Fic: Sixfold (Crossover)
Fandoms: Hetalia and John Adams
Pairing: Thomas Jefferson / Alexander Hamilton / America / England / France / Canada. Really. I'm - so sorry.
Rating: So very, very NC-17.
Warnings: Anthropomorphic sex. Founding father sex. Historical porn. So, so sorry.
Notes: Dedicated to the person who is well aware that this is her fault. Due to timeline issues, (Canada wasn't a country before Hamilton or Jefferson died, lol) this takes place in the canon of thewake_rp. America is modern, England, France and Canada are from mid-20th century, and Jefferson and Hamilton are from after their respective deaths.
Summary: France treats the memories of the night before with fine, delicate care, as he would an especially well-crafted chocolate, or wine; no doubt the night began mostly as a result of his own efforts, but the results, ah, the results were beyond his expectations entirely.
- - -
England, truth be told, does not recall much of what transpired the prior night. It would be quite easy to blame this on the whys and wherefores of this mysterious city they find themselves in, but perhaps it would be more accurate, strictly speaking, to lay the responsibility at the feet of the alcohol that he consumed from Thomas Jefferson’s expansive, and self-refreshing, cellar of Madeira.
What he does recall is, by necessity, mixed in with a haze of pleasure and arousal that he would find it difficult to forget. And then there are images, images that would be best if he did not remember them at all.
He sips a cup of tea, now, in the portico farthest from Jefferson’s room, still choked close with the smell of sex. He left them there, just minutes ago; astounding, that they all fit in one place. England suspects that the force of Jefferson’s own mind may have contributed to the expansive bed they found themselves in, come morning.
“Hi, England!”
The teacup slips in England’s hands, and he barely catches it, somehow managing to splash scalding tea across his wrist. He curses, lowly, and turns to fix a glare on America, half-dressed and entirely too cheerful.
“And I suppose you’re immune to hangovers,” says England.
“I didn’t get that drunk,” returns America.
Oh, he didn’t, did he? Bastard, and England supposes that he would do that sober, too. Flirt, seduce with hints of tongue and a struggle for dominance that - that England won, come to think of it, pinning America underneath him and slicking him up, finger by finger, with France whispering filthy things, breath hot in England’s ear -
And Jefferson, Jefferson with eyes that could become shockingly vulnerable shockingly fast, and with a quiet passion that England never would have suspected, had he not - had he not found himself in Jefferson’s bed.
He recalls, now, that he didn’t just take America, that he traced the scars under his arm, the ones that haven’t quite faded. And while he did, America made the sweetest noises, soft and pained, and he pulled England closer - fiercely, with the fire of an eagle, like he’d never let him go.
And suddenly the expansive space of Monticello is very much inadequate for England’s needs.
When England looks up, America is watching him, eyes wide and a little dark, and, for once, he has no ready sarcasm. Neither have any ready sarcasm.
England clears his throat. “Well, then,” he huffs, and America kisses him.
The teacup drops off to the side, bouncing but not breaking, and America’s lips are warm, a little wet, a little morning-breath; England’s hand skims up the skin of America’s back, and he feels it, he feels the little, soft gasp that America makes.
“This is a terrible idea,” England points out.
America shrugs. “You’re not the boss of me,” he returns.
England rolls his eyes.
~*~
Hamilton remembers last night very clearly.
He did not anticipate finding Thomas Jefferson at Monticello. He had intended to stop by to speak with England, to consult on the method of government currently under construction by the Council. However, the door was unlocked, the entrance hall empty, and he quite clearly heard voices in the back, in Jefferson’s chambers. Presuming an invitation, he followed the sounds.
The sight that greeted his eyes was one of debauchery he had never thought possible.
Five, five of them, all together. The four of the countries, and Jefferson. Naturally, he focused on Jefferson first, being the most familiar out of the faces there. Jefferson, who was then cupping Canada’s cheek, Canada half on top of him, their lips sealed together. Canada was near clinging to him, and Jefferson was infinitely gentle, Hamilton could already tell, infinitely gentle and stretched thin with want.
