((Arthur/Matthew, rape. Alfred/Matthew, consent. It kinda got fucked up when I translated it from AbiWord to Word, so there might be some mistakes or weird enters when there shouldn't be. I tried to skim over and fi it, but...yeah. Also. I used Google Translate a few times, but some of the stuff I knew myself, so there might be some mistakes.))
[Qui êtes-vous? = Who are you?]
"Alfred...sweet Alfred..."
But I'm not Alfred. I'm not.
"Matthew..."
Hands. Big, large, soft hands, trailing a thin, tiny body, almost glass in proportion. Tonight. Tonight would be the night. The night they finally took that extra step. A leap of faith, so to say.
"Matthew, Matthew...your so-
-soft."
Large, purple Canadian eyes. Pursed lips, sucking so sweetly on a treat so fine. Lollipop. A much younger man had bought him it. An Englishmen. His father. Yet not.
The Canadian blinked up at the larger man. It still amazed him-the man-how much the boy looks like his one and only Alfred. Alfred, sweet Alfred. Who was so untouchable.
The Canadian opened his mouth, and for a second, the Englishmen thought he'd thank him.
"Qui êtes-vous?"'
Don't say that, little boy. The Englishmen blinked.
"I'm-"
"Qui êtes-vous?"
"Matthew, MATTHEW!"
Climaxing. He's climaxing. Matthew had hardly even began pumping him with his fists.
And some how, yet again, he was hard instantly.
"...Matthew-
-SHUT UP!"
Such a tight grip. Qui êtes-vous,
Qui êtes-vous, who are you, who are you, and why are you so /angry/, my fair Englishmen?
Why are you choking a tiny Canadian?
"It's not enough, not enough that you look like my Al-"
"Q-Qui-"
"SHUT UP! It's not enough that you look like my Alfred, MY Alfred, oh no, no, you forget my name, but your not alone, you and your FUCKING frog of a father, no, oh no-"
"Q-Qu-"
"SHUT UP!"
The large American bent down to return the pleasure, but, gently, Matthew pushed him down, right back to pleasuring in a heart beat.
"W-wait...Matthew, I want to-
-worship his body. But I can't. That'd be bad. Bad of me. But you, you don't know my fucking name, you won't remember this."
"Qu-"
"SHUT UP! At least, at least you do look like him, this way, this way I can push my anger on you, you fucking imposter."
Such a /tight/ little grip on his wrists, having moved from his neck. Didn't wanna KILL him, after all, not that that'd kill a country, but still.
And...the Englishmen is right. He DOES look like Alfred, even naked, but...there's a softer hue to it. Like he should be a girl, where as Alfred is very distinctly male.
But still, the Englishmen took what he got, grabbing, grabbing everything over the boys body.
"Qu-"
"SHUT UP!"
"No, NO!"
Crying, why are you crying? The larger male froze, and the Canadian-quick as a wink-pulled his legs inward, curling up, shaking, shaking.
"Please, no, no, Dieu, Dieu, q-q-qui êt-t-t-tes-vous-s..."
"...Matthew, what's-
-wrong, imposter?"
Finally. The boy finally knew how grave this was as soon as the Englishmen pushed into the tiny naked body, tearing along the way.
"S-s'il vous plait, s'il vous plait!"
But the man wasn't listening, focusing on how tight he his, how tight his Alfred would be.
"Oh...oh, oh Alfred-"
"S-s'il v-v-vous p-plaît, qui ête-"
"SHUT UP!"
An American clothed himself in an effort to calm a Canadian, eyes wide.
"M-Matthew, please, what's-"
"Qui êtes-vous, qui êtes-vous, q-qui êtes-vous..."
"I-I don't know...I don't know what-
-to do to make you remember me. I'm fucking you, bloody fucking you, and still you-"
"Q-qu-"
"SHUT UP!"
Quickened thrusting, faster panting, I say he's close to cumming.
Ah, but the boy just can't shut up, can he? Qui êtes-vous, qui êtes-vous, what is wrong with him?
But also, what is wrong with that Englishmen, fucking a child?
"Q-qu-"
"SHUT UP!"
"Just...just go! Please, please..."
"Matthew-"
"Qui e-I mean, please, just go!"
"But I want to-
-be with you, Alfred. Why can't I just be with you?"
His voice dulled as he came. How peculiar. Just an edge of sadness.
He looked down, the silly man, and was about to smile when he stopped. Oh ever more perculiar this is.
"...who are you?"
It took minutes before the Canadian realized he was being talked to, but then, he is in pain.
"...who are you?"
"Who am I? Who am I?"
Matthew laughed, the nails on his hands scrapping his legs so hard he was drawling blood. He choked on a sob, and continued.
"Who am I? Who am I? Qui êtes-vous?"
"Come on Alfred. I'll wash you."
The Canadian was dragged to his feet like a rag doll. So weightless.
"You are so amazingly beautiful, Alfred. So beautiful. I'm sorry I hurt you, but your just so beautiful."
"Qui-"
"SHUT UP!..anyway, I'll wash you up, good an nice Alfred. My Alfred, little little Alfred."
And he was then drawling a bath! Silly Englishmen, that ain't your American. But, who is it?
The Englishmen looked up the dreamy face on again, till he stopped, staring at the...Canadian?
"...who are you?"
"Qui-"
"SHUT UP!"
"Who am I? Who am I?"
"Matthew-"
"Who am I?"