“Angleterre,” France practically purred, cupping a hand around his ass, “you give us quite a treat today, mon cher.” The meeting was officially disrupted—again.
England, growled, interrupted so suddenly from staring into the deepening blue of America’s eyes, and seized France’s wrist in a vice grip and twisted. “Belt up, you fucking perverted Frog! Or, so help me, Agincourt will seem like a leisurely stroll down your pansy Champs-Élysées!”
France gaped, managing to shake his hand free. “You do not say such things about my belle avenue! Besides, you over-react.”
“Well I did, and I mean it! Ack!” He squawked and pushed away France’s wandering hands. “And keep your filthy French hands off my arse or I will remove them and shove them firmly up yours!”
He heard a deep growl from beside him. America was caught between snarling at France and leering at his legs. England spun back around to America with wide eyes.
“I agree with Francie-pants, England.” Prussia cackled. “You’re one hot piece of ass!”
“That is a very nice look for you, England.” He glanced over across the table; Canada’s unassuming half-smile suddenly unnerved him. Even Canada?! He fought the urge to pout, and sprint out of the room.
America’s growling increased in volume. He thought he heard a muttered, “mine.”
England gaped.
“Prussia, sit back down. Everyone back to—” Germany shot up and shoved his brother back into his seat to much griping. “Although,” he paused, his view of England now unobstructed by chairs, table and other nations, “...Hm...England, have you picked up on your training again?”
“Germany! Not you too!” England stared, thoroughly scandalized that Germany, usually the level head in the midst of the nations’ insanity, had joined the ogling.
“Why not, mi amigo? What’s not to enjoy.” Spain rose from his seat, making eyes and nodding to France. He, too, advanced toward him. Instinctively, England backed up. France hemmed him in from the other side.
“Those jeans do quite suit you...very nicely, comrade.” Russia smiled.
He hadn’t wanted this kind of attention, hadn’t even intended to wear them to the meeting; he had considered reneging at America’s first reaction and running back home, dragging him along.
A few other nations were still in their seats with tissues firmly pressed to their noses. Soon several other countries began to move in on him, a rabbit surrounded by foxes. But not, because he was no weak rabbit.
In a fluid-like movement, England’s leg’s met the chair behind him and he plopped into it; a strong back immediately blocked him from the rest of the room. France was shoved backwards and fell on his ass on the floor.
“What the fuck is wrong with you people!?” America bellowed; his breath came in quiet pants. A hush fell over the room. “You’re like fucking letches!”
“Don’t bother insulting them as such, America. Libertines, the lot of them. They probably hardly care.” They really probably didn’t, England knew.
“Well, yes, Angleterre, Amerique” France stared at England from between America’s legs. “With legs like those...oui? They are very good, lean legs. And flexible, too.” His smirk widened.
“If you don’t stop, I will beat the shit out of you. All of you.”
“That is not a wise threat, America.” Canada loomed over England from behind the chair. When had he moved? “What about you? What do you want, England?” He purred, a coy smile curling his lips and brushed his hands through his hair briefly, and then letting them wander down to his shoulders.
Had the whole world gone bonkers?
“As far as I’m concerned,” England glared, leaning to peer around America, glad that Canada’s hands slid off his shoulders. “You lot can all go and fuck yourselves. You all act as though you’ve never seen a bloke in pair of jeans before.”
“But you fill yours out so very well.” France had risen from the floor and taken another brave step toward him.
“Shove off! This is entirely your fault, you fucking perverted wine-drinking, cheese-eating surrender monkey!”
“My fault!?” He scoffed. “Nonsense. My fault for you appearing in the meeting in jeans that look like they were painted on you, mon cher?”
“They are fitted perfectly well. I’ve had plenty of time to break them in, but—”
Sometimes You Have to Lose to Win 3/?
England, growled, interrupted so suddenly from staring into the deepening blue of America’s eyes, and seized France’s wrist in a vice grip and twisted. “Belt up, you fucking perverted Frog! Or, so help me, Agincourt will seem like a leisurely stroll down your pansy Champs-Élysées!”
France gaped, managing to shake his hand free. “You do not say such things about my belle avenue! Besides, you over-react.”
“Well I did, and I mean it! Ack!” He squawked and pushed away France’s wandering hands. “And keep your filthy French hands off my arse or I will remove them and shove them firmly up yours!”
He heard a deep growl from beside him. America was caught between snarling at France and leering at his legs. England spun back around to America with wide eyes.
“I agree with Francie-pants, England.” Prussia cackled. “You’re one hot piece of ass!”
“That is a very nice look for you, England.” He glanced over across the table; Canada’s unassuming half-smile suddenly unnerved him. Even Canada?! He fought the urge to pout, and sprint out of the room.
America’s growling increased in volume. He thought he heard a muttered, “mine.”
England gaped.
“Prussia, sit back down. Everyone back to—” Germany shot up and shoved his brother back into his seat to much griping. “Although,” he paused, his view of England now unobstructed by chairs, table and other nations, “...Hm...England, have you picked up on your training again?”
“Germany! Not you too!” England stared, thoroughly scandalized that Germany, usually the level head in the midst of the nations’ insanity, had joined the ogling.
“Why not, mi amigo? What’s not to enjoy.” Spain rose from his seat, making eyes and nodding to France. He, too, advanced toward him. Instinctively, England backed up. France hemmed him in from the other side.
“Those jeans do quite suit you...very nicely, comrade.” Russia smiled.
He hadn’t wanted this kind of attention, hadn’t even intended to wear them to the meeting; he had considered reneging at America’s first reaction and running back home, dragging him along.
A few other nations were still in their seats with tissues firmly pressed to their noses. Soon several other countries began to move in on him, a rabbit surrounded by foxes. But not, because he was no weak rabbit.
In a fluid-like movement, England’s leg’s met the chair behind him and he plopped into it; a strong back immediately blocked him from the rest of the room. France was shoved backwards and fell on his ass on the floor.
“What the fuck is wrong with you people!?” America bellowed; his breath came in quiet pants. A hush fell over the room. “You’re like fucking letches!”
“Don’t bother insulting them as such, America. Libertines, the lot of them. They probably hardly care.” They really probably didn’t, England knew.
“Well, yes, Angleterre, Amerique” France stared at England from between America’s legs. “With legs like those...oui? They are very good, lean legs. And flexible, too.” His smirk widened.
“If you don’t stop, I will beat the shit out of you. All of you.”
“That is not a wise threat, America.” Canada loomed over England from behind the chair. When had he moved? “What about you? What do you want, England?” He purred, a coy smile curling his lips and brushed his hands through his hair briefly, and then letting them wander down to his shoulders.
Had the whole world gone bonkers?
“As far as I’m concerned,” England glared, leaning to peer around America, glad that Canada’s hands slid off his shoulders. “You lot can all go and fuck yourselves. You all act as though you’ve never seen a bloke in pair of jeans before.”
“But you fill yours out so very well.” France had risen from the floor and taken another brave step toward him.
“Shove off! This is entirely your fault, you fucking perverted wine-drinking, cheese-eating surrender monkey!”
“My fault!?” He scoffed. “Nonsense. My fault for you appearing in the meeting in jeans that look like they were painted on you, mon cher?”
“They are fitted perfectly well. I’ve had plenty of time to break them in, but—”