And then France, to Hamilton’s shock, climbed over them, trapping Canada between himself and Jefferson, and proceeded to take Jefferson’s mouth, his hand vanishing between them. And judging by the way Canada bucked up against them both, with a whine that trailed off into senseless noise, that hand was doing something lewd indeed.
Jefferson’s eyes opened, widening subtly at Hamilton’s presence. And France turns too, to follow Jefferson’s gaze.
Hamilton had been so certain that a hedonist lay under that cool, reserved exterior. And now that he has confirmation -
“Mon Dieu,” sighs France, “are you going to stand there, Mr. Hamilton, or join us?”
It was not terribly much of a choice, was it.
As soon as Hamilton touched Jefferson, Jefferson reacted; reacted as though his skin was lighting up, as though Hamilton could reach straight through him and touch something far deeper, with hardly any effort.
“Mr. Hamilton,” breathed Jefferson, softly, searching his face.
“Mr. Jefferson,” Hamilton returned, fingertip brushing Jefferson’s cheek.
He did not expect Jefferson to have the same desires as he, nor to be so willing to pursue them; and, indeed, it took not inconsiderable seduction before he could maneuver himself between Jefferson’s legs, begin the judicious application of lubrication, generously provided by France.
And then he and France’s fingers were tangled inside Jefferson, Jefferson’s knuckles pressed into his mouth, expression tightened, choked, so that no noise would escape.
“And which of us should have him, do you think?” asked France, almost conversationally.
Hamilton shot him an appalled look; Jefferson would have, but Hamilton felt the twist of France’s fingers, rode the involuntary buck of Jefferson’s hips.
“Ah, I suppose he wants you,” admitted France, reluctantly. “And you he; I could not mistake it.” He pulled his hand free, trailing slick fingers down Jefferson’s thigh. “He desires desire,” France confided, in Hamilton. “Want him, and he will be satisfied.”
Hamilton did not waste a single movement. And when he had Jefferson, curled up into him, gasping on every exhale; oh, and the pained noise he made, at first penetration, and how Hamilton soothed him; the exquisite surge of desire, in Jefferson’s body, at each movement of Hamilton’s; how, for once, Hamilton did not mind that Jefferson was rendered speechless.
Now he awakens, Jefferson still asleep next to him. Canada is curled against Jefferson, France on the far side, and Hamilton finds that he is not jealous.
Not in the least.
~*~
Canada isn’t sure what to think about what just happened here.
It was just - well, things heated up very quickly. And Canada is particularly vulnerable to persuasion by France and England - and America, for that matter; when England knelt in front of him and undid his shirt, Canada was near trembling. And then his erection was halfway down England’s throat and he was arching, struggling against and for it all at the same time.
“Easy, there,” grinned America, and he brought his arms around Canada’s waist. “You like that, huh?” And when he kissed Canada’s neck, Canada couldn’t - he couldn’t -
And then he squirmed, shocked, as the orgasm ripped through him. Left him gasping, and when he opened his eyes, all he saw was Thomas Jefferson, the only human with the mix of countries, partway entangled with France; and France was leaned forward, whispering into Jefferson’s ear, and Jefferson’s eyes were closed, France’s fingers tracing along the line of his mouth, dipping just inside…
Canada didn’t think he’d have any trouble going for a second round.
He glanced up, behind him - and America’s eyes were caught, absolutely caught on Jefferson and France.
“Boss,” said America, softly, scandalized and not just a little turned on.
“Go,” said Canada, but America didn’t need any permission - he never does. He was over there like a shot, shoving France aside. Which made France laugh, and then he advanced on Canada. Leering.
And minutes later they had all made it to the bedroom, undressed, and Jefferson was kissing Canada. Gentle, the same kind of gentle he was when Canada spoke to him over the network, but with desire all the same.
Hamilton displaced him, but America was right there, practically tackling his brother colony. And then England too, and Canada lost track of the hands on him, who he was kissing, the skin under his fingers. In his memory, it’s all tangled up in pleasure.
