A/N: It's been a while, hasn't it?
Another request fill, this one for Morocco/France. SO ENJOY YALL.
Disclaimer: Morocco would be the one character everyone loves to hate (or, rather, hates to love) on Hetalia if I actually owned this show :P
R is for Regret
She wasn't always this harsh and aggressive.
France watched from afar, his view partially obscured by the growing crowd. More and more stopped to watch as the spectacle unfolded. Morocco grabbed Mauritania by the collar of her dress, raising her other arm threateningly, her hand stiff and ready to strike. Mauritania's eyes hazed over with a mist of tears, the corners of her mouth twisting into a frown. The younger country was larger than Morocco, in both landmass and physical size—indeed, she was a head taller and at least twice her weight. And noticing this, France thought of how ironic it was; Morocco was tiny, but had a way about her. She could make herself seem so big, and her opponents so small.
"I bet you're sleeping with him, aren't you?" Morocco bellowed, her fingers twisting into the fabric of Mauritania's dress as she pulled her sister in closer. "You're fucking the little Zionist, right? Right?" she screeched.
Morocco's contempt for Israel wasn't the least bit surprising, her hated thick in her voice. And France knew that that loathing of the Jewish state spilled over into anyone that recognized him, especially if they were Arab. Years ago, she'd excommunicated both Jordan and Egypt for doing just that. And it seemed as though Mauritania was about to befall the same fate. After much deliberation, the overweight Nation chose to recognize Israel on October 28, 1999; she would be the third Arab state to do so. To France, it was a progressive move on her part, the right choice. But apparently, she had chosen the wrong place and time to tell her older sister about it.
"What did he do for you? What did that piece of garbage ever do for you?" Morocco shook her every couple of words. "He saw that you were a depraved little whore and fulfilled your dirty desires, didn't he?" The Moroccan paused for a moment, her narrow eyes narrowing even more. "Break it off with him," Morocco commanded, her raised arm beginning to tremble. France knew Morocco well enough to know that when the girl trembled, it meant she was holding herself back, trying to restrain herself. But the gesture was a warning of a coming certainty more than anything else, the precursor not to what could happen, but what would happen. France closed his eyes. He knew this couldn't end well.
"I order you to break it off with him!"
Mauritania remained quiet for a few painstaking moments, the crowd falling silent, everyone awaiting her answer. France couldn't see her, but he knew what kind of look the younger state had on her face. She was holding back tears, she was biting her lip. He would bet anything that Mauritania wasn't stuck on her words, that she knew damn well what she wanted to say, but that she physically couldn't. If she opened her mouth, no words would come out, but she would start bawling instead. His heart sank with pity for her. He knew how much she valued her modesty, and how easily she embarrassed when such modesty was compromised. Her older sister degrading her in such a public way, in her own capital… Morocco never did hold back her punches.
It's what he both loved and hated about her the most.
"Answer me!"
Silence.
Smack!
His eyes shot open at the piercing sound. He saw Mauritania tilt to the side and tumbled unceremoniously onto the floor, sand flying up in her wake. Her hand flew up to her assaulted cheek, but she made no moves to get up off the ground. Morocco, however, would waste no time. She threw herself on her younger sister and began to pummel her, her ringed fist drawing back and then forward, almost hypnotically. On time. Whack. Whack. Whack.
Mauritania began to sob, not out of pain but humiliation. She made no attempt to defend herself. Whack. Whack. Whack.
As soon as France saw the flash of red, his feet began to move before his mind could stop him. The sound of Morocco's bony fist colliding with Mauritania's plump face began to sound sickeningly wet, and by the time France had pushed his way to the center of the crowd, the younger Nation already had a halo of blood surrounding her, the sands dyed red with her force of life. The smaller of the two kept on with her rhythmic beating, always on tempo, never missing a beat. She seemed lost in her rage, a disability she'd had all her life.
He ran to Morocco and pulled her off, holding the tiny Nation with one arm. She tried to fight him off, to no avail; France's is senses were far too consumed with the sight Mauritania's shattered and bloodied face. She remained on the floor, covering her face with one hand, crying harder than ever.
