Along Came Alfred, The Sequel (France, England, America) - Pt 2
Title: Along Came Alfred, The Sequel
Warnings: Lots of sex
Summary: After his encounter with England and France at the most recent conference, Al decides to take France up on his invitation.
Characters: America, England, France
Year: Modern
Related fics: Along Came Alfred
Pt 1
Arthur... Alfred's hands were fisted in his hair, and his mouth and lips so beautifully red with the kissing, and he couldn't help trailing a hand down the other man's back, so much broader than his own, and wasn't it strange how fast the boy had grown... he wanted all of a sudden, desperately, to remove the silly T-shirt at once. And then Alfred was whispering something against his lips, low and husky. “Arthur.”
Arthur inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, riding a sharp spike of heat. The boy spoiled the moment somewhat by laughing delightedly and dropping the tone, saying to Francis “Did you see that?”
Francis smiled-- Arthur instinctively read it as more condescending than it was meant to be. “Yes, little one, I did.” Al was too delighted with himself to even bother getting prickly about the endearment, and he dropped his voice again, “Arthur, Arthur--” The second time it was nearly a moan, the boy feigning an arousal he couldn't possibly feel yet, rubbing them together... then there was a startled gasp from one, and from the other a sharp sound quickly disguised as a cough, and Francis was laughing very quietly.
“He is a quick learner, our Alfred.” Al nodded proudly, before he started to wonder if maybe he hadn't missed something.
England was still breathing hard, eyes closed now, and Al leaned in, pitching his voice low again. He was a quick learner, after all. “Arthur, is there something you want? Maybe you want me to--” and he licked a finger from base to tip as he'd seen-- felt-- his mentor do.
Then he was pushed backwards, and he hit the ground just hard enough to startle him. The man knelt over him, their faces very close, and Al saw a flash of the old England as he growled “Don't promise something you won't deliver on, lad.”
Al gulped. His “Uhh--” was cut off by France's voice, quietly admonishing. “Don't scare the boy, Arthur. He was just teasing.”
Al looked back and forth between them, England still looking like someone had just attacked one of his overseas holdings, France slightly reproachful. Were neither one of them ever going to stop treating him like a baby? “Come on guys, who said I wouldn't do it?”
France's look was searching. Then a slow smile spread over his face. “He is right, Arthur. Who indeed? We have been most unfair.” Centuries of practice were all that kept the laughter in as his friend's expression turned from predatory to vaguely panicked. Alfred looked nervous, but he was clearly trying to hide it. The boy never backed down from a challenge.
“Yeah, you have,” he said, in a tone of voice that France knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Arthur would find intensely irritating. And indeed, the panic faded from his face, and it settled back to the expression he normally wore when he looked at the boy, albeit with a bit more heat.
“Fine, then,” he said, face centimeters from Alfred's. “Prove us wrong.”
Al laughed nervously. “You've, uh. You've gotta let me up.”
England sat up slowly, and Al was looking up at him from the ground. He felt young all of a sudden, and scared. He looked automatically to his other mentor-- a habit he thought he'd broken centuries ago-- and saw a kind smile. Reassured, he sat up too, grinning at England. “I'm gonna be totally awesome at this.”
France laughed quietly. Neither of the other two men payed him any attention. “Here,” he said, gesturing to England to come sit with him on the couch. “You won't make the boy kneel on the floor, will you, Arthur?”
England coughed, uncomfortably. “I, well-- that is to say--” France patted the couch next to him, more insistently. “Very well, then,” he grumbled.
Al looked on in astonishment. England, his former colonizer, was pussy-whipped. By France. France winked at him, while England's head was turned. Al shook his head. At least they kept it in the bedroom-- well, the living room? Come to think of it-- “Um, guys? Couldn't we just, you know, get in bed?”
France beamed. “A child after my own heart. The proper place for love-making, yes, is in a bed. We have taught him well, Arthur, have we not?”
England was staring at the man in disbelief. “Uh... France? --cis?” said Al. “Didn't this, uh... Didn't this start because you wanted England to blow you in the conference room?”