Until finally England and America retreated, wrapped up in one another, and France pulled Canada aside. Spoke to him soothingly, in French, with a teasing lust that Canada couldn’t ignore, and brought Canada to a second orgasm even as Canada sucked him off.
No, he doesn’t know what to think, as he wakes up and meet’s France’s eyes; but, he’s okay with not thinking it, for now.
~*~
As America recalls, it wasn’t too difficult to get into the swing of things.
In fact, from pretty much the beginning, he knew this was going to be awesome.
…okay, so maybe that’s not true. Maybe there was a moment or two of him being a little anxious. Because he’s definitely had sex before - yeah, totally! - but he’s not really the orgy type.
But when England was off with Canada, and obviously having a little bit of difficulty, there wasn’t much America wants to do but help out.
Because later he would totally be able to hold it over England that he needed help at all.
Canada smelled nice, he noticed, when they got that close. Sort of like pine and snow, even though there’s not much of either in Nautilus. And it was familiar. Familiar like home, and America misses home.
…not that Nautilus didn’t have its advantages.
“Boss.”
He hardly heard Canada telling him to go. He just went, and slapped France’s hand away from Jefferson. France held his hands up in surrender - and America resisted making a white flag joke, just barely - and retreated.
Jefferson opened his mouth, to speak -
This can’t be really happening, thought America, and he kissed Jefferson hard. Hard and inexperienced, maybe, with a side of clumsy, but he’d never really thought about this before! Not a founding father, not Jefferson, sensitive, quiet, paranoid Jefferson. Jefferson who understands, who gets the whole independence thing.
Jefferson’s hand moved to cup America’s cheek and he steadied the kiss, with the force of experience. Which was funny, because you’d think that a country would have more experience than an oh wow, that was tongue, and wasn’t it nice.
He broke the kiss and fidgeted, a little. “Aren’t you going to, like, say something?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I lack words for this,” Jefferson told him.
“Okay,” said America. Because it was, right?
“You are, without a doubt,” said Jefferson, “one of the most precious things in my world.” And the way he said it - man, the way some of America’s bosses talk! - meant that America knew it was true, without a doubt.
Jefferson rose to his feet, and extended a hand.
Without hesitation, America took it.
Once in Jefferson’s bedchamber, Jefferson was drawn away, and America found himself face-to-face with England.
There was an awkward pause.
“Well, let’s get on with it,” sighed England, and he leans up and touches a kiss to America’s mouth.
Even that simple kiss, which was way too formal, was enough to make America harder than he already was. His throat dry, America coughed, a little. “Um,” he said, and this time the kiss was much hotter, incredibly hot, actually, half England trying to dominate, half America.
When it broke, he smiled, sheepishly. “Guess there was some sexual tension.”
England pulled America back onto the bed, so America was kneeling above him, and, even as England’s hand crept under America’s shirt, America had this feeling that he was going to give in.
But not without a fight, because hey, it was England.
And he was right, he was totally right, because when they struggled he held back and England came out on top, surprised at his victory but taking ruthless advantage. Advantage of that sensitive spot on America’s collarbone, and of the way he could bend his fingers just right to make America break out into a sweat, twist in denied pleasure.
“You’re mine,” said England, on a breath, as he surged up into America, and America choked on a moan.
“You wish,” he returned, and -
And now America is on Jefferson’s portico, and England is looking right at him like there’s not enough air in the world, like he couldn’t even hope to breathe.
Things are definitely not going to be the same again.
~*~
France treats the memories of the night before with fine, delicate care, as he would an especially well-crafted chocolate, or wine; no doubt the night began mostly as a result of his own efforts, but the results, ah, the results were beyond his expectations entirely.
He knew Jefferson had a lewd side to him; otherwise, he would not have enjoyed Paris as he did. And so it was all too easy to draw it out, with bits of French, phrases and encouragements. Endearments.
And France was right - so very right. Jefferson had indeed changed, since France last knew him, but for the more progressive. The newness of the experience drew him in, rather than repulsed him.
Perfect.
And once he has drawn in Les Etats-Unis, well. The web is complete, is it not?
What will France savor, then?