"I swear to Allah if you don't let me go!"
In the distance, he heard the wailing of ambulances, and the police. France closed his eyes, and remembered how Morocco had the upper hand over Mauritania, even in her own capital. The Mauritanian authorities would want to know why she had beaten her own sister so severely, in broad daylight, in the middle of a crowded bazaar. And if she told them of the supposed fornication…
France immediately began to walk, still holding Morocco with one arm. He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring disapproving shouts, shoving away people who tried to hold him back. By the time the ambulance made it to Mauritania, France and his former charge were already blocks away.
France first knew Morocco as an enemy. Few knew it, but she invaded him first.
He had first fallen prey to the Islamic conquests in the 8th century. She took him in the name of religion; there technically was no "Moroccan Empire". But the capital had been Marrakech (her capital for most of her history, before her change of heart). She stood at the head of the army. The likes of Algeria, Mali, Mauritania, Sahara, even Spain and Portugal, they all had to answer to her. It was under her command that they fell on him like an ocean.
He'd only been a young man at the time. And she, even younger.
The invasion hadn't been as brutal as it could have been. He had faced worse; in fact, her gentleness surprised him. She gave him enough food to eat, didn't try to Arabize him too much. She would sit with him in the gardens and brush his hair and praise him. "You're beautiful in weird way, with your yellow hair and blue eyes. I think Allah took a lot of time to make you. You're so special, you stand out so much."
He later realized that she only thought of him as spectacular because he was the first Nation she ever met who possessed such unique features; after all, no one else in her life was as pale as he was, no one else had blonde hair and blue eyes. But at the time, he took her words to heart. He would look in the mirror, and would try to see himself through Morocco's eyes.
Those same eyes would sometimes look at him with such sadness, too. "Allah wants you to revert, Gaul. Why won't you revert? He'll feel sad if he has to send such a special place to the bottom on Judgment Day."
He didn't want to convert (he refused to call it "revert"; no, he was not a Muslim before birth, and he wished they would understand that). She made him pay taxes for it, which he saw as a bit hypocritical, as though she were trying to inadvertently bribe into accepting Islam as his main religion. But he never criticized her too much, because after all, the expansion of Christianity had been far worse. Much more violent. Much more painful.
He never complained when she read the Qur'an to him late at night, when he couldn't fall asleep. At the time, he only knew scattered words in Arabic, nothing of its flow and syntax. He could barely understand what she was saying, but still loved the way she said it. It was like a poem in itself. Her spoken-word testimony to that God they both worshiped, but in vastly different ways.
"Even if you don't revert, Allah loves you, you know. And if Allah loves you, then I love you, too!"
She used to be so gentle, back then. That was before the world came in.
"FRANSS!"
Said Nation sighed, and put her down. "Yes?" he replied as nonchalantly as possible. He never liked to show it when Morocco had him stressed out. It meant that she was winning, and he couldn't have that, right?
"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Trying to stop you from getting Mauri arrested, he thought, but did not voice. He knew it would only provoke her. That Morocco was not above storming back into that crowd and finding those officers before they left. He turned and started at the other Nation for a few long moments. Her anger was intimidating, even to him. "Why did you do that?" he finally brought himself to ask, the tiredness not escaping his voice.
"Why'd I beat Mauri's ass?" she placed her bony hands on her hips. "Didn't you hear a thing I said?"
"Yes, yes, I know you're upset that she's making peace with Israel. Obviously, it's the very worst thing she could have ever done, ever. But why embarrass her that way? You know there's nothing going on between her and Israel."
"Frans—"
"There is nothing. Going on. Between your sister. And Israel. You know that, Maroc. You may do stupid things, but you yourself are not stupid."