England coughed, hard, and Al looked over at him in worry-- he wasn't going to choke, was he? France made a shooing motion with his hand, as if Al's objection were a bothersome fly. “Once in a while, perhaps, but the proper place for such things...”
England seemed to have gotten his breath back. “Francis, you hypocritical son of a--”
France cut him off. “Arthur,” he said, reprovingly. “Not in front of the boy.”
Al just shook his head in bemusement. “So, I'm old enough to fuck, but not old enough to cuss?”
The two older men winced in tandem. Luckily for them both, their “Alfred, darling, you must understand--” and “Don't you take that tone with me, lad--” came out at the same time, and Al didn't hear either one of them well enough to be furious.
“Whatever,” he said. “I'm going to France's bedroom. You two can stay here and argue, or you can come with me.”
They watched him leave. “Bossy little thing, isn't he,” said Arthur, in the sudden silence.
Francis nodded in amusement. “Yes, but then, he always has been. I suppose we'd better follow him, had we not?”
“Led by your prick, as usual.”
Francis shook his head. “Arthur, if you think that my sexual gratification is all that is at risk here, then you are a very foolish man.” Arthur ignored him-- luckily, Francis was accustomed to this-- and followed Alfred to the bedroom. Francis sighed, treated the room to a theatrical shrug, and brought up the rear.
Inside, Alfred was, predictably, jumping on the bed, while Arthur looked on in horror. “If you would like us to treat you with more gravity,” said Francis, trying to get the corners of his mouth under control, “you would do well to behave with more decorum.”
Alfred, the little menace, laughed. “It's a lost cause anyway, man--”
“--I will remind you that you said this--”
“--and this is the awesomest bed.”
France nodded in placid agreement. “You are right, of course. But either way, my love, if your wish is to continue to be intimate with our dear friend Arthur, you might wish to--”
And indeed, the man had his face in his hands. “Alfred,” he said, voice muffled. “I simply cannot view you in a sexual light if you--”
Alfred landed on his knees-- ah, the agility of the young-- hips canted forward, pulling his shirt up, slowly. Arthur gulped, and for the second time in as many minutes, Francis had to bite back laughter. The child was hardly subtle, but with Arthur one couldn't be.
“Do I look more sexual now, Arthur?” said Alfred, voice low and husky like it had been before. Well, he was hardly an innocent-- all of that terrible, smutty television...
“Yes, well, ah--”
Francis cut him off. “Go to him, Arthur, before he says something ridiculous and breaks the mood.”
Alfred look hurt, but then Arthur was walking towards him, and he couldn't quite seem to look away. “No more bed-jumping?” the older man said, with the worn-out exasperation of a parent. Alfred shook his head, mutely. “No more silly questions, or non sequiturs, or--”
“What's a--” began Alfred.
“Shh, child!” said Francis, and he shut his mouth.
“Very well,” said Arthur, and closed the last distance between himself and the bed. He reached up to pull Alfred's face down to his level, and kissed him, slow and hard. When he pulled away, Alfred looked breathless. Francis knew that kind of kiss. “Move out of my way, then, lad,” he said, and climbed up next to Alfred when he complied. Francis watched, as Arthur pushed Alfred down on the bed, and then they were kissing, and there was none of the stodgy, hilarious Arthur that had appeared in the last hundred years or so-- it was all British Empire.
Francis leaned against the wall by the door, touching himself idly while he watched the two men. He felt a twinge of jealousy-- when was the last time someone had looked at him like that?-- and pushed it aside. After all, it took years of repression to create this kind of explosion, and who had that kind of time?
He briefly considered leaving them to it. But no, two men would not fuck in his bed without his presence, it would be ridiculous. And besides, who knew how long before little Alfred unthinkingly infuriated Arthur, before Arthur froze up and tried to retreat. No, they needed to be watched. It was a philanthropic thing he was doing, really.