What he has learned of them, of course.
In England, he saw a fierce possession, pride and pain and desire alike in how he treated America.
In Jefferson, he found a debauched freedom fascinating from a man of that time, that age.
In Canada, sweet Canada, the freshness of new desire, an even-handed wanting of each here.
In America, he has seen vulnerability, what lurks behind that beautiful heroic façade.
And, of course, Hamilton, Hamilton who would have nothing to do with France’s depravity yet had an affair of his own; in Hamilton, he uncovered a desire that perhaps Hamilton did not know himself.
Yes. France is satisfied indeed.
~*~
Jefferson remembers enlarging the bed, the night before, in order to accommodate them. It was a trivial feat; Monticello responds to his thoughts as easily as he thinks them, now.
When he awakens, he is quite trapped. Between Canada and Hamilton, and there is France, though he sees neither England nor America. Hopefully they are nearby, and the faint scent of tea would seem to confirm his supposition.
He shifts a bit, to get more comfortable, and Hamilton’s hand touches his ribs, stilling him.
Jefferson can do naught to stop the awakening of desire.
“Oh,” he says, softly, and he turns back to Hamilton. To find, of course, that the other man is certainly awake. Hamilton’s hand trails up to his chest, and pulls him closer.
“If I delay any longer I may lose courage,” confesses Hamilton, against Jefferson’s neck. “Now that I have had you once, I do not think I could bear never to again. We have grown close, you and I; I pray you do not refuse me.”
Jefferson lets out a quiet sigh. Relief, perhaps.
He shifts, onto his back, and Hamilton kisses him. Gentle, teasing, almost, enough to draw Jefferson out, give him just a fraction less than what he wants.
This sigh, now, is in irritation. “Do not tease me,” says Jefferson.
“Your wish is my command.” Hamilton kisses him deeply, now, catching Jefferson’s breath in his chest. And Jefferson does not understand how any person, any being can want this much and still remain whole.
“Hey, guys!”
And there was America, mostly-naked, leading a nearly fully-dressed England back into the room. His smile is bright - “Ready for round two?”
Pairing: Thomas Jefferson / Alexander Hamilton / America / England / France / Canada. Really. I'm - so sorry.
Rating: So very, very NC-17.
Warnings: Anthropomorphic sex. Founding father sex. Historical porn. So, so sorry.
Notes: Dedicated to the person who is well aware that this is her fault. Due to timeline issues, (Canada wasn't a country before Hamilton or Jefferson died, lol) this takes place in the canon of thewake_rp. America is modern, England, France and Canada are from mid-20th century, and Jefferson and Hamilton are from after their respective deaths.
Summary: France treats the memories of the night before with fine, delicate care, as he would an especially well-crafted chocolate, or wine; no doubt the night began mostly as a result of his own efforts, but the results, ah, the results were beyond his expectations entirely.
- - -
England, truth be told, does not recall much of what transpired the prior night. It would be quite easy to blame this on the whys and wherefores of this mysterious city they find themselves in, but perhaps it would be more accurate, strictly speaking, to lay the responsibility at the feet of the alcohol that he consumed from Thomas Jefferson’s expansive, and self-refreshing, cellar of Madeira.
What he does recall is, by necessity, mixed in with a haze of pleasure and arousal that he would find it difficult to forget. And then there are images, images that would be best if he did not remember them at all.
He sips a cup of tea, now, in the portico farthest from Jefferson’s room, still choked close with the smell of sex. He left them there, just minutes ago; astounding, that they all fit in one place. England suspects that the force of Jefferson’s own mind may have contributed to the expansive bed they found themselves in, come morning.
“Hi, England!”
The teacup slips in England’s hands, and he barely catches it, somehow managing to splash scalding tea across his wrist. He curses, lowly, and turns to fix a glare on America, half-dressed and entirely too cheerful.
“And I suppose you’re immune to hangovers,” says England.
“I didn’t get that drunk,” returns America.
