Along Came Alfred, The Sequel (France, England, America) - Pt 4
Title: Along Came Alfred, The INTERMINABLE Sequel
Warnings: More 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
Related fics: Along Came Alfred
Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3
Ok, guys, I think that possibly minus an epilogue, this is it. Woo, thanks for the ride!
Al swallowed hard, but when England sat up and crawled down the bed, he followed. France, eyes on England, pulled his cock out, pants sliding down to just below his hips. Al frowned. “Aren't you going to take them off?” France raised an eyebrow. “Well,” he said, feeling that an explanation was wanted, “you said that in bed, one should do things properly.”
France smiled, wryly. “So I did.” He knelt up, sliding pants and underwear down, then sitting, and pulling them over his feet. Al was somehow relieved to see that at least in this one regard, France looked just as awkward as everyone else.
Al crawled between his legs, lying on his stomach and crossing his ankles in the air behind him. He looked up at France. “So the same thing I did before, right?”
“More-or-less,” he responded.
Al, looking for real at the thing in front of him, said “Wait. You're-- why are you circumcised, if England isn't? I thought you guys didn't do that in Europe.”
France shrugged. “As aesthetic choice.”
Al blinked. “We can do that?”
“So it seems,” he responded.
Whatever. Not the point right now.
Feeling less intimidated than he had the last time-- he'd done it once before, after all, and besides, France's looked more familiar than England's-- he took hold of it and angled it towards him, and licked the underside. France sighed. “Yes,” he said, huskily. “Very nice, Alfred.”
Encouraged, Al licked lower. Uh. Not too low. He might have recently come to terms with his half-gay-ness, but balls were fucking weird. France hmm'ed low, and Al licked back up, up and over a ridge near the top of France's cock, that hadn't been there on England's; France gasped, quietly, and Al felt a small surge of triumph. He did it again-- then he had a thought. He flicked his tongue back and forth across it, and looked up for approval. France's laugh was breathless. “He is good, our Alfred.” England's grumpy answer was in that old language that he didn't understand, so he ignored it.
“Well?” said France. Al looked up, but France was looking at England.
England sighed. Then his face was next to Al's, and their tongues were touching, and it was almost like kissing, but not quite. Looking over at England, seeing the man's red face and uncomfortable posture, Al felt a sudden rush of affection. He moved France out of the way, and kissed him. England kissed back, more gently than before; when he pulled away, there was a question in his eyes. Al wasn't sure what it was, so he kissed him again, and hoped that was the right answer.
Francis watched, with a soft smile. It was darling, really, how shy they still were with each other. Darling enough that he was willing to wait-- to continue to wait-- for their attentions. But then Alfred, the dear precocious boy, had a hand around him, and was working him-- clumsily, but nicely enough-- while he kissed the other man. Francis was impressed; multitasking in that way was difficult at the beginning. He rated it, in terms of difficulty, at perhaps a two or three of ten-- and his tens were things that the boy wouldn't believe were physically possible. Ah, yes, in a few years...
He was distracted from his musing by a mouth on his cock; he could tell without looking that it was Alfred. He sighed, expansively, eyes reflexively closing. He would make it last, he would not make it easy for them. Another tongue joined the first, one on each side. The hand holding him belonged to Alfred, but the one raking slow, treacherous fingernails up the outside of his thigh was all Arthur. He shuddered. Perhaps he wouldn't last as long as he'd thought.
Arthur surreptitiously watched the enthusiastic, concentrated expression on Alfred's face. Of course, this would be the sort of thing he would take to; he always seemed to have something in his mouth. Arthur found himself thinking back to the mouth slack over the top of his cock, the tongue, cleverer than he'd expected, following Francis' fingers-- his eyes fell to Alfred's mouth, and he shuddered.
Alfred, the little brat, noticed where he was looking. The boy let his eyes slide half-way shut, lips parted, taking the tip of Francis' cock in his mouth, and sucking, letting his cheeks hollow out like a whore... was he putting on a show? Arthur looked away, heart beating uncomfortably fast.
“Ahhh,” said Francis, in his best cat-in-the-cream voice. “Arthur, the boy is doing such a good job; you are setting a poor example, don't you think?”
The look Arthur shot him was pure hate. “Fine, then,” he said, pulling Alfred away with a hand in his hair. He replaced the boy's mouth with his own, sucking in the first two inches easily. The third was slower, the fourth was hard-- it had been a long time since he'd done this sober. By the time he was all the way down, he was fighting the urge to cough and pull away-- but the bastard would never let him live it down. He swallowed around it, the best he could, flattening his tongue, and letting it slide up and down in the way that he knew drove Francis crazy. He couldn't see the man's face, but he could imagine it.