On the bed, Arthur had snaked the boy-- not a boy, he reminded himself, for the umpteenth time-- the man's arms above his head, and was holding them there by the wrists. Francis doubted that Alfred even noticed, breathing as hard as he was, with his eyes closed and his hips sliding. How beautiful, for love-making to be so uncomplicated; Francis would never have let Arthur hold him like that, whether he wanted it or no. There were too many years of history: too many wars, too many deaths, too many treaties. But for little Alfred, this was an isolated act. He had never been violated, humiliated on a battlefield, never been forced to seal an alliance that he needed; his introduction to love would be this, with men he trusted, in a pleasant bedroom. And Arthur worried that they had done it in the wrong order-- ridiculous.
Then Alfred was pulling away. “You wanted me to--”
“--yes,” said Arthur. Francis sauntered over to the bed. This would be worth joining in.
With lightly, lightly shaking fingers, Al reached for England's belt. France shook his head, in disapproval. “In bed, one does this things properly.” And he climbed behind England, and began to work on his shirt buttons. “These silly shirts he wears, it takes eons to divest him of them-- but if you, in the heat of passion, dare to--”
“No, Francis.”
“--rip them, he becomes very upset and threatens diplomatic retaliation--”
“Once--”
“--but not until after you make love to him,” finished France, satisfied.
England looked infuriated, but France just smiled. Al shook his head. “Jeez, guys, you'd think you were married or something.”
They both stuttered.
“That was--”
“I refused him immediately--”
“It was an economic issue--”
Al's eyes widened. “Wait, what?”
The two men shifted, looking enormously uncomfortable. “Nothing, it is nothing,” said France, while England nodded in emphatic agreement. Then France's look turned enticing, and he slid his hands over England's chest. “Surely now is not the time for dreary, lengthy stories...”
Al opened his mouth to tell them that the distraction tactic wasn't going to work, but then he realized that his eyes were following France's fingers, and his mouth had gone dry. Well. Sometimes you had to admit defeat to, uh, superior, um--
“Yes, you would like to touch him, wouldn't you?” Al leaned forward, and traced fascinated fingers over the triangle of chest that France had managed to bare. France's hands moved back to the buttons. “He likes that, I think.” And indeed, England's eyes were scrunched shut.
Al tilted his head to the side. “You didn't look like that when Franc-cis touched--”
France shushed him. “I have touched him many times before, that is why, now for God's sake be--”
Al was about to comment on the unfairness of it all-- France was the one who'd started that whole argument about the buttons, it wasn't like he was the only one-- but he decided, on reflection, to keep his mouth shut. He'd noticed recently that sometimes good things happened when you did that.
Arthur's eyes stayed tightly closed, as he felt fingers-- Alfred's-- slide down his chest, towards his stomach. He opened his eyes for a second, and saw a flash of the boy's fascinated face, then closed them again, face heated. France had managed to get his shirt open, and had pulled it off halfway, leaving his arms pinned behind him. He glared at the man over his shoulder; the look he got in response was unrepentant. Alfred didn't notice, still trailing light fingers up and down his chest and stomach.
“Get on with it,” he growled, struggling against Francis' hold.
Alfred's expression turned playful. “Get on with what, England?” he asked, blue eyes wide. He knew he could turn that expression on and off, he knew it!
“With--” he halted, propriety catching up to him.
“With what, England?” The little hellion scraped fingernails down his chest. Arthur gasped. He'd always been such a pain, not nearly as well behaved as his brother--
“I think you must say it, Arthur,” murmured France.
He was blushing. How humiliating. Fine, then, the little brat asked for it--
“I believe your children say-- blow me.”
Alfred gaped. “Where did you--”
Francis whispered, not nearly as quietly as he thought, “Just take it, Alfred!”
The boy snickered, and Arthur was mystified. But he forgot all about it when he felt Alfred's mouth-- Alfred's mouth-- kissing down his chest, his stomach, his belt-line. Then there were hands undoing the buckle, the button, the zipper, and he groaned.
“Take it easy,” murmured Francis into his ear. “What a shame it would be if you were to finish before we even began.”
Arthur mentally swore vengeance, and then let it go, letting himself sink into Alfred's hands on his hips, Francis' hands on his chest. It was-- well. Intense.