Oh, he didn’t, did he? Bastard, and England supposes that he would do that sober, too. Flirt, seduce with hints of tongue and a struggle for dominance that - that England won, come to think of it, pinning America underneath him and slicking him up, finger by finger, with France whispering filthy things, breath hot in England’s ear -
And Jefferson, Jefferson with eyes that could become shockingly vulnerable shockingly fast, and with a quiet passion that England never would have suspected, had he not - had he not found himself in Jefferson’s bed.
He recalls, now, that he didn’t just take America, that he traced the scars under his arm, the ones that haven’t quite faded. And while he did, America made the sweetest noises, soft and pained, and he pulled England closer - fiercely, with the fire of an eagle, like he’d never let him go.
And suddenly the expansive space of Monticello is very much inadequate for England’s needs.
When England looks up, America is watching him, eyes wide and a little dark, and, for once, he has no ready sarcasm. Neither have any ready sarcasm.
England clears his throat. “Well, then,” he huffs, and America kisses him.
The teacup drops off to the side, bouncing but not breaking, and America’s lips are warm, a little wet, a little morning-breath; England’s hand skims up the skin of America’s back, and he feels it, he feels the little, soft gasp that America makes.
“This is a terrible idea,” England points out.
America shrugs. “You’re not the boss of me,” he returns.
England rolls his eyes.
~*~
Hamilton remembers last night very clearly.
He did not anticipate finding Thomas Jefferson at Monticello. He had intended to stop by to speak with England, to consult on the method of government currently under construction by the Council. However, the door was unlocked, the entrance hall empty, and he quite clearly heard voices in the back, in Jefferson’s chambers. Presuming an invitation, he followed the sounds.
The sight that greeted his eyes was one of debauchery he had never thought possible.
Five, five of them, all together. The four of the countries, and Jefferson. Naturally, he focused on Jefferson first, being the most familiar out of the faces there. Jefferson, who was then cupping Canada’s cheek, Canada half on top of him, their lips sealed together. Canada was near clinging to him, and Jefferson was infinitely gentle, Hamilton could already tell, infinitely gentle and stretched thin with want.
And then France, to Hamilton’s shock, climbed over them, trapping Canada between himself and Jefferson, and proceeded to take Jefferson’s mouth, his hand vanishing between them. And judging by the way Canada bucked up against them both, with a whine that trailed off into senseless noise, that hand was doing something lewd indeed.
Jefferson’s eyes opened, widening subtly at Hamilton’s presence. And France turns too, to follow Jefferson’s gaze.
Hamilton had been so certain that a hedonist lay under that cool, reserved exterior. And now that he has confirmation -
“Mon Dieu,” sighs France, “are you going to stand there, Mr. Hamilton, or join us?”
It was not terribly much of a choice, was it.
As soon as Hamilton touched Jefferson, Jefferson reacted; reacted as though his skin was lighting up, as though Hamilton could reach straight through him and touch something far deeper, with hardly any effort.
“Mr. Hamilton,” breathed Jefferson, softly, searching his face.
“Mr. Jefferson,” Hamilton returned, fingertip brushing Jefferson’s cheek.
He did not expect Jefferson to have the same desires as he, nor to be so willing to pursue them; and, indeed, it took not inconsiderable seduction before he could maneuver himself between Jefferson’s legs, begin the judicious application of lubrication, generously provided by France.
And then he and France’s fingers were tangled inside Jefferson, Jefferson’s knuckles pressed into his mouth, expression tightened, choked, so that no noise would escape.
“And which of us should have him, do you think?” asked France, almost conversationally.
Hamilton shot him an appalled look; Jefferson would have, but Hamilton felt the twist of France’s fingers, rode the involuntary buck of Jefferson’s hips.
“Ah, I suppose he wants you,” admitted France, reluctantly. “And you he; I could not mistake it.” He pulled his hand free, trailing slick fingers down Jefferson’s thigh. “He desires desire,” France confided, in Hamilton. “Want him, and he will be satisfied.”
Hamilton did not waste a single movement. And when he had Jefferson, curled up into him, gasping on every exhale; oh, and the pained noise he made, at first penetration, and how Hamilton soothed him; the exquisite surge of desire, in Jefferson’s body, at each movement of Hamilton’s; how, for once, Hamilton did not mind that Jefferson was rendered speechless.
