He should have known, really. Should have just gone back to sleep and let that bloody pirate rot outside his door. It figured that on the one day he decided to keep things quiet, England had to go party enough for two. Fortunately, the lobby was marble, which meant no wet carpeting to clean up. Unfortunately, it still meant that he had vomit all over his favourite silk dressing gown and his fluffy bedroom slippers. With a small noise of disgust, he dropped England into the pool of his own vomit and started pulling off his clothes.
There was no saving the dressing gown, he noted rather irritably, using it to wipe off his legs so that he didn't trek vomit all over the rest of his house. If England had decided to throw up outside, things would have been much easier: he could have used the hose, and possibly chased the stupid drunk away. But no, England was England, and England always had to cause trouble for him, so here he was, rummaging around his rather cold kitchen, in the nude, for cleaning instruments before the vomit ate away at his marble floor.
A pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, and his hand snapped out for a knife before he realised that it was only England. The smell of alcohol, sweat and vomit caught up with its owner and he felt slightly nauseous having to breathe it in.
If England had trekked the vomit all over his carpet, someone was going to get hurt. Badly. In more ways than one.
"France. Fraaaaaaance, Fraaaaance, France," mumbled England against his shoulder. "Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"
"What?" he snapped, and the arms around him hugged him tighter.
"Je t'aime. God, you're so hot, I want to fuck you."
On a scale of one to ten, with one being sober and ten being smashed, England probably rated about fourteen if he was saying stuff like that. Perfect, just perfect. This meant that he wouldn't even be able to get England to clean up after himself, not until at least the morning. Somewhere between the door and here, England had somehow lost all of his clothes, and France could only hope that he'd left them all at the lobby, where it was easy to clean.
Once upon a time, if someone had had the gall to wander around his house naked, he would have bent him or her over the nearest convenient object and had his way. But time had changed. Actions now had repercussions that he would rather not face, so he had been relatively good. In fact, he had been enjoying his mellower life, safe in the knowledge that war within Europe was becoming less likely with every passing day.
But England was really trying his patience, pressing sloppy kisses against his back and running clumsy hands up and down his front.
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Dues: Part 1
(Anonymous) 2009-05-05 07:18 pm (UTC)(link)There was no saving the dressing gown, he noted rather irritably, using it to wipe off his legs so that he didn't trek vomit all over the rest of his house. If England had decided to throw up outside, things would have been much easier: he could have used the hose, and possibly chased the stupid drunk away. But no, England was England, and England always had to cause trouble for him, so here he was, rummaging around his rather cold kitchen, in the nude, for cleaning instruments before the vomit ate away at his marble floor.
A pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, and his hand snapped out for a knife before he realised that it was only England. The smell of alcohol, sweat and vomit caught up with its owner and he felt slightly nauseous having to breathe it in.
If England had trekked the vomit all over his carpet, someone was going to get hurt. Badly. In more ways than one.
"France. Fraaaaaaance, Fraaaaance, France," mumbled England against his shoulder. "Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"
"What?" he snapped, and the arms around him hugged him tighter.
"Je t'aime. God, you're so hot, I want to fuck you."
On a scale of one to ten, with one being sober and ten being smashed, England probably rated about fourteen if he was saying stuff like that. Perfect, just perfect. This meant that he wouldn't even be able to get England to clean up after himself, not until at least the morning. Somewhere between the door and here, England had somehow lost all of his clothes, and France could only hope that he'd left them all at the lobby, where it was easy to clean.
Once upon a time, if someone had had the gall to wander around his house naked, he would have bent him or her over the nearest convenient object and had his way. But time had changed. Actions now had repercussions that he would rather not face, so he had been relatively good. In fact, he had been enjoying his mellower life, safe in the knowledge that war within Europe was becoming less likely with every passing day.
But England was really trying his patience, pressing sloppy kisses against his back and running clumsy hands up and down his front.
Re: Dues: Part 1 (Not OP)
(Anonymous) 2009-05-06 11:04 am (UTC)(link)I love seeing France being so... thoughtful. Wonderful, please continue
Re: Dues: Part 1 (Not OP)
(Anonymous) 2009-05-06 01:48 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Dues: Part 1
(Anonymous) 2009-05-06 01:29 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Dues: Part 1
(Anonymous) 2009-05-06 08:21 pm (UTC)(link)