Warnings: terrible humor, fluff, quick naughty language, and a little bit of exhaustion-induced personification…
...
The cake looked rather like the body of a very wounded animal- with the batter having managed to turn grey, and the icing just a shade too dark pink. Francis lowered his brow, hand on his chin in a very thoughtful manner, entirely unsure of what to say.
"Well?" Arthur insisted, holding the platter containing said monstrosity forward further yet, and giving the Frenchman an opportunity to notice what appeared to be chocolate chunks- chips would be an understatement- protruding from odd angles of the cake and looking too much like little upturned toes…
"I don't know how to respond to this…" he muttered, the faint appetite he'd acquired at the mention of food quickly vanishing.
Arthur frowned. "Oh you hate it, don't you?" He spun and dropped the cake on the counter- Francis swore he saw it flinch upon impact- looking very cross. "The one time I decide to do something nice for you on your bloody Bastille Day, and you make a face like you're about to hurl." He then proceeded to mutter something along the lines of "ungrateful wanker…"
"Non, non, Arthur," Francis quickly interrupted, stepping past him to regard the catastrophe now resting on the counter. "It's very kind of you- it looks-" he cringed, "It looks-"
Arthur gave him one long moment of a raised brow, before his threatening expression melted slightly into something more like dejection. "It looks bloody fucking awful."
Francis sighed in relief, turning away from the cake. "Oh thank god you agree, mon Angleterre, because I could not find a way to put that nicely."
Arthur snorted and continued to frown. He hadn't expected him to agree… Francis chuckled, and wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist.
"Désolé, Arthur, but you said it yourself," he pulled the grumbling Englishman close, and rested his chin on top of his head, "But I still love it very much."
"But you won't eat it," Arthur replied flatly, "You hate my cooking."
Francis laughed, and took Arthur's face between his hands with a soft squeeze. "Oh Arthur, there are many things of yours that I would love to put into my mouth, but your food is just not one of them."
Arthur cursed himself for the blush that then crossed his face. "I just thought I'd be- nice- for a change."
"And it was very nice of you, cheri," Francis kissed his lips briefly, "But I'm more grateful for the thought than the- uh- cake itself."
Arthur sighed, but allowed himself a faintly amused smile. "You still want sex, don't you?"
Francis mirrored his grin and expanded it into a fully brazen smirk. "Nothing would make me happier…"
The next kiss was far less brief. Francis gathered the blushing Brit into his arms, and they stumbled on the first familiar steps toward the stairs and the bedroom. The cake was left alone on the counter, and, feeling neglected, struggled to its chocolate feet, and crawled away.
...
Why does everything I write end up with implied sex? WHY?
Not that I mind, I was just wondering… Anyway, just thought I'd do some fluff at… 3:06 in the morning. And I blame JJ for all of it: keeping me up, and giving me this unfortunately amusing idea. It doesn't make much sense, since there's really no plot at all, and it's nowhere near Bastille Day… BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER BECAUSE IT'S FRUK AND YOU LOVE IT ANYWAY.
I promise I'll submit some GerIta or something eventually, but I'm having trouble not writing porn for the two of them… Aaaaand I'm going to sleep now. POSITIVE REVIEWS, PLEASE! I'm semi-unconscious in writing this…