Now he awakens, Jefferson still asleep next to him. Canada is curled against Jefferson, France on the far side, and Hamilton finds that he is not jealous.
Not in the least.
~*~
Canada isn’t sure what to think about what just happened here.
It was just - well, things heated up very quickly. And Canada is particularly vulnerable to persuasion by France and England - and America, for that matter; when England knelt in front of him and undid his shirt, Canada was near trembling. And then his erection was halfway down England’s throat and he was arching, struggling against and for it all at the same time.
“Easy, there,” grinned America, and he brought his arms around Canada’s waist. “You like that, huh?” And when he kissed Canada’s neck, Canada couldn’t - he couldn’t -
And then he squirmed, shocked, as the orgasm ripped through him. Left him gasping, and when he opened his eyes, all he saw was Thomas Jefferson, the only human with the mix of countries, partway entangled with France; and France was leaned forward, whispering into Jefferson’s ear, and Jefferson’s eyes were closed, France’s fingers tracing along the line of his mouth, dipping just inside…
Canada didn’t think he’d have any trouble going for a second round.
He glanced up, behind him - and America’s eyes were caught, absolutely caught on Jefferson and France.
“Boss,” said America, softly, scandalized and not just a little turned on.
“Go,” said Canada, but America didn’t need any permission - he never does. He was over there like a shot, shoving France aside. Which made France laugh, and then he advanced on Canada. Leering.
And minutes later they had all made it to the bedroom, undressed, and Jefferson was kissing Canada. Gentle, the same kind of gentle he was when Canada spoke to him over the network, but with desire all the same.
Hamilton displaced him, but America was right there, practically tackling his brother colony. And then England too, and Canada lost track of the hands on him, who he was kissing, the skin under his fingers. In his memory, it’s all tangled up in pleasure.
Until finally England and America retreated, wrapped up in one another, and France pulled Canada aside. Spoke to him soothingly, in French, with a teasing lust that Canada couldn’t ignore, and brought Canada to a second orgasm even as Canada sucked him off.
No, he doesn’t know what to think, as he wakes up and meet’s France’s eyes; but, he’s okay with not thinking it, for now.
~*~
As America recalls, it wasn’t too difficult to get into the swing of things.
In fact, from pretty much the beginning, he knew this was going to be awesome.
…okay, so maybe that’s not true. Maybe there was a moment or two of him being a little anxious. Because he’s definitely had sex before - yeah, totally! - but he’s not really the orgy type.
But when England was off with Canada, and obviously having a little bit of difficulty, there wasn’t much America wants to do but help out.
Because later he would totally be able to hold it over England that he needed help at all.
Canada smelled nice, he noticed, when they got that close. Sort of like pine and snow, even though there’s not much of either in Nautilus. And it was familiar. Familiar like home, and America misses home.
…not that Nautilus didn’t have its advantages.
“Boss.”
He hardly heard Canada telling him to go. He just went, and slapped France’s hand away from Jefferson. France held his hands up in surrender - and America resisted making a white flag joke, just barely - and retreated.
Jefferson opened his mouth, to speak -
This can’t be really happening, thought America, and he kissed Jefferson hard. Hard and inexperienced, maybe, with a side of clumsy, but he’d never really thought about this before! Not a founding father, not Jefferson, sensitive, quiet, paranoid Jefferson. Jefferson who understands, who gets the whole independence thing.
Jefferson’s hand moved to cup America’s cheek and he steadied the kiss, with the force of experience. Which was funny, because you’d think that a country would have more experience than an oh wow, that was tongue, and wasn’t it nice.
He broke the kiss and fidgeted, a little. “Aren’t you going to, like, say something?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I lack words for this,” Jefferson told him.
“Okay,” said America. Because it was, right?
“You are, without a doubt,” said Jefferson, “one of the most precious things in my world.” And the way he said it - man, the way some of America’s bosses talk! - meant that America knew it was true, without a doubt.
