Summary: All things have a beginning, this is the story of how four nations came to love one another.
Pairings: F/A/C/E, Netherlands/Canada, Scotland/France, sort-of Russia/America/Canada and so many more I haven't written yet.
Warnings: Porn. Amature porn, from when I was a porn virgin. Ironic, I know.
Author's notes: Here's your Sunday update, just like I promised. As before, this is not new info, really, but I actually have changed things in these chapters, just a heads up. So for those who plan on picking up where I left off - you may have to restart. I've actually cut characters out of entire chapters, added chapters, changed timelines etc. And it is all so much better now. I promise. So, any comments, questions or concerns either review here or PM me. And just know, I cherish all of you my lovely readers, even those of you who possibly don't favourite/put this on alert/review. :)
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The second phase is a little faster and not so extravagant. It starts in an attempt to control a rising super power, one that is so bright and full of new shiny ideas about the future that several of the European countries are left wondering if he's perhaps a bit touched in the head.
The United States of America has that effect on people.
It is in Paris, in the year 1919 when the strange little relationship France and England have, as well as the one Arthur and Francis share. Even nations can keep their private lives somewhat separate after all, is expounded upon. It is a rather lonely night, and despite how bone weary they are, Francis and Arthur reach a silent agreement. When they pass Francis' room Francis does not enter, but follows Arthur. France may be the country of love but Clemenceau is not an open minded man, Neither, of course, is Lloyd George but the Brit at least has the good sense to let nations be nations.
As they enter Arthur's rooms, the day's stresses and discomforts roll away, and wordlessly the two men disrobe. There is no need for violence today, they've had enough over the last four years. They do not speak either, scared to ruin this delicate peace they have somehow carved out of the bloodiest war they have ever seen.
It has been over a thousand years since the two nations met, and by now the two can read one another the way the pope can read the bible. So for tonight, Arthur takes the lead. He understands Francis is stressed, being the host nation to the largest peace conferences in history, and trying to rebuild at the same time.
The kiss is soft, softer than either can remember, and it's nice, comforting. Francis sighs into it quietly, and the tiny puff of air tickles Arthur's lips, making them quirk up. The kiss is slow and languid, mouths opening in a lazy fashion, and tongues not so much duelling as caressing one another. It continues on far longer than it usually does, Arthur's hands gently wrapped in Francis' hair, and Francis' hands on Arthur's sides. Before the kiss could progress into open open mouthed kisses on a bared neck, or the hands could wander down however, there was a knock.
In the utter silence of the room, the knock may has well have been a bomb going off, and the two nations jump slightly, looking aggravated. Finally, Francis speaks, "it could be one of your colonies, or perhaps even one of your dominions."
Arthur makes an annoyed sound, "well," he says shortly, heavy brows furrowed, "they can handle themselves", but even as he says this he's wrapping a sheet around his waist and heading for the door. Francis follows suite, though he sits on the bed, and he's a little less invested on whether or not the sheet actually covers him.
It is not any member of the current British empire at the door, but rather America. Arthur is entirely too shocked to even close the door on the poor boys face, because he looks terrible. His eyes are puffy from lack of sleep and he has a noticeable slump to usually upright posture. The boy is looking down, but he catches sight of France sitting on the edge of England's bed, rather obviously naked and flushes. He murmurs something that sounds like, "I'm sorry, shouldn't be bothering you". He turns to leave, and Arthur, still bitter after all these years is almost ready to let him.
Francis is not. "Do not be silly dear boy," Francis coos, catching both the English speaking nations off guard, "come in, you look absolutely terrible."
Eyes flicking over to Arthur, who simply opens the door more with as much dignity one can muster when allowing one's prodigal son into the room to talk to your naked on again off again lover. America nervously shuffles in, biting his lip in a manner so entirely not his that Arthur has to pause. Francis pats the bed next to him, even making sure the sheet is doing it's job, and America gratefully sinks down. Arthur wordlessly sits next to him, so that the younger nations is wedged between the older two.
America's silent for a moment, but once he speaks, he doesn't stop. "I'm sorry for bothering you it's just no one else here would understand. I mean, Wilson is doing a great job but at the same time...my people are divided and it is giving me a major head ache and now we have House whose been making deals behind my, our, backs, and I'm just so..." he trails off and Arthur and Francis share a look.
"Lonely?" Francis offers gently rubbing a hand down the boy's spine. America worries his lip again for a moment and then sobs, throwing himself in the slimmer nation. Francis sighs and just wraps his arms around the boy as he cries, Arthur looks uneasy for a moment, before he too embraces his former colony.
They stay like that for who knows how long, until America, true to his brash, forward self, tilts his head up and kisses Francis full on the mouth. It is not like kissing Arthur, Francis muses. Arthur is always confident and always looking to be in control. America, however, seems nervous. Of what, Francis can't be sure, but he suspects it is rejection the boy is so scared of. Or, Francis considers, perhaps hurting someone, the boy is very well intentioned. For what little good it does, they are the pavement for the road to Hell, after all.
