"'Ello gorgeous," France murmurs in your ear from behind you. If you aren't trying to be the one thing he hates, a tease, it'd have sent shivers across your spine. He snakes his hands along your hips, kissing the skin delicately where your cute midriff top fits snugly.

You roll your (e/c) eyes. "Francis, are you talking to yourself again?" You saunter away from him, propping your elbows on the countertop, not meeting his lusty gaze. Or basically, his normal gaze.

"Ohonhonhon mon cherie.~" The sexiest smile plays across France's lips, but you don't dare return it. You still don't look at him, in fear of laughing out loud. So you snicker extremely quietly.

Unfortunately, France's ears are like a bat's. He just ignores Britain every time the limey tells him to piss off.

"Are you laughing at me, mon amour?" France jerks his head away, pretending to be hurt.

"You're such a drama queen," you scoff, pursing your lips out on purpose. You painted on his favourite shade, red, just to get him worked up. Honestly, it's hysterical. He's always the tease. But apparently, today is a day to switch roles.

Slowly, you stride over to him, the way a runway model displays the beautiful authentic designer clothes she has on, and get thisclose to his face. He smirks at you when you take a beautiful lock of his gleaming blonde hair, wrapping it around your index finger.

"What's wrong Francey-Pants?" you ask innocently. You swear his right eye twitches, the blue orbs losing their happy sparkle. He's not really smiling anymore. He wants you, and he isn't getting his way.

Finally, after what seems like a billion years of your flirtatious gestures, you go on your tippy-toes, planting the softest kiss on France's amazing lips. You want the kiss to be longer, but you know if it lasts over a second, you've lost yourself. You'll give into France's sexual desires. And you can't have him win. You grin at the sight of him trying to pull you closer, him trying to thrust his tongue into your mouth, and mostly, him being romantically pathetic.

"Oh, just look at the time." You glance towards the small clock nailed to your creme-braided hallway. "Looks like I'm going to be late for that... thing." Fake sadness oozes out your voice, spreading onto the words, like toast on butter. You're surprised at how still your lover is. He stares down at you with empty eyes, and says nothing.

"Bye babe," you call, doing your catwalk towards the rosewood door. As, you turn the knob, France lunges for you with a groan. Your body meets the ground, the country grinning triumphantly on top of you.

"Mon cherie, you cannot leave now." You see that same twinkle in his eyes, and that oh-my-God-I'm-speechless-and-sad France is completely gone. He never existed. It was just a show.

"You know how kissing is the language of love?" he breathes seductively, his face so close to yours, your long, coal black eyelashes intertwine with his. He smells of roses and baguettes.

"Yes," you say. He's driving you mad. What you wouldn't give to be the one on top of him...

"Well, maybe you and I should have a long talk." His fingertips cradle the back of your neck, lifting your head up slightly, allowing his lips to finally coincide with yours. His kisses are needy and urgent, tongue diving into your mouth, exploring every corner. It later nips at your neck, suckling on your bare collarbone. Your favourite top has been discarded in the corner, the thick fabric a pile of yellow. You moan, deciding you'll leave the teasing up to him next time.

You wonder lustfully how long this conversation will last.~