Morocco sighed in an exasperated kind of way, as though she now had to explain some complicated concept to an impatient child, one who didn't want to understand, but simply wanted to know. France knew that sigh. She'd been giving it to him all his life. It always made him feel as though she didn't consider him worth her time. "It's none of your business, what I do with my own little sister. She is mine to have, and mine to punish in whichever way I want. Yes, making nice with the Zionist is the worst thing she could have done. Granted, Mauri isn't very important, and this is nowhere near as bad as when Jordan and Egypt did it," France noticed her frown deepen as her mouth wrapped around the second name; she barely spoke to Jordan, but Egypt was at the very center of her life, and she had been so disappointed in 1979. "But this is my sister, and I know her better than you do. She may seem like a fragile flower, but she's as decedent as they come, almost at the same level of the Zionist himself in terms of morality. I was only making her wickedness public knowledge to her citizens. They have the right to know."
"But it is not your right to tell them."
"It's not? She belongs to me."
France raised an eyebrow, a small smile weaving itself onto his face. "I thought you gave up your claim to her?"
Morocco rolled her eyes. "You don't get it. Independent or not, she is still my baby sister. She will answer to me in the end. Perhaps that isn't the way it works in Europe, but here, that's how things get done. Family comes first. She should respect my disapproval and break it off with him."
The European sighed; obviously, with Morocco still as upset as he was, he wasn't going to get anywhere with her. "Come," he turned and began to walk.
"Where are you going?"
"To Mauri's house."
"You have her key?" France heard the nastiness in her voice, that accusing tone. For someone of a supposed higher moral standing, she did seem to think about sex an awful lot.
"No. We're going to break in." He turned to look over his shoulder, and saw the look on her face. "Oh, come now, Maroc! Don't tell me you forgot about the time we broke into Algeria's house? Wasn't that fun? Relive the memories with me!"
He turned back, continued to walk. And just as he was beginning to think that perhaps she really wouldn't follow him, he heard her soft footsteps trailing him at a distance behind.
She only remained for 47 years during the Islamic conquests, and then she was gone. He didn't see her again for another 900 years.
His king had ordered him to sail to Morocco, to scout the girl out and see if a colonial expansion into the Maghreb would be worth it. During his time under her influence, France had never visited her house himself; she would always come to him with her sweet nothings and her tongue-twisting poetic language. He remembered her once telling him that her home was Islam, and ever since then, he couldn't picture her having a physical house. The concept simply did not fit her.
He hadn't said a word to her about his arrival. As far as he knew, it was a secret venture. But as he was nearing her coastline and saw that figure in the distance, with her hijab and her abaya flowing out around her in the wind, he knew before ever laying eyes on her matured face that it was her.
"Salaam, Gaul," she greeted, bowing her head slightly, a grin stretching across her thin face.
"Actually, I go by Franss now," he replied, returning the smile. He would have gone in to greet her properly, with a kiss to both cheeks, but he wondered if that would be alright with her. He knew that she valued her modesty above all else, as all women did (or at least, should have); he knew that physical contact like hugging was forbidden, but would chaste kiss on the cheek be going too far? He didn't know, and decided not to risk it. He was here to establish his influence, and didn't want to potentially harm his chances by offending her right off the bat.
"Okay, then. How was your trip?" she corrected herself.
They went through all the formalities as his men unloaded their ship; they caught up with each other. France let her know of his unification, the establishment of his monarchy, briefed her on all the wars he'd been involved in. She told him of her own wars, fighting off Ottoman influence. By the look on her face, he could tell that she was surprised that he was faring better than she taught he would. He didn't blame her; she had only known him as a weak state, so vulnerable to attack that she didn't even need to be very rough with him at all.
He would show her better. Things change.
"Why are you here, Franss?" she asked him softly after all the formalities were done.
"Can I not come to visit my former governess?" he replied with his most charismatic smile. He saw the blush that came over her face, saw how her eyes narrowed slightly, as if angry with him for trying to charm her.
"Visiting is nice. I'm only worried about your intentions."
"Do you really think that ill of me, Maroc?"
"I don't know. Should I?"
"Let me prove to you my good intentions."