As if coming to his senses, America pulls back so quickly he collides with Arthur's nose, prompting him to actually hurl himself from the bed. He stumbles away from them, face flushed with shame and eyes quickly becoming wet again, "I am so sorry, I am sorry, I don't know what I was-"
Arthur cuts him off, "hush lad," he says firmly, approaching the boy as one would a scared animal.
"Yes," Francis says, soothing, "calme-toi, it is fine."
America sniffles and shakes his head, "no, no no! It's not fine! I mean, you two are, well, and I'm, I'm not, I mean..." whatever he's trying to say dies off in a gasp, and Francis sees the boy is panicking.
"Alfred," he tries, and the other nation freezes. No one, or at least no other nation, has called him Alfred since 1813, not since he and Canada had stopped speaking, and to hear someone call him by his name is more than Alfred can take. Before he can even speak, Alfred is in tears again, crumbling onto a heap on the floor. Someone, probably England, hoists him up and brings him over to the bed.
For the first time in what feels like forever, Alfred is being held, and it feels so good, so far beyond anything else, that once he stops crying, he becomes acutely aware of how warm France is at his back, and of how strong England's arms are. It doesn't take long for Alfred to find himself reacting in a rather embarrassing way.
As his sniffles die down, Alfred tries to wriggle away, feeling his problem growing, and he flushes in horror when he brushes against Arthur. To his surprise, Arthur does not scowl at him or push him off the bed, but instead gently grabs his chin, locking eyes with him. "Is this okay lad?" the empire asks, his amazingly green eyes boring into Alfred's clear blue. Trembling, Alfred nods, his nose still a light pink – though who knows what Wilson would have thought, never mind Clemenceau and Lloyd George.
After that, Alfred just sort of loses himself. He is aware of Arthur's lips on his, of Francis mouthing his neck and shoulders, and of both their hands lightly tracing patterns across his sides and stomach and legs.
They are both excruciatingly gentle, moving slowly, so slowly, that by the time one of them deigns to touch his painfully hard arousal, Alfred is ready to sob. In fact, he does, and instantly Francis' hands are smoothing down his hair, and he is sucking on Alfred's ear. Arthur, on the other hand, is slowly moving his hand up, and down, up, and down, and Alfred comes undone with a whimper of pleasure. Arthur chuckles a bit at that, and Alfred can't help but flash him a lazy grin. The grin falters and Arthur's chuckles turn into a soft moan when Francis lures the semen covered digits into his mouth.
Once he deems them suitably clean Francis lets them slide out, and Arthur gives him a look which promises 'later'. Francis just grins wickedly, and gestures to the younger nation between them, whose eyes are wide with wonder, his cock half hard already.
Arthur turns his attention to the boy, and, as if asking permission, he kisses the smooth thigh. In response, Alfred nods, though he looks a bit apprehensive. Arthur, seeing this, is gentle. He scoops a bit of the boys spent semen into his hand, coating his already damp digits, never taking his eyes off Alfred's face.
Slowly, one finger circle's Alfred's opening, before pushing in slowly, pausing once it is in far enough. Alfred wiggles slightly in response, and Francis chuckles at the boy before kissing him hard on the mouth, his tongue swiping along the others lower lip, asking for entrance, and Alfred gives it when Arthur pushes a second finger, causing him to gasp.
The fingers are strange, pushing in and out, before twitching slightly and pushing against a little bundle which makes Alfred's whole body twitch in delight. After that, a third finger is added, and Alfred becomes aware of exactly how much larger Arthur's cock is than those three fingers when the other nation is poised to enter Alfred.
For Arthur, when he pushes in, he is a little shocked. Alfred is so warm, hot even, and he is tight enough to indicate to the other nation he either hasn't done this lately, or ever. The thought worries him, as he trembles there, holding himself, with Alfred trembling just as much, his mouth disconnected from Francis', who is gently stroking the side of his neck and shoulder.
Finally, finally, Alfred tells him to move, and Arthur pulls out, before pushing back in, slowly, almost teasingly. It's maddening for the both of them, and before long they're shaking apart, with Alfred giving little sighs and whimpers every time Arthur successfully finds his prostate.
Once Francis thinks Alfred is ready, he turns the boy's face to look at him. Knowing what the Frenchman wants, Alfred nuzzles his stomach with his nose, before opening his mouth for the rigid length in front of him.
After that, the three are mostly silent. Arthur has never been loud in bed, neither has Francis. Th two aren't positive about Alfred, as his mouth is a little busy, but they suspect Alfred is fairly quiet too. So, as Arthur thrusts and Alfred licks clumsily at Francis' arousal, they are able to drift and shake away from the horrors of war and the stresses of clean up, until Alfred comes with what feels like a sob to Francis, and makes him think that the boy needs a bit more stimulation in his life.
Arthur and Francis only make a few more shallow thrust each before they finish, and Francis is a bit stunned when Alfred swallows, though he chooses not to mention it. Seeing that the other two are exhausted, Francis goes into the adjacent bathroom, wetting a cloth, when he realizes something. They never shut the door.
Rushing back out, Francis finds it closed, and puzzles over the fact, before shrugging it off and cleaning himself and his lovers, two now, he thinks smugly, off. He doesn't mention the open now closed door, to either of them, and nobody noticed the quiet blond nation who shut it for them just moments before.