There was a moment where Al-- faced for the first time with another man's cock-- had doubts. It was-- well, when you come down to it, they look weird. He'd never really spent that much time looking at his own, and besides, England's looked different. Of course, he realized. He wouldn't be circumcised. He patted himself on the back for making the connection. Uh. He mentally patted himself on the back.
But either way, he was-- he was kind of stuck. He'd said he'd do it, so he was going to do it. Closing his eyes, he licked.
Pleh. That's what it tasted like? It wasn't all the same as the way England's mouth had tasted before. But he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes again, and--
But then France was next to him, a hand on the side of his face, and he was speaking. “...chose the most difficult place to start, you know.” He opened his eyes, bewildered. France was smiling, kindly. “Lick here,” he said, sliding the skin around England's cock back, and indicating the pink underside near the end. He licked. England gasped, and Al thought he'd never heard anything hotter. More confident, he did it again. France's hand was still holding England up, and he was moving it, just a little bit, like Al did when he jerked off. “Good,” said France, his voice getting huskier and his accent beginning to slip back into his English. “Now twirl your tongue around here, but don't lick the very end yet-- that is where the taste comes from.” He demonstrated. Al looked doubtful-- he wasn't sure he could do that with his tongue. But France was watching expectantly, so he tried, and if the noise England made was any indication, he did it right.
Encouraged, he did it again, and again-- he registered vaguely that France's free arm was pinned across England's hips, keeping him still, and that he was watching Al's tongue with a look of fascination. Al grinned happily-- see, he knew he'd be awesome at this-- and let himself get bolder, licking down to France's fingers, and over them, and below them. Weird, it was different down there. Saltier, without that weird aftertaste. Then back over France's fingers and back to the pinkish end, flat-tongued, then tongue rolled like he and Matt used to do... Hey, this was fun.
“Do you want to drive him crazy?” whispered France into his ear. Al nodded without taking his tongue away. “Put your mouth over the end-- keep your tongue on the underside if you like-- and slide your lips up and down, with just a little bit of pressure. It's easier if you put them over your teeth.” Al looked dubious, but tried, thinking that he probably looked like some kind of fish. He looked up at France for approval, and saw it. Slowly, he moved his head up, and back down, trying to keep his lips tight like France had said. For the first time, what he heard from England was not a gasp or a small noise, but a moan. His cock jumped in his pants.
“Faster, if you can,” said France. Al obeyed, feeling silly at first. But soon his mouth and France's hand had found a rhythm and were moving in sync, France easily keeping time with him (he wouldn't know until years later how coordinated the man was in this regard), England's breathing starting to get fast and regular, almost like panting. On the way back up, without meaning to, Al let his tongue slide across the top of England's cock. England gave a started cry, whole body tensing, and then France was pushing him gently but quickly out of the way, saying “You should, perhaps, let me take care of this part.” France's mouth was where his had been, his hand still working furiously, and he got a chance to look up at England-- stiff, proper England, whose hands were fisted in the sheets, face and chest flushed like when he'd gotten that sunburn in California, hair mussed from tossing his head about. Then his body went rigid, and his eyes scrunched shut, and he was holding his breath-- it wasn't until his face relaxed again, and France pulled away that Al realized England had been coming.
“Hey!” he said. “I was supposed to do that.”
France looked up at him, and laughed. “It is the duty of your mentors to assist in what ways we can,” he said, and Al thought that he hadn't seen him look so genuinely happy in years. “But,” he added, smile going sly, “as an intermediate step, perhaps we could kiss.”
Al crawled to him and put his hands in his hair-- nearly out of that faggy ponytail by now-- and kissed him long and deep. He felt France smile against his mouth, and he looked over at England; the man had opened his eyes, and was staring at them in something like wonder. “Like what you see, old man?” said Al, sliding his hands down France's back to grab his ass.
France gasped, and then glared. “If you weren't as dear to me as a son, I'd--”
“Silly fools,” interrupted England, sleepily, closing his eyes.