France showed her around his boat, introduced her to his men.. She introduced him to her sister, Mauritania, her brothers, East and West Sahara. Throughout the entire trip, she seemed reluctant to let him out of her sight, but as time passed her reasons for such transformed dramatically. At first, it was obviously because she didn't trust him. But as they became closer, got to know each other on an equal level, he caught on that she was beginning to like him, not for her memories with Gaul, but for her time with him as France. Her cheeks would swell with blush when he smiled at her; her laughter was just a bit too high when he made her laugh. And France thought, as they sat together and he watched her features glow with the haze of sunlight, that for a girl who spent her entire life trying to cover her beauty, she failed quite miserably. There was too much beauty in Morocco for her to successfully cover it all.
When he finally met her boss, he seemed to trust him even less than she did, in the beginning. After that first and last meeting with Sultan of Marrakesh, France remembered being sent out of the room while the Sultan spoke to Morocco privately. All was quiet at first, but gradually, he began to hear shouting, on both their parts. France turned away from the door awkwardly; he didn't mind bearing witness to fights between Nations, because indeed, it was a common thing. But a fight between a Nation and their boss was something that seemed far more private to him, up there on his list of things-I-shouldn't-touch, before Morocco's face and right after her hair.
After what seemed to be an eternity, she finally stormed out of the room. On her way out, she grabbed France by the sleeve and began to drag him along with her. Her boss ran out of the room, shouting something to her in Arabic. France was better at the language now than he was before; he caught the words "shame", "obey", and "regret". France turned back towards Morocco, and the hard look on her face filled him with a sadness that he couldn't name. She wasn't a nasty person; she deserved to be elated all the time.
He vowed then that he would take her away from that awful boss of hers. He would be her guardian. He would make sure she was happy. If he was unsure about turning her into his colony before, all his doubt was swept away.
After they were a distance away from her boss' palace, she turned back to France. Her shoulders slumped, and she mumbled an apology. "I didn't know he was going to react like that."
"Don't worry about it, my sweet. He will come to love me as you do."
Morocco raised an eyebrow, and amused smirk coming across her face. "Who ever said I love you?"
"You do, every day. Perhaps not verbally, but the way you act around me. You're actions are constantly crying out your love for me."
"No, they don't," Morocco deadpanned. "How can I love a non-Muslim that way? One who wants to overtake me, at that."
"I thought we already established that I have no ulterior motive. I only wish to visit you, Maroc, sincerely."
"Just like Ottoman only wanted to visit me." She shrugged dismissively, as if only acknowledging the inevitable. "If you don't take me, I know he will."
France took a step towards Morocco, narrowing his eyes. "You want me to take you?"
To that, the Maghrebi took a step back. "No. I'm going to fight till the end, and whatever happens, happens. Allah holds my life in his hands, he will do what is best with it. He knows best."
"I see." France took another step towards Morocco, and she backed away some more. "Whatever happens will indeed happen. But tell me," another step forward, another step back, "do you want me to take you."
"You just asked me this, and I said no." Morocco took an unprovoked step back, which cause France to take two steps forward.
"I don't mean in that way. I want to know, do you want me to take you."
Morocco continued to back away until her back hit a nearby wall. France came to her until their torsos were touching, and her narrow eyes grew as wide as they could go. They weren't filled with fear; had they been, France would have backed away immediately, and let the girl be. But they were filled with questioning, and behind that, a challenge.
"What do you mean?"
"You know quite well what I mean."
"I'm certain I don't. Why are you standing so close?"
"You know why I'm standing so close."
"Franss!" she cried out in frustration. "Stop speaking in riddles!"
"Who's speaking in riddles? You aren't stupid, Maroc, so stop playing the part. You know you don't have to worry about your reputation with me. I could care less. You can let go with me." He brought a hand up to her cheek and stroked it. He was half expecting her to slap his hand away, but she didn't.
Nor did she push him away when he swept down to kiss her.
When he let go, she was the one to grab his sleeve and pull her towards her house.
And she was the one who forbade him from stopping.
So he obeyed. Over and over again.