Jefferson rose to his feet, and extended a hand.
Without hesitation, America took it.
Once in Jefferson’s bedchamber, Jefferson was drawn away, and America found himself face-to-face with England.
There was an awkward pause.
“Well, let’s get on with it,” sighed England, and he leans up and touches a kiss to America’s mouth.
Even that simple kiss, which was way too formal, was enough to make America harder than he already was. His throat dry, America coughed, a little. “Um,” he said, and this time the kiss was much hotter, incredibly hot, actually, half England trying to dominate, half America.
When it broke, he smiled, sheepishly. “Guess there was some sexual tension.”
England pulled America back onto the bed, so America was kneeling above him, and, even as England’s hand crept under America’s shirt, America had this feeling that he was going to give in.
But not without a fight, because hey, it was England.
And he was right, he was totally right, because when they struggled he held back and England came out on top, surprised at his victory but taking ruthless advantage. Advantage of that sensitive spot on America’s collarbone, and of the way he could bend his fingers just right to make America break out into a sweat, twist in denied pleasure.
“You’re mine,” said England, on a breath, as he surged up into America, and America choked on a moan.
“You wish,” he returned, and -
And now America is on Jefferson’s portico, and England is looking right at him like there’s not enough air in the world, like he couldn’t even hope to breathe.
Things are definitely not going to be the same again.
~*~
France treats the memories of the night before with fine, delicate care, as he would an especially well-crafted chocolate, or wine; no doubt the night began mostly as a result of his own efforts, but the results, ah, the results were beyond his expectations entirely.
He knew Jefferson had a lewd side to him; otherwise, he would not have enjoyed Paris as he did. And so it was all too easy to draw it out, with bits of French, phrases and encouragements. Endearments.
And France was right - so very right. Jefferson had indeed changed, since France last knew him, but for the more progressive. The newness of the experience drew him in, rather than repulsed him.
Perfect.
And once he has drawn in Les Etats-Unis, well. The web is complete, is it not?
What will France savor, then?
What he has learned of them, of course.
In England, he saw a fierce possession, pride and pain and desire alike in how he treated America.
In Jefferson, he found a debauched freedom fascinating from a man of that time, that age.
In Canada, sweet Canada, the freshness of new desire, an even-handed wanting of each here.
In America, he has seen vulnerability, what lurks behind that beautiful heroic façade.
And, of course, Hamilton, Hamilton who would have nothing to do with France’s depravity yet had an affair of his own; in Hamilton, he uncovered a desire that perhaps Hamilton did not know himself.
Yes. France is satisfied indeed.
~*~
Jefferson remembers enlarging the bed, the night before, in order to accommodate them. It was a trivial feat; Monticello responds to his thoughts as easily as he thinks them, now.
When he awakens, he is quite trapped. Between Canada and Hamilton, and there is France, though he sees neither England nor America. Hopefully they are nearby, and the faint scent of tea would seem to confirm his supposition.
He shifts a bit, to get more comfortable, and Hamilton’s hand touches his ribs, stilling him.
Jefferson can do naught to stop the awakening of desire.
“Oh,” he says, softly, and he turns back to Hamilton. To find, of course, that the other man is certainly awake. Hamilton’s hand trails up to his chest, and pulls him closer.
“If I delay any longer I may lose courage,” confesses Hamilton, against Jefferson’s neck. “Now that I have had you once, I do not think I could bear never to again. We have grown close, you and I; I pray you do not refuse me.”
Jefferson lets out a quiet sigh. Relief, perhaps.
He shifts, onto his back, and Hamilton kisses him. Gentle, teasing, almost, enough to draw Jefferson out, give him just a fraction less than what he wants.
This sigh, now, is in irritation. “Do not tease me,” says Jefferson.
“Your wish is my command.” Hamilton kisses him deeply, now, catching Jefferson’s breath in his chest. And Jefferson does not understand how any person, any being can want this much and still remain whole.
“Hey, guys!”
And there was America, mostly-naked, leading a nearly fully-dressed England back into the room. His smile is bright - “Ready for round two?”