Al grinned at France, hands under his pants now, pulling him forward by the hips, “--you'd what?"
Part 3
Warnings: Lots of sex
Summary: After his encounter with England and France at the most recent conference, Al decides to take France up on his invitation.
Characters: America, England, France
Year: Modern
Related fics: Along Came Alfred
Pt 1
Arthur... Alfred's hands were fisted in his hair, and his mouth and lips so beautifully red with the kissing, and he couldn't help trailing a hand down the other man's back, so much broader than his own, and wasn't it strange how fast the boy had grown... he wanted all of a sudden, desperately, to remove the silly T-shirt at once. And then Alfred was whispering something against his lips, low and husky. “Arthur.”
Arthur inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, riding a sharp spike of heat. The boy spoiled the moment somewhat by laughing delightedly and dropping the tone, saying to Francis “Did you see that?”
Francis smiled-- Arthur instinctively read it as more condescending than it was meant to be. “Yes, little one, I did.” Al was too delighted with himself to even bother getting prickly about the endearment, and he dropped his voice again, “Arthur, Arthur--” The second time it was nearly a moan, the boy feigning an arousal he couldn't possibly feel yet, rubbing them together... then there was a startled gasp from one, and from the other a sharp sound quickly disguised as a cough, and Francis was laughing very quietly.
“He is a quick learner, our Alfred.” Al nodded proudly, before he started to wonder if maybe he hadn't missed something.
England was still breathing hard, eyes closed now, and Al leaned in, pitching his voice low again. He was a quick learner, after all. “Arthur, is there something you want? Maybe you want me to--” and he licked a finger from base to tip as he'd seen-- felt-- his mentor do.
Then he was pushed backwards, and he hit the ground just hard enough to startle him. The man knelt over him, their faces very close, and Al saw a flash of the old England as he growled “Don't promise something you won't deliver on, lad.”
Al gulped. His “Uhh--” was cut off by France's voice, quietly admonishing. “Don't scare the boy, Arthur. He was just teasing.”
Al looked back and forth between them, England still looking like someone had just attacked one of his overseas holdings, France slightly reproachful. Were neither one of them ever going to stop treating him like a baby? “Come on guys, who said I wouldn't do it?”
France's look was searching. Then a slow smile spread over his face. “He is right, Arthur. Who indeed? We have been most unfair.” Centuries of practice were all that kept the laughter in as his friend's expression turned from predatory to vaguely panicked. Alfred looked nervous, but he was clearly trying to hide it. The boy never backed down from a challenge.
“Yeah, you have,” he said, in a tone of voice that France knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Arthur would find intensely irritating. And indeed, the panic faded from his face, and it settled back to the expression he normally wore when he looked at the boy, albeit with a bit more heat.
“Fine, then,” he said, face centimeters from Alfred's. “Prove us wrong.”
Al laughed nervously. “You've, uh. You've gotta let me up.”
England sat up slowly, and Al was looking up at him from the ground. He felt young all of a sudden, and scared. He looked automatically to his other mentor-- a habit he thought he'd broken centuries ago-- and saw a kind smile. Reassured, he sat up too, grinning at England. “I'm gonna be totally awesome at this.”
France laughed quietly. Neither of the other two men payed him any attention. “Here,” he said, gesturing to England to come sit with him on the couch. “You won't make the boy kneel on the floor, will you, Arthur?”
England coughed, uncomfortably. “I, well-- that is to say--” France patted the couch next to him, more insistently. “Very well, then,” he grumbled.
Al looked on in astonishment. England, his former colonizer, was pussy-whipped. By France. France winked at him, while England's head was turned. Al shook his head. At least they kept it in the bedroom-- well, the living room? Come to think of it-- “Um, guys? Couldn't we just, you know, get in bed?”
France beamed. “A child after my own heart. The proper place for love-making, yes, is in a bed. We have taught him well, Arthur, have we not?”
England was staring at the man in disbelief. “Uh... France? --cis?” said Al. “Didn't this, uh... Didn't this start because you wanted England to blow you in the conference room?”