Al-- uh. Wow. Shit. “That's-- that's pretty cool, old man.” England was looking up at him through his eyelashes, but the “eat shit and die” look just didn't mean what it usually did when the man's mouth was full of cock. France's face was the least contrived he'd ever seen it, eyes tight shut and brows furrowed in a way that wasn't-- well, it wasn't pretty. That, more than anything, told him how good it must feel. “You've got to do that to me again sometime.” Whatever response England might have had was choked off by the slow, slow motion of France's hips. He couldn't really-- but damn, he could: France was fucking his mouth.
He was never going to stop jerking off again.
Francis was closer than he wanted to be, when Arthur took him down his throat, in his inimitably whorish way. When he felt Alfred's tongue on him below the other man's lips, he had to breath slowly, steadily, to keep himself from coming right there. Then Arthur's mouth was leaving-- his hips jerked up of their own accord, trying to follow, before he got himself under control-- and the man was fisting him, crawling up to whisper in his ear.
“Happy now?” Arthur hissed, the Law French harsh and strange from his mouth; it was the language he used when he wanted to lord something over him, letting him know that he'd never forgiven him for Hastings, and the centuries that followed. It was the language he'd used at Signal Hill, near the end of that interminable war, and then again, with even more rancor, years later at Waterloo. It now sent shivers down his spine. “You need not give me those smug smiles; I know you want him as badly as I do. You should see yourself now, panting and struggling and flushing-- I haven't seen you this far gone since that time you let Germany--”
Francis smiled, icy cold. “And yourself, dear Arthur? You've always thought of him as your darling child, how did it feel when he--”
“Guys?” said Al, looking up. “Guys? I-- uh-- I know I'm not as good at this as Engl-- as Arthur is, but is it-- am I doing something wrong?”
When they looked down at him, their expressions were distant, fierce. The France's relaxed into a smile, and England's flattened out into his usual frown. “Not at all, dearest, you're doing marvelously. In fact,” he added, with a lazy look at the third man, “our friend is slacking again, don't you think? We should correct him.”
The boy smiled, big. “That's right, man! You're letting me do all the work here.” Then he'd crawled up level with them, and he was kissing Arthur with the sincerity and energy with which he did everything. Irritation and even anger had always existed side-by-side with attraction and affection between Arthur and him, so watching the men's mouth move, he felt the beginnings of a smile.
Alfred was the one who lead Arthur back down the bed-- subtly, for him, in that he didn't simply pick him up and throw him-- and guided their mouths back to his cock. Arthur looked startled, and Francis had to bite back a laugh. And then-- ah. At first he kept track of whose mouth, whose hands, but he slowly began to lose track. He looked down at the two men, thinking to sneak a glance, and found with surprise that they were already looking at him. And the expressions there-- his concentration slipped, and he felt his muscles started to tighten-- they were something like love.
Warnings: More 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
Related fics: Along Came Alfred
Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3
Ok, guys, I think that possibly minus an epilogue, this is it. Woo, thanks for the ride!
Al swallowed hard, but when England sat up and crawled down the bed, he followed. France, eyes on England, pulled his cock out, pants sliding down to just below his hips. Al frowned. “Aren't you going to take them off?” France raised an eyebrow. “Well,” he said, feeling that an explanation was wanted, “you said that in bed, one should do things properly.”
France smiled, wryly. “So I did.” He knelt up, sliding pants and underwear down, then sitting, and pulling them over his feet. Al was somehow relieved to see that at least in this one regard, France looked just as awkward as everyone else.
Al crawled between his legs, lying on his stomach and crossing his ankles in the air behind him. He looked up at France. “So the same thing I did before, right?”
“More-or-less,” he responded.
Al, looking for real at the thing in front of him, said “Wait. You're-- why are you circumcised, if England isn't? I thought you guys didn't do that in Europe.”
France shrugged. “As aesthetic choice.”
Al blinked. “We can do that?”
“So it seems,” he responded.
Whatever. Not the point right now.
Feeling less intimidated than he had the last time-- he'd done it once before, after all, and besides, France's looked more familiar than England's-- he took hold of it and angled it towards him, and licked the underside. France sighed. “Yes,” he said, huskily. “Very nice, Alfred.”
Encouraged, Al licked lower. Uh. Not too low. He might have recently come to terms with his half-gay-ness, but balls were fucking weird. France hmm'ed low, and Al licked back up, up and over a ridge near the top of France's cock, that hadn't been there on England's; France gasped, quietly, and Al felt a small surge of triumph. He did it again-- then he had a thought. He flicked his tongue back and forth across it, and looked up for approval. France's laugh was breathless. “He is good, our Alfred.” England's grumpy answer was in that old language that he didn't understand, so he ignored it.
“Well?” said France. Al looked up, but France was looking at England.
England sighed. Then his face was next to Al's, and their tongues were touching, and it was almost like kissing, but not quite. Looking over at England, seeing the man's red face and uncomfortable posture, Al felt a sudden rush of affection. He moved France out of the way, and kissed him. England kissed back, more gently than before; when he pulled away, there was a question in his eyes. Al wasn't sure what it was, so he kissed him again, and hoped that was the right answer.