France held out his hand to Morocco. She looked at it, then back up at him. "What?" she snapped.
"Have you forgotten how this is done? I need one of your hijab pins."
The two were outside of Mauritania's door, the sun quickly setting, giving an orange glow to the city of Nouakchott. The streets were beginning to empty. Morocco reached up, behind her head, and pulled out one of her pins. Her hijab came undone at that particular spot, but stood intact everywhere else, thanks to the other pins. Her morality was still safe. France took the pin from her hand.
It only took a few moments of picking the lock before the door swung open. "I'll go make us some tea," Morocco mumbled, hastily moving past him and onto the kitchen of her baby sister. France smiled afterwards, and remembered that this was one of the things he loved the most about the Arab world: no matter what, there was always time for tea.
He slammed the door behind him and settled himself down on the floor of Mauritania's living room. He took a look around. For a Nation who didn't have much, her house was still beautifully adorned.
"Do you want milk?" Morocco cried out from the kitchen. France called out no, that it was fine, and Morocco snickered. "Good, cause she only has camel's milk. Gallons and gallons."
To keep up her obesity, France knew. To keep herself beautiful. Morocco used to have the same mentality, that the bigger you were, the more beautiful; however, Morocco herself had always been tiny and twiggy. And France wondered, how had that affected her? Did she still not see herself as beautiful?
A few moments later, Morocco arrived with the tea tray. She placed it down on the floor, sat down herself, and poured their tea. France took his first sip, and asked almost immediately after, "So, does Egypt still make love to you regularly, or—"
She threw her tea into his face before he could finish the question. He was so unsurprised by the move that he didn't try to dodge it. He didn't even scream.
"You can't just invade my neighbors and expect me to be okay with it. It doesn't work that way!"
France glared at Morocco, and almost laughed at her outdated sword. He cocked his musket. "I never said that I would invade you."
"Yet!" she cried. "Algeria was right about you, about all you Europeans! Give you an inch, and you take the yard!"
"Maroc," he began evenly; he was beginning to lose his patience. "Move or I'll make you move."
"No." Morocco shook her head, tears filling her eyes. Anyone else would have felt sorry for her, but not France. He knew, Morocco never cried out of sadness; the only tears she ever had shed were those of anger and frustration. "No. Not until you leave Algeria and Tunisia alone."
He would show her yet. France dropped his musket, and was over in two giant steps. Morocco held out her sword, and it soon became the only thing separating the two of them. The tip of her weapon touched Frances's stomach he looked down at this and laughed some. He turned back up and looked deeply into her eyes. "Hurt me. Stab me. You know you want to." Morocco opened her mouth to counter, but no words came out, her lips moving wordlessly. "Stab me, Maroc! It's the only way you can stop me, correct? Put an end to my racial tyranny!" The girl closed her eyes and shook her head.
France reached out and grabbed the handle of the sword. He pried Morocco's fingers off the base of it, and awkwardly pulled it away from her. "You don't have it in you, correct? My dear governess. You love me much too much."
Her tears fell then. "You fiend!" she tilted her head up towards the sky, her fists balled up and trembling. "I don't love you anymore. I hate you! I fucking hate you! You're a monster, how can anyone be such a monster?"
"What can I say? Evil wears a beautiful face." France tossed the sword aside and came to Morocco again. He grabbed her face with one hand and kissed her, sloppily, violently. He could taste her tears. They kissed as violently and as forcefully as the war they were fighting, and as though a prediction of the actual war's outcome, France emerged victorious.
France wiped the tea away from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, his face still stinging and burning bright pink. Once he was done, he sighed heavily and looked up at Morocco, who had her arms crossed and a scowl all over her face. "My dear Maroc, my favorite Maghrebi, why would you do that?"
"That was a dirty question, and you should be ashamed of yourself."
"But it was merely a question. A simple, straightforward question. Though I think I've gotten my answer," France alluded, smiling playfully. Morocco stiffened, her shoulders raised, and she resembled an irritated cat getting ready to pounce. That only made France smile even more, however. There truly was never a dull moment with Morocco.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she whispered, a dangerous edge to her voice.