England coughed, hard, and Al looked over at him in worry-- he wasn't going to choke, was he? France made a shooing motion with his hand, as if Al's objection were a bothersome fly. “Once in a while, perhaps, but the proper place for such things...”
England seemed to have gotten his breath back. “Francis, you hypocritical son of a--”
France cut him off. “Arthur,” he said, reprovingly. “Not in front of the boy.”
Al just shook his head in bemusement. “So, I'm old enough to fuck, but not old enough to cuss?”
The two older men winced in tandem. Luckily for them both, their “Alfred, darling, you must understand--” and “Don't you take that tone with me, lad--” came out at the same time, and Al didn't hear either one of them well enough to be furious.
“Whatever,” he said. “I'm going to France's bedroom. You two can stay here and argue, or you can come with me.”
They watched him leave. “Bossy little thing, isn't he,” said Arthur, in the sudden silence.
Francis nodded in amusement. “Yes, but then, he always has been. I suppose we'd better follow him, had we not?”
“Led by your prick, as usual.”
Francis shook his head. “Arthur, if you think that my sexual gratification is all that is at risk here, then you are a very foolish man.” Arthur ignored him-- luckily, Francis was accustomed to this-- and followed Alfred to the bedroom. Francis sighed, treated the room to a theatrical shrug, and brought up the rear.
Inside, Alfred was, predictably, jumping on the bed, while Arthur looked on in horror. “If you would like us to treat you with more gravity,” said Francis, trying to get the corners of his mouth under control, “you would do well to behave with more decorum.”
Alfred, the little menace, laughed. “It's a lost cause anyway, man--”
“--I will remind you that you said this--”
“--and this is the awesomest bed.”
France nodded in placid agreement. “You are right, of course. But either way, my love, if your wish is to continue to be intimate with our dear friend Arthur, you might wish to--”
And indeed, the man had his face in his hands. “Alfred,” he said, voice muffled. “I simply cannot view you in a sexual light if you--”
Alfred landed on his knees-- ah, the agility of the young-- hips canted forward, pulling his shirt up, slowly. Arthur gulped, and for the second time in as many minutes, Francis had to bite back laughter. The child was hardly subtle, but with Arthur one couldn't be.
“Do I look more sexual now, Arthur?” said Alfred, voice low and husky like it had been before. Well, he was hardly an innocent-- all of that terrible, smutty television...
“Yes, well, ah--”
Francis cut him off. “Go to him, Arthur, before he says something ridiculous and breaks the mood.”
Alfred look hurt, but then Arthur was walking towards him, and he couldn't quite seem to look away. “No more bed-jumping?” the older man said, with the worn-out exasperation of a parent. Alfred shook his head, mutely. “No more silly questions, or non sequiturs, or--”
“What's a--” began Alfred.
“Shh, child!” said Francis, and he shut his mouth.
“Very well,” said Arthur, and closed the last distance between himself and the bed. He reached up to pull Alfred's face down to his level, and kissed him, slow and hard. When he pulled away, Alfred looked breathless. Francis knew that kind of kiss. “Move out of my way, then, lad,” he said, and climbed up next to Alfred when he complied. Francis watched, as Arthur pushed Alfred down on the bed, and then they were kissing, and there was none of the stodgy, hilarious Arthur that had appeared in the last hundred years or so-- it was all British Empire.
Francis leaned against the wall by the door, touching himself idly while he watched the two men. He felt a twinge of jealousy-- when was the last time someone had looked at him like that?-- and pushed it aside. After all, it took years of repression to create this kind of explosion, and who had that kind of time?
He briefly considered leaving them to it. But no, two men would not fuck in his bed without his presence, it would be ridiculous. And besides, who knew how long before little Alfred unthinkingly infuriated Arthur, before Arthur froze up and tried to retreat. No, they needed to be watched. It was a philanthropic thing he was doing, really.
