now I'm posting one of these babies. Fic #61, hell yeah~

Warnings: butchering of supernatural ideas, language, fail, OOCness, hints of slash

Pairing: Well...really only hints.

Disclaimer: Its awesome that I don't own Hetalia.

"What are you doing?" A wispy voice crooned into his ear, followed by a pointed chin settling into the crook of his neck.

"Bloody hell!" Arthur swore, jerking his arm away from the bubbling pot with enough force to cause it to bobble uncertainly, its contents dripping out and splashing onto the burner under it. The mixture hissed ominously, blood-red tendrils of smoke curling lazily upwards.

The warm presence at his back disappeared as quickly as it had come.

The warlock threw down the copper spoon and whirled around, emerald eyes blazing as he faced the culprit. "How many times have I told you not to disturb me, boy?" He snarled into the dimly lit room, his eyes searching for his ward. "Alfred!"

"Not Alfred." A soft voice corrected and Arthur froze, that quiet tone familiar.

Could it be?

"Show yourself." He ordered.

Soon enough, a figure separated from one of the dark corner, shuffling closer to the sputtering light of the of the gas lamp. A male—no older than twenty and no heavier than 160 when drenched—smiled sheepishly at him, blue-violet eyes shimmering.

"Well well." Arthur said dryly, crossing his arms, a wry smile twitching on his lips. "Matthew Williams has returned from the dead. Again." Then, turning back around, he leaned down to sniff the contents of the pot. "It doesn't smell off." He murmured.

"It smells absolutely foul." Matthew added, moving forward soundlessly, his features becoming clearer with each step.

"It smells of what we fear." Arthur explained, distractedly, reaching for the copper spoon again. "What's the occasion?"

"I don't know what you mean." Matthew replied airily, making his way around the circular room. He peered into jars and tilted his head, examining their contents with a detached little smile. "Is that a pickled head?"

"Yes. Picked it up in Jamaica last month."

"Charming." Matthew murmured, already tapping one of the jars that held a piglet's head and gasping when it spun towards him.

"Come away from there." Arthur scolded, pointing at the other with the spoon. "Its bad enough with Alfred digging through my ingredients. I don't need you accidently breaking something. I only just reorganized them alphabetically and regionally and by species."

Matthew, snorting derisively, nonetheless obediently stepped away, coming back around the heavy oak table to peer into the pot. "How is he?"

"The same as ever, unfortunately." The sandy-haired warlock grouched. "And you didn't answer the blooming question."

Matthew sighed, tucking a wheat-colored curl behind his ear. "I've been masquerading as child prostitute in the Netherlands for the past few months. Forgive me if I want to be myself for a while."

Arthur stopped stirring, letting the spoon rest in the mixture. "You didn't have to do that." He said softly. "You're more than welcome here, you know that."

The blond gave him a warm smile. "And have all of Hell knocking down your door because Lust's son is playing homemaker?" He giggled. "Papa would lead the charge."

"I held off that derelict once and I can do it a thousand more times." Arthur sniffed haughtily. "I hear he's in one of his moods again."

"He just misses Mother." Matthew protested, wrapping his arms around the warlock and nuzzling his cheek.

Feeling a wave of warmth wash over him as the blond continued to snuggle closer, Arthur sighed. "Have you not fed recently then?" he asked, switching off the burner and turning to hold the other more firmly.

The blond grunted noncommittally, unconsciously pressing up more against Arthur. "Don't wanna eat." He whined.

"Poppet." Arthur warned. "Alfred will be home soon."

Matthew stilled, shoulders tensing. Slowly, he pulled his head back and looked at Arthur with a small frown. "I should be stronger than this." He said bitterly, his long lashes coming to shield his luminous eyes.

"It's a matter of survival, poppet." Arthur explained, hand coming up to cradle the other's face. He pressed his thumb against chapped, red lips and pressed at the lower lip.

"Hey old man! Ready to confess your sins and save your witchcraft-practicing, heretical ass?" The blond teen hollered as he slammed the door behind him, toeing off his worn Converse and letting his book bag drop to the floor heavily.

