Ah, hello~ A fic in English once in a while : D Something that popped in my mind some days backwards, so I had to write it out. It's been a while since I seriously wrote anything in English, and I'm not really all that good at proof reading my own texts, so mistakes are prone to exist, and I apologize for those. If you find them, I'd be ever so happy if you could point them out. I also hope France's accent isn't too weird. ( Btw, why isn't there a category for "oh-shit" moments?)
Warnings: Swearing, nudity, molesting and harassing, France
I do not own any of mentioned characters, only the settings and the context (more or less). Both human and country names used.
Hope you like o/
The first thing Arthur noticed was the light. It was everywhere, scorching his retinas painfully, and he hadn't even opened his eyes yet. Immediately after the light he noticed he had a headache. No, that was an understatement – he felt like his head was full of tiny people, bickering amongst themselves loudly in high pitched, nasal voices and fighting with humongous sledgehammers, wrecking immense havoc inside his poor skull.
The Briton groaned and reached a hand to pull the covers over his head, the thick material (thankfully!) blocking the light, which in turn eased his headache, if only a little, but still. When he was slowly starting to drift back to sleep, he noticed the third thing, a strange but still oddly familiar scent in the blanket. Disregarding it, however, the groggy nation shifted to lay on his back for a more comfortable sleeping position. And that is when he noticed the fourth thing – he felt someone's arm on his stomach, draped around his waist. That also gave him the knowledge to realize the fifth thing. He was stark naked.
Suddenly, even though he still felt drowsy and exhausted and his what he had concluded was a hangover was literally murdering him on his every second awake, Arthur found he didn't really want to go to sleep anymore. Taking an acknowledged risk on behalf of his eyesight, the island nation slowly lowered the warm covers from his eyes, cringing when the light once again attacked him. After taking a momentum to get as adjusted to the onset of the harsh lights as possible in his condition, he kept on the slow movements, turning his head to the side. Inhaling deeply to brace himself, Arthur once again noticed the scent from earlier, which now gave him chills. Sluggishly he started to open his eyes, slowly both because he dreaded the lights and also because he wasn't keen on facing the person who he had undoubtedly spent the night with. Once he got his eyes open it still took him a few seconds to adjust to the lightness before he could see. And what he saw first were locks of golden, curly hair, which was just enough for him to identify the person. After acknowledging a sickening ache on his lower regions he realized also the sixth and maybe the most horrifying thing (actually that would probably be the seventh, but he didn't know it at the time) on that morning.
First it should probably be noted that the person sleeping next to him was his lifelong rival and nemesis, who else than the personification of the country of 'love', France.
So the sixth thing Arthur realized that morning was that he, the Great-Britain, and his said still fast asleep enemy had had sex.
Momentarily forgetting his shooting headache due to the shock of this realization Arthur yelped and shot up, trying to escape the bed as fast as possible. The quick movement brought the hangover back tenfold though, attacking him with a wave of nausea. All these symptoms of the after effect of digesting too much alcohol made the panicking Brit lose his balance, causing him to fall off the bed.
During the flashing moments of panic when he realized he was falling England flailed his arms desperately, trying to grab something, anything, to stop his fall. His left hand found and tightly grasped the nightstand, but instead of holding his unbalanced weight the flimsy table went falling right with him. It landed with a mighty crash, throwing the lamp that was on top of it and a few shelves with the items that were inside them to scatter around the floor and some on top of the fallen man. And if that wasn't enough Arthur himself landed hitting the back of his head with a loud bang on the wall next to the bed, which instantly resulted with moans of pain and strings of heavily rated profanities from the said Brit.
Francis woke up with a start from his own deep slumber to the ungodly noise coming from way too close for his taste. Groaning, he lifted his hand to rub his eyes. The Frenchman's own hangover and grogginess clouded the reality from him, and it took him a while to figure out what had caused such a racket. Once his brains registered the empty space next to him and the angry grumbling from somewhere beyond the edge of the bed, he figured out the situation, allowing a small smirk to form on his face.
Clutching his even more throbbing head the fallen nation kept muttering curses, deeply disappointed of the fact that this wasn't just an extremely twisted nightmare, but seemed to be real after all – oh yes, that pain was very real to him. Rubbing the raw spot and the fast forming lump on his head he kept on cursing everything, the bed, the wall, the nightstand, the bloody frog arsehole, himself, his hangover, so he didn't notice a shadow of a person blocking some of the light.
"Bonne matin, soleil", a deep sing-a-song voice purred, startling Arthur out of his attempt to list every single English curse and he snapped his eyes open (not the smartest move, as he soon learned when his headache gave a particularly painful throb from the sudden brightness) to notice the cheeky Frenchman he hated so much laying lazily on the bed, looking at him with a cheshire, even a bit predatory smirk on his face. Ignoring his pain Arthur instinctively retreated as far from the bed as possible (which wasn't that far in the tiny space between the bed, the wall and the fallen nightstand).