On the bed, Arthur had snaked the boy-- not a boy, he reminded himself, for the umpteenth time-- the man's arms above his head, and was holding them there by the wrists. Francis doubted that Alfred even noticed, breathing as hard as he was, with his eyes closed and his hips sliding. How beautiful, for love-making to be so uncomplicated; Francis would never have let Arthur hold him like that, whether he wanted it or no. There were too many years of history: too many wars, too many deaths, too many treaties. But for little Alfred, this was an isolated act. He had never been violated, humiliated on a battlefield, never been forced to seal an alliance that he needed; his introduction to love would be this, with men he trusted, in a pleasant bedroom. And Arthur worried that they had done it in the wrong order-- ridiculous.
Then Alfred was pulling away. “You wanted me to--”
“--yes,” said Arthur. Francis sauntered over to the bed. This would be worth joining in.
With lightly, lightly shaking fingers, Al reached for England's belt. France shook his head, in disapproval. “In bed, one does this things properly.” And he climbed behind England, and began to work on his shirt buttons. “These silly shirts he wears, it takes eons to divest him of them-- but if you, in the heat of passion, dare to--”
“No, Francis.”
“--rip them, he becomes very upset and threatens diplomatic retaliation--”
“Once--”
“--but not until after you make love to him,” finished France, satisfied.
England looked infuriated, but France just smiled. Al shook his head. “Jeez, guys, you'd think you were married or something.”
They both stuttered.
“That was--”
“I refused him immediately--”
“It was an economic issue--”
Al's eyes widened. “Wait, what?”
The two men shifted, looking enormously uncomfortable. “Nothing, it is nothing,” said France, while England nodded in emphatic agreement. Then France's look turned enticing, and he slid his hands over England's chest. “Surely now is not the time for dreary, lengthy stories...”
Al opened his mouth to tell them that the distraction tactic wasn't going to work, but then he realized that his eyes were following France's fingers, and his mouth had gone dry. Well. Sometimes you had to admit defeat to, uh, superior, um--
“Yes, you would like to touch him, wouldn't you?” Al leaned forward, and traced fascinated fingers over the triangle of chest that France had managed to bare. France's hands moved back to the buttons. “He likes that, I think.” And indeed, England's eyes were scrunched shut.
Al tilted his head to the side. “You didn't look like that when Franc-cis touched--”
France shushed him. “I have touched him many times before, that is why, now for God's sake be--”
Al was about to comment on the unfairness of it all-- France was the one who'd started that whole argument about the buttons, it wasn't like he was the only one-- but he decided, on reflection, to keep his mouth shut. He'd noticed recently that sometimes good things happened when you did that.
Arthur's eyes stayed tightly closed, as he felt fingers-- Alfred's-- slide down his chest, towards his stomach. He opened his eyes for a second, and saw a flash of the boy's fascinated face, then closed them again, face heated. France had managed to get his shirt open, and had pulled it off halfway, leaving his arms pinned behind him. He glared at the man over his shoulder; the look he got in response was unrepentant. Alfred didn't notice, still trailing light fingers up and down his chest and stomach.
“Get on with it,” he growled, struggling against Francis' hold.
Alfred's expression turned playful. “Get on with what, England?” he asked, blue eyes wide. He knew he could turn that expression on and off, he knew it!
“With--” he halted, propriety catching up to him.
“With what, England?” The little hellion scraped fingernails down his chest. Arthur gasped. He'd always been such a pain, not nearly as well behaved as his brother--
“I think you must say it, Arthur,” murmured France.
He was blushing. How humiliating. Fine, then, the little brat asked for it--
“I believe your children say-- blow me.”
Alfred gaped. “Where did you--”
Francis whispered, not nearly as quietly as he thought, “Just take it, Alfred!”
The boy snickered, and Arthur was mystified. But he forgot all about it when he felt Alfred's mouth-- Alfred's mouth-- kissing down his chest, his stomach, his belt-line. Then there were hands undoing the buckle, the button, the zipper, and he groaned.
“Take it easy,” murmured Francis into his ear. “What a shame it would be if you were to finish before we even began.”
Arthur mentally swore vengeance, and then let it go, letting himself sink into Alfred's hands on his hips, Francis' hands on his chest. It was-- well. Intense.
