Hey there! (: This is my first fic on ; but I've written a ton in the past few years. I usually go on deviantART but I decided to de-lurk from the creepy shadows in which I became Ivan's best friend. Anyway, I'll let you get onto the story itself. Also, I'd lovelovelove some con-crit on this. I'll give you e-cookies? :D
Arthur felt arms snake around him and grab his waist, cool breath against his skin that smelled vaguely of warm bread and olive oil. Francis. "Angleterre," the Frenchman behind him whispered, gripping his hand firmly and rubbing small circles on it with his thumb. Arthur hummed in response, staring blankly at the twins sitting on the carpet before him; one holding a polar bear cub and whimpering into its fur, the other staring with wide, watering eyes. "They're young. Let them make mistakes as to not, how you say, 'let histoire repeat itself,' oui?"
"But… but the vase…" the Brit trailed off, hoping- praying- that his lover would understand the significance of the broken pottery. That vase had been in his country's royal family for centuries, and he was honored when the Queen Herself had given it to him. But Alfred and Matthew had just… they had… they dropped it off its stand while they were running like the fools they were.
"Not a problem, mon cher." Francis spoke firmly, yet oddly reassuring. The Queen would surely have his head for this, he knew it, but somehow Francis managed to make things better. His accent and use of that goddamn romantic language, his lavender-scented tresses, the tight squeeze he gave him as he spoke… all of it was enough to keep the Englishman from wringing the young boys by the neck like they deserved. "I'll deal with les garcons; you clean." France grabbed one of Arthur's fisted hands and uncurled the slender fingers, pulling him down to the children's level. He motioned for the boys to explain themselves as he lifted both of them into his arms as England began to carefully pick up the shards of glass on the carpet.
Alfred, of course, was the first to speak. "P-papa, mama, I'm really sorry." He ripped his arm away from gripping his father's and rubbed it across his eyes. He was going to grow up to be a hero, and heroes never cried; no way was he going to show his parents his weakness. "Matt… he fell, 'cause I tackled him, and then the vase fell and… and I'm sorry!" The colony gave up his "hero" act and wailed, shoving his face into the crook of his father's neck and sobbing. Seeing his brother broken down, the smaller, more soft-spoken twin looked up Francis, giving a weak smile through his tears.
"Moi aussi. Je suis désolé, papa. Pardonne-nous, s'il te plaît, papa. Nous n'avons pas fait exprès.." Matthew looked up at his father with tears in his eyes. His already quiet voice went down to a whisper as he stared. "Et si maman était fâchée contre Alfred, il en mourrait."
Being his father's son, the young Canadian spoke solely French, and could only really communicate with Francis. His sentences were always translated by the Frenchman, though, so that the rest of his family could understand. Though he didn't seem to find it necessary to state what Matthew had just said out loud; it was all too obvious.
Seeing that Arthur was done with cleaning the rug, Francis quickly pecked his lover on the lips before carrying the crying twins upstairs to their room. Being so young, they slept together in the same bed, making it easy to tuck the boys in together. He gave both his sons a kiss on their foreheads and smiled, saying goodnight in the two languages they understood. Arthur appeared behind him, smiling down at them and blowing kisses at the two. He lifted the small bear from Matthew's arms and set him down in his own little bed beside the twins, hearing the yawns emitting from the boys. "Goodnight, loves." He whispered, closing the doors and following his lover back to their own room.
The Brit sighed, unbuttoning his shirt as France pulled his over his head. Turning, Arthur grinned at him. "At least we can never say that our family isn't interesting." He stretched his arms out and yawned, glad to finally be free of the confines of his shirt. "But it's rather pleasant, isn't it? Having two little boys depending on us for everything. I feel... I feel like a…"
"Un père?" Francis finished for him, relishing the fact that he could read his lover's mind once he nodded. He chuckled and leaned down to pull his slacks off, almost losing his balance in the process. "Oui, I feel the same way. C'est magnifique, non? Ils sont tres adorable. I love them both; almost as much as you." He smirked over at the Englishman, who seemed to have stripped down to his boxers and lay spread across the queen sized bed, an arm covering his face.
Peeking out from under his arm, Arthur's eyes widened as he saw the country of love himself crawling over his thin frame and hover over him. "F-F-Francis," he stammered out as his neck was being ravished by the older nation, "we just put the boys down to ohgodrightthere s-sleep. Th-they… they could still be awammmbloodyhellke."
"Calm down, mon amour," Francis whispered into the Briton's ear before licking his way back done to that spot on his neck that he had been leaving his mark on. "You know those two are usually sleeping within seconds. And besides, Angleterre," he groped Arthur's growing erection threw his boxers and smirked down at his husband with lust clouding his usually crystal blue eyes "c'est impossible that you don't want this."
England whined and lifted his hips to grind his crotch into his lover's hand. It really was impossible to deny Francis, no matter the situation. And he just had to go and speak in that damn language of his, which he knew turned him on to no end. "F-fine. Just… just try not to be too noisy. Al's been having nightmares lately, so he might come in and- oh Hell." He had to shove his fist in his mouth to suppress a rather loud moan as the Frenchman hand had found its way into his boxers and began stroking him and oh God it felt amazing, and fuck he needed this after a stressful day with the kids and—
-and speak of the devil, Alfred burst into the room crying, attempting to climb into his parents bed with Matthew following suit, looking deeply disturbed. "Papa… Mama… I-I wet the bed. A-and Matt kept yelling at me and I couldn't get a word he said and… and now I'm all covered in pee!" He usually cool and boasting colony wailed and flailed, kicking his feet all over, hitting Arthur's erection, which still had Francis' hand rubbing against it, in the process.
Arthur nearly screamed as his night of fun was officially ruined, quickly pulling Francis' hand out of his shorts with a whine, then proceeding to pull Alfred's pyjama pants off and carry him back to the nursery to put new ones on and tuck him back in. Matthew and Francis followed in tow, and together they pulled the soiled sheets off the bed to replace them with fresh ones.
After setting the children to sleep again, the Brit threw himself onto the bed and sighed for what seemed to be the billionth time that day. Sensing he wasn't in the mood to resume their previous activities, Francis crawled into bed alongside his husband and gently kissed him. "Do you still mean it?" he asked, trying not to laugh at the answers he expected to recieve. "What you said about les enfants… do you still stand beside that statement?"
The Englishman scoffed, as if he couldn't believe the question he had just been asked. "Of course I do, you git. I may be a tad bit annoyed with them but… I still love them. And you, Francis, even if you are a perverted wine bastard who boasts way too much about his goddamn food. I love all three of you. We're a family, got it? And I love you all. That fine with you?" He yawned, snuggling close to his husband and mindlessly drawing shapes and fairies on his lover's bare chest.
Neither of them had ever gone to sleep feeling so fulfilled.