"Think about it. Only those who have sex on a regular basis are calm and collected. Take me, for example," he made a gesture towards himself, and Morocco rolled her eyes. "And now, you. Aggressive, judgmental, violent, quick-to-anger: all the characteristics of someone who hasn't been made love to in quite a while. In fact, now that I dwell on it, perhaps that is why you humiliated Mauri in that merciless way of yours. I, for one, don't think that she actually is sleeping with Israel. But the mere thought of such angers you to no end, doesn't it? Perhaps not even because you oppose his existence. No, no, you're jealous."
Morocco attacked then, flinging herself on top of France. She knocked him down backwards and fell on top of him, reigning down blows, pounding into his face in the same rhythmic fashion that she used on Mauritania. She shouted curses at him in Arabic, and she was so lost in her rage that he didn't notice the devilish grin that came over France's face. Still underneath her, he grabbed her waist, and thrust his hips up against her.
The Maghrebi's eyes widened to the size of saucers, her assault stopping almost immediately. France thrust up against her again. "Do you like that, my governess?"
Morocco's features hardened again, and she spat, "You disgust me." But she made no moves to stop him. She reached behind her and squeezed her ass, hard, and the girl's lips parted and released a slight moan. France squeezed her again, and a realization crossed his mind: my God, is she not wearing any underwear? With that in mind, he looked back up at her, and repeated that one question which had gone unanswered. "Tell me, does Egypt still make love to you regularly? Or has he stopped?"
Morocco frowned, her eyebrows knotting together. Sitting on her old guardian's hips, she wiggled around some, either voluntarily or involuntarily; either way, it served as a signal to him. "I… I…" she bit her lip, trying to keep it inside. But she could never hide from France. He saw right through her.
France wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her down so that she was lying directly on top of him. From that position, he pressed her hips into hers, knowing she could feel his erection. Knowing that she wasn't wearing any underwear. Overwhelmed, she hastily shook her head. "No, no! He hasn't touched me in weeks! Are you happy now?" she cried, burying her head in the crook of his neck. He felt her legs widen as far as her abaya would allow.
The European smirked, and felt proud that he knew Morocco so well. The girl shamed others as much as she did to reflect the guilt off of herself.
Their second war was the one which sealed her fate.
From where France stood, it was all her fault. With the taking of Fez, it would have been a slow and relatively painless process for her, being converted into a protectorate. But Morocco, being Morocco, just had to push things. She had to try and take back the city. He wanted to take care of her, and that was how she would repay her? For that, he would give her war.
He beat her into the ground as though it were nothing, and when her boss signed over her independence to him, he saw that hardened look on her face and thought that it was just a passing phase. His sweet Maroc would come back to him soon enough, and then he would be able to protect her from the world, just as he had promised himself so long ago. She was an upstart, a Nation who hadn't known what she was getting herself into and thus paid the ultimate price for it. He taught her that lesson. Now, they could begin anew.
Only, Morocco wasn't interested. The hardened look he saw at the signing of the Treaty of Fez wasn't a passing phase; it was something permanent. The female country closed off her heart to the world after that. She attacked others for no reason, she began to lose control of her temper much too easily. And if the end result wasn't sex, she wanted nothing to do with France.
It was clear to him after a while, that maybe she truly didn't love him anymore.
The possibility of such only made him love her more.
Hours later, and they had moved on to Mauritania's bed. They did the deed that he knew that Morocco would regret in the morning, but for now, she slept peacefully in his arms.
He wondered if it would always be this way with Morocco. If she would always be this dangerous and distant and ashamed. If she would always shame those around her for doing exactly what she herself did. Would she always be so violent? So quick-to-anger? She hadn't always been so volatile; what had caused the shift? Was it him? Had he really hurt Morocco that much that it caused the girl to close her heart away to everyone?
All he knew was hated what she did, how she acted, the way she made him feel. But he still couldn't picture himself with anyone else in the world.