"For the last time, you prat, I am not some papist coward." Arthur snapped, walking briskly into the living room, wiping his hands on his stained apron. "I will face Him myself and confess when my time comes and not a moment sooner." Green eyes zoned in on the abandoned book bag with papers already spilling out of it and his nose twitched. "Pick up that rubbish and put it in your room."

"Yeah, yeah, mom." Alfred rolled his eyes. "Geez, its like you want to end up in Hell."

"Well, I have already chosen a lovely villa made of brimstone next to the Lake of Fire with a smashing view of the Valley of Tortured Souls." Arthur deadpanned.

"I'm just trying to save your soul from total damnation." The teen crossed his arms and huffed. "Sorry for caring."

"And I'm sorry I sent you to Catholic school. I thought it'd be a lark but it only turned you mad."

"Its nice to see you two getting along." Matthew spoke up from where he was standing in the doorway, having witnessed the entire conversation.

"Mattie!" Alfred's entire demeanor seemed to brighten and the teenager visibly perked up when he caught sight of the other. "It's been, like, forever!" He bounded towards the other, arms outstretched, but stopped abruptly less than a foot away when the blond held up a hand.

"Your cross." Matthew said quietly, his strange eyes mournful.

Alfred's hand came up to clench at the silver cross around his neck and his cheerful smile dimmed. "Air high five?" He offered, holding up his hand weakly.

Matthew obligingly held up his own hand, palm towards Alfred. "Air five." The corners of his mouth quirked upwards, but the sentiment didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I hear you made the football team." Matthew began, casually pulling the pickles of his hamburger and dangling them over Alfred's open mouth before letting them drop.

"Om nom nom." Alfred mumbled, chewing noisily and taking an enormous slurp of his soda before answering. "Haha, yeah." He said, bashfully rubbing the back of his head. "I get to start next game as quarterback next game because our usual guy is in the hospital."

"What for?" Arthur interrupted, sitting upright in an armchair across from the others. He watched, green eyes gentle under prominent eyebrows as the two blonds sat, as close as they possibly could, their fingers mere centimeters apart.

"Ruptured colon." The teen answered, blue eyes confused behind GI glasses. "Rumor has it—"

Arthur snorted, boredly stirring his tea (Darjeeling). "Why bother listening to such nonsense?"

"Every rumor has a modicum of truth." Matthew reminded gently, his swirling eyes flashing mischievously.

Arthur gave the blond a long look and gave a long-suffering sigh. "…Please tell me you didn't…"

Because knocking out Alfred's competition would be a roundabout declaration of something in Matthew's mind.

But Matthew merely smiled mysteriously and took a dainty bite out of his hamburger.

"Anyways." Alfred cut in with a glare. "That either he had some backed up shit or he was fornicating with a horse."

Matthew laughed quietly. "Fornicating?"

"Well they sure weren't making love."

"I had forgotten how fascinating this book is." Matthew said casually, curled up on Alfred's bed, propped up by one elbow as he idly turned the page of the large text. "However, Hell isn't so bad after a while. You get used to the constant smell of sulfur and smoke and the screams of the eternally damned." The blond flipped a page, thus missing the look of utter horror Alfred gave him.

"Dude." The teenager sat up from where he was lounging in a beanbag. "You sound so fuckin' nonchalant."

"I was raised in hell Alfred." Matthew said with a faint smile, rolling onto his stomach and resting his chin on his crossed arms.

The human looked at him, his expression a cross between pity and unhappiness.

Matthew noticed and stated, tonelessly, "You still don't accept it."

Alfred didn't answer, just picked at a loose thread on his plaid uniform pants. The blond had his knees tucked into his chest, his white button up shirt unbuttoned and untucked from his pants.

Matthew studied the human boy, feeling the slow unfurling of warmth in his stomach. Slender fingers dug into the worn Captain America comforter as he shifted, exhaling loudly in an attempt to dispel the feeling. Darkening eyes traced over the hunched figure, over the stubborn cowlick and honey colored hair and angular face and wide shoulders—all over that youthful, strong figure.