There was a moment where Al-- faced for the first time with another man's cock-- had doubts. It was-- well, when you come down to it, they look weird. He'd never really spent that much time looking at his own, and besides, England's looked different. Of course, he realized. He wouldn't be circumcised. He patted himself on the back for making the connection. Uh. He mentally patted himself on the back.
But either way, he was-- he was kind of stuck. He'd said he'd do it, so he was going to do it. Closing his eyes, he licked.
Pleh. That's what it tasted like? It wasn't all the same as the way England's mouth had tasted before. But he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes again, and--
But then France was next to him, a hand on the side of his face, and he was speaking. “...chose the most difficult place to start, you know.” He opened his eyes, bewildered. France was smiling, kindly. “Lick here,” he said, sliding the skin around England's cock back, and indicating the pink underside near the end. He licked. England gasped, and Al thought he'd never heard anything hotter. More confident, he did it again. France's hand was still holding England up, and he was moving it, just a little bit, like Al did when he jerked off. “Good,” said France, his voice getting huskier and his accent beginning to slip back into his English. “Now twirl your tongue around here, but don't lick the very end yet-- that is where the taste comes from.” He demonstrated. Al looked doubtful-- he wasn't sure he could do that with his tongue. But France was watching expectantly, so he tried, and if the noise England made was any indication, he did it right.
Encouraged, he did it again, and again-- he registered vaguely that France's free arm was pinned across England's hips, keeping him still, and that he was watching Al's tongue with a look of fascination. Al grinned happily-- see, he knew he'd be awesome at this-- and let himself get bolder, licking down to France's fingers, and over them, and below them. Weird, it was different down there. Saltier, without that weird aftertaste. Then back over France's fingers and back to the pinkish end, flat-tongued, then tongue rolled like he and Matt used to do... Hey, this was fun.
“Do you want to drive him crazy?” whispered France into his ear. Al nodded without taking his tongue away. “Put your mouth over the end-- keep your tongue on the underside if you like-- and slide your lips up and down, with just a little bit of pressure. It's easier if you put them over your teeth.” Al looked dubious, but tried, thinking that he probably looked like some kind of fish. He looked up at France for approval, and saw it. Slowly, he moved his head up, and back down, trying to keep his lips tight like France had said. For the first time, what he heard from England was not a gasp or a small noise, but a moan. His cock jumped in his pants.
“Faster, if you can,” said France. Al obeyed, feeling silly at first. But soon his mouth and France's hand had found a rhythm and were moving in sync, France easily keeping time with him (he wouldn't know until years later how coordinated the man was in this regard), England's breathing starting to get fast and regular, almost like panting. On the way back up, without meaning to, Al let his tongue slide across the top of England's cock. England gave a started cry, whole body tensing, and then France was pushing him gently but quickly out of the way, saying “You should, perhaps, let me take care of this part.” France's mouth was where his had been, his hand still working furiously, and he got a chance to look up at England-- stiff, proper England, whose hands were fisted in the sheets, face and chest flushed like when he'd gotten that sunburn in California, hair mussed from tossing his head about. Then his body went rigid, and his eyes scrunched shut, and he was holding his breath-- it wasn't until his face relaxed again, and France pulled away that Al realized England had been coming.
“Hey!” he said. “I was supposed to do that.”
France looked up at him, and laughed. “It is the duty of your mentors to assist in what ways we can,” he said, and Al thought that he hadn't seen him look so genuinely happy in years. “But,” he added, smile going sly, “as an intermediate step, perhaps we could kiss.”
Al crawled to him and put his hands in his hair-- nearly out of that faggy ponytail by now-- and kissed him long and deep. He felt France smile against his mouth, and he looked over at England; the man had opened his eyes, and was staring at them in something like wonder. “Like what you see, old man?” said Al, sliding his hands down France's back to grab his ass.
France gasped, and then glared. “If you weren't as dear to me as a son, I'd--”
“Silly fools,” interrupted England, sleepily, closing his eyes.
Al grinned at France, hands under his pants now, pulling him forward by the hips, “--you'd what?"
Part 3