And if it ruined Morocco, if she turned into an even worse version of herself because of him, then so be it. Either way, he would still love her. And if everyone around Morocco grew to hate her, if he was the only one still there, then she would have to love him again.
Right?
"Franss, we need to talk—!"
Algeria barged into France's room without knocking, giving the two on his bed no time to hide and little to react properly. France made little effort to conceal himself; after all, it wasn't as though Algeria had never seen him in such a state, sexed up, his naked and sweaty body. But for Morocco, it was another story entirely. She screeched shortly, before throwing the bed sheets over her head.
Algeria stood standing there for a few long seconds, obviously in shock. France made no move to make him leave. He could stay there for as long as he wanted; maybe with some coaxing, he could talk Morocco into continuing, with her rival watched them. The thought enticed him, and he smirked slightly. Now, wouldn't that be something?
But alas, the young man turned around and wordlessly left the room before that could happen. He closed the door behind him with a small click. A few moments later, Morocco lifted the covers off of her head. She doubled over and placed her head in her hands. She wasn't crying, screaming. She was nowhere near as devastated as France would have imagined, but she was still visibly upset. For this, he tried to wrap his arm around her comfort her, but the North African shook him away.
As it was all her life, with all situations that involved France, Morocco had regret written all over her face.
A/N: There historical notes will seem never-ending. But they will end! I promise!
Firstly, Mauritania and Israel. In October of 1999, Mauritania was the third Arab country to officially recognize Israel and establish full diplomatic relations, after Egypt in 1979 and Jordan in 1994. This, obviously, was not received well in the Arab world, given the severity Arab-Israeli conflict. Mauritania did this not quite out of support for Israel, but to strengthen relations with the United States. Relations between these two countries were cancelled by Mauritania in February-March 2009 due to growing violence between Israeli and Palestinian forces.
Now, onto Morocco and France. The first interaction these two countries had was in the 8th century, when the Almoravid Empire invaded Gaul, or modern-day France. The political center of the Almoravid Empire was in Marrakesh, Morocco's former capital, as well as most of the power was held by Berbers and Moroccan Arabs. With that said, it can be considered a de facto "Moroccan Empire", even though the empire expanded not in the name of race, but religion. The spread of Islam by the Almoravid's was successful to an extent, converting certain areas of Spain to Islam; however, Gaul (France) remained a Christian-majority area. For this, they were taxed by the Almoravid's (VERY lenient, considering that, during the spread of Christianity, those who refused to convert were often killed en mass). Also, to those who did convert to Islam, Muslim's referred to it as "reverting", as they believe that everyone is originally Muslim prior to birth.
The Almoravid's remained in Gaul from 711-759. France and Morocco would not interact again on a huge scale until around 1619, when French forces became interested in colonizing Morocco and sent explorers to scope out the area. This first expedition didn't lead to the colonization of Morocco, however; that wouldn't happen until 1906.
The first Franco-Moroccan War was fought due to Moroccan support for Abd El-Kader Ben Muhieddine, an Algerian leader who was trying to liberate the newly-colonized Algeria and Tunisia from the French. Following a series of military defeats at the hands of the French army, Morocco eventually surrendered, arrested Ben Muhieddine and withdrew support for the Algerian rebellion against French colonialism.
The second Franco-Moroccan War was fought when Morocco tried to take back the city of Fez, which had been occupied by French forces. The ensuing war ended in Morocco's defeat, and with the signing of the Treaty of Fez, Morocco became an official French protectorate.
Character devices. Sorry if I offended anyone with France/Morocco sexy time (now you KNOW it's been a long time since I've written, when I'm worried about offending people). Reasons for shipping France/Morocco are self-explanatory, with all their history; I base Egypt/Morocco on their alliance to counter growing Libyan influence in North Africa, back when Gadhafi was still in power.
Franss and Maroc is how you say France and Morocco in French :P Also, the "Maghreb" is a term used to describe Mauritania, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya as a whole; "Maghrebi" means someone from the Maghreb.
And that's all. Comment? :3