Unfazed of the younger blonds futile attempts France kept his eyes on him, the blasted smirk never disappearing.
"Though, I would zink ze bed would be much more comfortable zan ze floor, non?" he continued, blue eyes flicking over the exposed skin in front of him, "not to say I wouldn't enjoy ze view."
Catching on the meaning of the other's words and line of sight the Briton flushed in a shade of red Francis was certain was a whole new color and reached for the blanket on the bed – only for it to be yanked away from his reach by the elder, denying him the coverage of the fabric smirking all the while. With a frustrated groan Arthur concluded on lifting his legs and hugging his knees, the position not covering quite enough so he'd be comfortable (not that he ever was fully comfortable in the company of the Frenchman), but just covering the essentials to ease him a little under the aqua coloured stare.
"Stay the hell away from me, bloody pervert!" Arthur all but yelled menacingly, tightening his position even more. Francis switched the smirk into a playful, dramatized pout.
"Oh come now, don't be like zat", with a swift movement, skillfully hiding the small swaying of his lingering hangover, the French self-proclaimed frère aîné was right in front of Arthur, who blushed even more because of the close proximity and the lack of clothing on either males.
"I-I said stay away!" Trapped between the wall, the nightstand and the harassing Frenchman Arthur only had one way to escape, but it would require of exposing himself to said Frenchman once again, which England had deemed extremely dangerous, especially with his rampaging hangover which had already eaten a lot of his strength and coordination, making him an extremely easy prey. Still, he couldn't just stay here either – as well as Arthur did know Francis he was fairly sure the other would not just leave him alone after getting him cornered so well.
After a moment of hesitation England finally decided that his odds at getting away as untouched as possible were better if he tried fleeing now, he got up quickly and started to walk away from France. He didn't get too far though when a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back, making him land on the bed. The quick movement made Arthur's aching head dizzy, but he forced himself to recover quickly and half-blindly tried to get up. Once again the Briton was out of luck as a hand landed on his bare chest, pushing him back down. After the world stopped spinning the green eyes met the mischievous blues, whose owner was hovering on top of the younger male.
"Tst tst, cher, you were much more fun last night", the accented voice sang as France leaned forward slowly, closer to the frozen Englishman.
"So much more..." he whispered in other's ear, letting his hand wander downwards the Brits body from his chest, "obedient", the older finished with a teasing nibble at the other's earlobe, deepening England's blush, if even possible.
"And bloody drunk", the latter added angrily, slapping away the wandering hand, which had reached his abdomen, and proceeded on pushing the other away from him.
"You took advantage of a drunken man, you bloody pervert!"
France, ignoring the other's anger and attempts of pushing him off, started planting kisses down the younger nations neck.
"Zat is 'ardly ze case, Sourcils", his smirk widened a bit when he noticed how the already tense Brit flinched at the use of the nickname, "you were ze one who bounced on me, after all."
"I did no such thing! You're a filthy liar!" It wasn't really all that surprising how England rushed to deny everything.
"Ze fact zat you don't remember it doesn't mean it didn't 'appen, cherie", France said calmly, now kissing the younger's collarbone.
"Well, it still didn't happen!" the stubborn Briton claimed, and with a new push managed to actually gain a few centimeters between them.
"And would you stop that? Ugh, just get off of me already!"
"Non, et non", with a swift movement the French bastard had the younger's wrists pinned to the bed, making him completely helpless. According to the blush that was now winning clearly in it's rivalry to tomatoes and the widened, fear filled forest green eyes England also knew his current situation. And he did not like it, not one bit.
"You bloody... We don't even have time for... for... Don't we have another meeting today?" he tried struggling himself free, but that only resulted in France to tighten his grip and push the younger blond deeper into the mattress.
"If it is time you're worried about, zen don't, for we 'ave plenty", the French chuckled at the sight of the confused look on the other's (oh so adorable) face. Once again he leaned in to plant kisses down England's jaw and neck.
"A while ago I got ze word zat ze meeting was adjourned to tomorrow."
"What?" Arthur shrieked and turned his head in a futile attempt to get away from the molesting male. "You're lying, aren't you? Why would it be adjourned?"
"I am not lying", Francis countered, pausing in his actions for a while to look England in the eyes.
"I didn't get all ze details, but what I gathered it was somezing about 'Germany not wanting to deal with such amount of 'angover', apparently." While speaking the frog took advantage of the horrorstruck Brit as the latter processed all the information and the meaning of it and moved the other's wrist to one hand. The now free hand he lowered back to touch the lithe body beneath him.
"So", the elder blond purred, smirking once again as he noticed the shivers his touch sent through England's body, "we 'ave all ze time we need..."
When he felt the skilled French lips on his own and the slender fingers wander dangerously low on his body, Arthur realized the seventh and the final thing for that morning:
No matter if he liked it or not, he wouldn't get away from there even relatively untouched, after all.
Reviews, comments and especially critics would be most wonderful‹3