Francis watched, with a soft smile. It was darling, really, how shy they still were with each other. Darling enough that he was willing to wait-- to continue to wait-- for their attentions. But then Alfred, the dear precocious boy, had a hand around him, and was working him-- clumsily, but nicely enough-- while he kissed the other man. Francis was impressed; multitasking in that way was difficult at the beginning. He rated it, in terms of difficulty, at perhaps a two or three of ten-- and his tens were things that the boy wouldn't believe were physically possible. Ah, yes, in a few years...
He was distracted from his musing by a mouth on his cock; he could tell without looking that it was Alfred. He sighed, expansively, eyes reflexively closing. He would make it last, he would not make it easy for them. Another tongue joined the first, one on each side. The hand holding him belonged to Alfred, but the one raking slow, treacherous fingernails up the outside of his thigh was all Arthur. He shuddered. Perhaps he wouldn't last as long as he'd thought.
Arthur surreptitiously watched the enthusiastic, concentrated expression on Alfred's face. Of course, this would be the sort of thing he would take to; he always seemed to have something in his mouth. Arthur found himself thinking back to the mouth slack over the top of his cock, the tongue, cleverer than he'd expected, following Francis' fingers-- his eyes fell to Alfred's mouth, and he shuddered.
Alfred, the little brat, noticed where he was looking. The boy let his eyes slide half-way shut, lips parted, taking the tip of Francis' cock in his mouth, and sucking, letting his cheeks hollow out like a whore... was he putting on a show? Arthur looked away, heart beating uncomfortably fast.
“Ahhh,” said Francis, in his best cat-in-the-cream voice. “Arthur, the boy is doing such a good job; you are setting a poor example, don't you think?”
The look Arthur shot him was pure hate. “Fine, then,” he said, pulling Alfred away with a hand in his hair. He replaced the boy's mouth with his own, sucking in the first two inches easily. The third was slower, the fourth was hard-- it had been a long time since he'd done this sober. By the time he was all the way down, he was fighting the urge to cough and pull away-- but the bastard would never let him live it down. He swallowed around it, the best he could, flattening his tongue, and letting it slide up and down in the way that he knew drove Francis crazy. He couldn't see the man's face, but he could imagine it.
Al-- uh. Wow. Shit. “That's-- that's pretty cool, old man.” England was looking up at him through his eyelashes, but the “eat shit and die” look just didn't mean what it usually did when the man's mouth was full of cock. France's face was the least contrived he'd ever seen it, eyes tight shut and brows furrowed in a way that wasn't-- well, it wasn't pretty. That, more than anything, told him how good it must feel. “You've got to do that to me again sometime.” Whatever response England might have had was choked off by the slow, slow motion of France's hips. He couldn't really-- but damn, he could: France was fucking his mouth.
He was never going to stop jerking off again.
Francis was closer than he wanted to be, when Arthur took him down his throat, in his inimitably whorish way. When he felt Alfred's tongue on him below the other man's lips, he had to breath slowly, steadily, to keep himself from coming right there. Then Arthur's mouth was leaving-- his hips jerked up of their own accord, trying to follow, before he got himself under control-- and the man was fisting him, crawling up to whisper in his ear.
“Happy now?” Arthur hissed, the Law French harsh and strange from his mouth; it was the language he used when he wanted to lord something over him, letting him know that he'd never forgiven him for Hastings, and the centuries that followed. It was the language he'd used at Signal Hill, near the end of that interminable war, and then again, with even more rancor, years later at Waterloo. It now sent shivers down his spine. “You need not give me those smug smiles; I know you want him as badly as I do. You should see yourself now, panting and struggling and flushing-- I haven't seen you this far gone since that time you let Germany--”
Francis smiled, icy cold. “And yourself, dear Arthur? You've always thought of him as your darling child, how did it feel when he--”
“Guys?” said Al, looking up. “Guys? I-- uh-- I know I'm not as good at this as Engl-- as Arthur is, but is it-- am I doing something wrong?”
When they looked down at him, their expressions were distant, fierce. The France's relaxed into a smile, and England's flattened out into his usual frown. “Not at all, dearest, you're doing marvelously. In fact,” he added, with a lazy look at the third man, “our friend is slacking again, don't you think? We should correct him.”
The boy smiled, big. “That's right, man! You're letting me do all the work here.” Then he'd crawled up level with them, and he was kissing Arthur with the sincerity and energy with which he did everything. Irritation and even anger had always existed side-by-side with attraction and affection between Arthur and him, so watching the men's mouth move, he felt the beginnings of a smile.
Alfred was the one who lead Arthur back down the bed-- subtly, for him, in that he didn't simply pick him up and throw him-- and guided their mouths back to his cock. Arthur looked startled, and Francis had to bite back a laugh. And then-- ah. At first he kept track of whose mouth, whose hands, but he slowly began to lose track. He looked down at the two men, thinking to sneak a glance, and found with surprise that they were already looking at him. And the expressions there-- his concentration slipped, and he felt his muscles started to tighten-- they were something like love.