His entire body tensed and, before he lost all control, Matthew shot up and off the bed, already at the door by the time Alfred glanced at him quizzically.


"I'll be back soon." The demon said with a strained smile.

"I can't control it!" Matthew gasped, bursting into Arthur's study and slamming his hands onto the desk, the wood around it charring on impact. "Its never enough!"

The warlock looked up from his enormous grimoire, brow furrowed. "Calm down, lad."

"I was this close to jumping Alfred." The demon hissed, his eyes dark as he held up his thumb and forefinger—with less than a hair's width between the two digits.

Arthur looked troubled. He steepled his fingers before him as he leaned onto the smooth mahogany desk, sighing heavily.

"Lets get you fed first." The warlock said finally, already reaching for his collar to unbutton it.

Matthew watched the motion, seemingly hypnotized by those scarred fingers. Bit by bit, equally ruined skin—marred with old burns and discolored scar tissue—revealed itself as Arthur stood up and slid the shirt off his shoulders. Then his attention snapped to the old wounds and he grimaced, shaking his head.

"I can't." Matthew whispered, shrinking away when the sandy-haired man gestured cajolingly towards him.

"Don't be daft." Arthur chided. "You've done it for at least a hundred years and I like you well enough to let you continue for hundreds more."

The blond demon shook his head, stepping back. His pale hair fell in front of his face and he rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms roughly. "But it's never enough." He whined. "I'm tired of it."

"We'll figure out a way, love." Arthur soothed, stepping closer to the shaking demon. "You're strong, Matthew. Nothing has changed. You controlled it before, you can keep it up."

Matthew let out a sob.

"When's he coming back?" Alfred asked, snagging a piece of charred toast and slathering it with butter.

Arthur shrugged, spreading jam on his toast with more dignity. "It'd just be better if he were home."

"Hell, you mean." The bespectacled blond said flatly, chomping down on his toast.

"Yes." The green-eyed warlock glared at the teenager. "Matthew has lived far longer than you, Alfred. He's a cambion, lad. Others of his kind would twist you into their slave and make you smile and slit your own throat. You'd do well to remember that."

"Mattie would never—"

"He's a special case." Arthur interrupted. "But that doesn't change the fact that he is everything you hate."

"I don't hate him."

"You hate his kind."

Alfred stared at his toast, a pout already forming on his lips. "But Matt's not like them."

"But he is still one of them." The older man said, something in his voice softening ever so. "Now hurry up. You're going to be late."

"Mon pauvre chaton." Francis cooed, stroking Matthew's wavy hair gently. "You should not leave me so long. I worry."

"Sorry." Matthew whispered, his head resting on his father's chest.

They were reclining on Francis's bed. Francis was propped up on some pillows with his son curled next to him, fingers tangled in his silk shirt.

"And you went to that horrid man too." The older blond tsked. "Chou, if you needed help, you merely had to come home." He sighed, raising his son's hand and examining the bony fingers. "So gaunt. So frail. What happened to your healthy glow? Your ruddy cheeks? When was your last kill?"

Matthew muttered something, already burrowing his face into his father's chest.

Francis frowned. "That is far too long a time. But no matter." Snapping his fingers, three beautiful succubi appeared in the room. "Any to your liking, my child?"

Matthew peered at the arrivals, eyes hooded. His gaze landed on the one in the middle—a short-haired blond with an ample chest and teasing eyes.

"She will do." He said huskily, already sitting up as Francis sent the other two away.

Arthur is a warlock. Matthew is (now) a reluctant cambion (offspring of an incubus and human female-that is the definition I am going with). Francis is Matt's daddy. Alfred is human (lame) and religious XD (nothing wrong with that, folks).

What is this story? Honestly, idk. It really had no point. I explained nothing (mwhahahahahah-shot-). I might expand it but who knows? Would doing so even be worthwhile to people?

This is quite possibly the last time I will ever spam you, dearest readers.