Treaty of 1763 (Spain, Portugal, England, France) - Pt 1 [expanded]
Title: Treaty of 1763
Warnings: Nothing yet
Characters: France, Spain, England, Portugal
Summary: After the Seven Years' War, Spain, Portugal, England, and France decide to fall back on an old method to solidify their new treaty.
Year: I'll leave this one up to your imagination.
The first few paragraphs aren't new, but I edited them a little, so I figured I'd just repost the whole thing.
Spain had never slept with Portugal. Portugal had never shown any interest, and Spain had never offered. Maybe there was too much between them; like human siblings, each possessed a unique ability to hurt the other. Above all, he wasn't sure what he would do if she turned him down.
She wasn't a virgin. There was England; to his knowledge, although they'd never talked about it, she'd been sleeping with him since the 14th century. Galicia... well, he'd be shocked if the women hadn't been in bed since the very beginning (he tried not to think about it too often, since he invariably ended up with an uncomfortable hard-on). He knew for a fact that she'd slept with Ceuta, after she'd wrested her from the Marinids back in the 15th century; the girl had told him when she'd first come to his house during the Restoration War. He blushed when he thought about it, remembering the filthy things she'd whispered to him about her former mistress-- how she felt inside, the way she screamed when you hit that one spot. He didn't think he'd ever come as hard in his whole life.
Then there was France. The Netherlands. Brazil. She wasn't an innocent. She wasn't his little sister-she’d been sovereign far before he had. But he couldn't... he couldn't quite let go of the way she'd looked, the beautiful brown-haired little girl, when they'd been children together under the Moors. All the memories he'd made of her since, and those that were left to him by Hispania-- that strange, older version of himself that he dreamed about sometimes-- of a beautiful brown-haired woman named Lusitania, were haunted by the shadow of that girl. It was the last time they'd really been close.
So when France and England suggested that, after the bloody war they'd just fought, they ratify their new treaty in the old way, his heart nearly stopped. He glanced over at her, but her face was serene. But the men were looking at him expectantly, so he swallowed, and agreed.
A time and place were agreed on. They'd go to France's house; tradition, more than anything. That, and they all knew what being in Paris did to England, although none of them would ever mention it.
Dinner was a mellow affair. Good food, good wine-- only to be expected at France's house. If they were quieter than usual, it was really only for the best.
After their dinner had settled and the coffee was gone, France stood, signaling to the servants to clear the plates. Portugal stood next, straightening her skirts calmly. She had left off the usual panniers for a few petticoats, probably because-- and Spain swallowed, hard-- probably because she knew she'd be undressing shortly. He briefly wondered if any of them would know how to get her out of her bodice; then he shook himself. If England didn't, France doubtlessly did. Spain, himself... well, the women he'd made love to-- the Christian ones, who wore proper clothing-- had always undressed themselves, and waited for him in bed. Or he'd made love to them dressed, their skirt lifted, breasts spilling out of their bodices, muted music and voices from a nearby banquet or ball reminding them how close they were to being caught. He briefly imagined Portugal, face flushed and moaning, skirts around her waist, and immediately felt incongruously guilty. He sneaked a look at her, but she had taken France's arm, and was letting him lead her out of the room.
Heart pounding, he stood. He looked over at England, and saw an expression identical to the one he felt on his own face; he wondered which of them England was thinking about, and found he wasn't sure. When he took the first step to follow France and Portugal to the bedroom, England followed a pace behind, and he could feel the apprehension radiating from him.
France's bedroom-- not the one he slept in, the one that he took visitors to-- was lit with soft light from expensive oil lamps, and from the fire burning quietly in the delicate fire place. It was decorated tastefully, this room, which was surprising enough for France; Spain had been to Versailles. The aura here was lush, but comfortable, the draperies done in warm colors and the colored glass of the oil lamps sending flickering shadows over papered walls. He thought back to the night after the Utrecht agreements had finally been signed; there had been no fireplace, no scented lamps. Hell, there hadn't even been a bed. But then, Portugal hadn't been there that night-- he'd forgotten why-- and that, maybe, was the difference.
France and Portugal, by the bed, were laughing quietly. Portugal's gown was already slipping off her shoulders, the line of her neck graceful in the half-light. Spain felt a surge of longing, and had to look away. He glanced at England; the man was watching them, rapt and melancholy. “Well, come on then,” said France, lifting the gown over the woman's head. Spain was shocked that he managed to make it look graceful. He laid the dress on a chair by the bed for the servants to fold later, and took her hands.
She turned to look at them then, meeting Spain's eyes in her stays and shift. He nearly came in his pants, and he had a feeling that she knew. She turned away from him, and she and France were kissing; instead of the jealousy he had expected, Spain felt something dangerously close to pure arousal. They were beautiful, both of them. He took a step towards them, and hesitated-- then he berated himself. There was no reason to be nervous; he’d been to war and back a hundred times and more. This was just sex. He swallowed, and crossed the room to them.
Warnings: Nothing yet
Characters: France, Spain, England, Portugal
Summary: After the Seven Years' War, Spain, Portugal, England, and France decide to fall back on an old method to solidify their new treaty.
Year: I'll leave this one up to your imagination.
The first few paragraphs aren't new, but I edited them a little, so I figured I'd just repost the whole thing.
Spain had never slept with Portugal. Portugal had never shown any interest, and Spain had never offered. Maybe there was too much between them; like human siblings, each possessed a unique ability to hurt the other. Above all, he wasn't sure what he would do if she turned him down.
She wasn't a virgin. There was England; to his knowledge, although they'd never talked about it, she'd been sleeping with him since the 14th century. Galicia... well, he'd be shocked if the women hadn't been in bed since the very beginning (he tried not to think about it too often, since he invariably ended up with an uncomfortable hard-on). He knew for a fact that she'd slept with Ceuta, after she'd wrested her from the Marinids back in the 15th century; the girl had told him when she'd first come to his house during the Restoration War. He blushed when he thought about it, remembering the filthy things she'd whispered to him about her former mistress-- how she felt inside, the way she screamed when you hit that one spot. He didn't think he'd ever come as hard in his whole life.
Then there was France. The Netherlands. Brazil. She wasn't an innocent. She wasn't his little sister-she’d been sovereign far before he had. But he couldn't... he couldn't quite let go of the way she'd looked, the beautiful brown-haired little girl, when they'd been children together under the Moors. All the memories he'd made of her since, and those that were left to him by Hispania-- that strange, older version of himself that he dreamed about sometimes-- of a beautiful brown-haired woman named Lusitania, were haunted by the shadow of that girl. It was the last time they'd really been close.
So when France and England suggested that, after the bloody war they'd just fought, they ratify their new treaty in the old way, his heart nearly stopped. He glanced over at her, but her face was serene. But the men were looking at him expectantly, so he swallowed, and agreed.
A time and place were agreed on. They'd go to France's house; tradition, more than anything. That, and they all knew what being in Paris did to England, although none of them would ever mention it.
Dinner was a mellow affair. Good food, good wine-- only to be expected at France's house. If they were quieter than usual, it was really only for the best.
After their dinner had settled and the coffee was gone, France stood, signaling to the servants to clear the plates. Portugal stood next, straightening her skirts calmly. She had left off the usual panniers for a few petticoats, probably because-- and Spain swallowed, hard-- probably because she knew she'd be undressing shortly. He briefly wondered if any of them would know how to get her out of her bodice; then he shook himself. If England didn't, France doubtlessly did. Spain, himself... well, the women he'd made love to-- the Christian ones, who wore proper clothing-- had always undressed themselves, and waited for him in bed. Or he'd made love to them dressed, their skirt lifted, breasts spilling out of their bodices, muted music and voices from a nearby banquet or ball reminding them how close they were to being caught. He briefly imagined Portugal, face flushed and moaning, skirts around her waist, and immediately felt incongruously guilty. He sneaked a look at her, but she had taken France's arm, and was letting him lead her out of the room.
Heart pounding, he stood. He looked over at England, and saw an expression identical to the one he felt on his own face; he wondered which of them England was thinking about, and found he wasn't sure. When he took the first step to follow France and Portugal to the bedroom, England followed a pace behind, and he could feel the apprehension radiating from him.
France's bedroom-- not the one he slept in, the one that he took visitors to-- was lit with soft light from expensive oil lamps, and from the fire burning quietly in the delicate fire place. It was decorated tastefully, this room, which was surprising enough for France; Spain had been to Versailles. The aura here was lush, but comfortable, the draperies done in warm colors and the colored glass of the oil lamps sending flickering shadows over papered walls. He thought back to the night after the Utrecht agreements had finally been signed; there had been no fireplace, no scented lamps. Hell, there hadn't even been a bed. But then, Portugal hadn't been there that night-- he'd forgotten why-- and that, maybe, was the difference.
France and Portugal, by the bed, were laughing quietly. Portugal's gown was already slipping off her shoulders, the line of her neck graceful in the half-light. Spain felt a surge of longing, and had to look away. He glanced at England; the man was watching them, rapt and melancholy. “Well, come on then,” said France, lifting the gown over the woman's head. Spain was shocked that he managed to make it look graceful. He laid the dress on a chair by the bed for the servants to fold later, and took her hands.
She turned to look at them then, meeting Spain's eyes in her stays and shift. He nearly came in his pants, and he had a feeling that she knew. She turned away from him, and she and France were kissing; instead of the jealousy he had expected, Spain felt something dangerously close to pure arousal. They were beautiful, both of them. He took a step towards them, and hesitated-- then he berated himself. There was no reason to be nervous; he’d been to war and back a hundred times and more. This was just sex. He swallowed, and crossed the room to them.