This is a de-anon from the kink meme. Mainly posting this to placate my followers because I havent updated "Extremely British Professor" in a long time OTL I promise I'll get back to it! This is one of the stories I have done while I am on my hiatus. The other one is still in progress on the kink meme. I'll post one chapter a day I guess, as this is only 5 chapters long.
When England pushed open the double doors to the conference room, suitcase in hand, he didn't expect any different sight from the last hundred meetings to greet him, and he was right. Germany stood up in the front of the room, inspecting the podium and projection screen, while Prussia stared at his laptop nearby in boredom. France was conversing with Spain and both seemed to be cooing over the Italies sitting next to them. As England made his way to a seat near the front of the room, he saw one Italian stand and begin to stalk away, yanking the other along behind. The one pulling—Romano, he assumed, —hastily made his way over to the other side of the table, a deep scowl marring his face the whole time. Because both Italians were heading the same direction as England, Feliciano just happened to stumble and knock heads with England.
If he had just taken longer strides, or maybe walked at a slightly slower pace, the collision never would have happened. But it did, and England immediately felt his legs go weak. He staggered backwards, a hand covering the spot where he and North Italy collided, and collapsed into a chair, dropping his suitcase to the floor. England moved the hand covering his forehead into his line of vision—no blood, of course, but his head still hurt like hell. Absentmindedly, he ran a finger over his forehead and, in turn, part of his right eyebrow.
At the touch, his own touch, a shudder ran through him like electricity through a wire. With a gasp and a moan—which could easily be written off as a moan of pain, England thought—he slumped down into the chair. Well now, he had nearly forgotten about that little attribute. It went to show that he really hadn't gotten any in quite a while…
England's train of thought was cut off by a spluttering Italian running up to him, waving his hands frantically.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, England! My fratello was just pulling so hard and I couldn't keep up and—"
"It's quite all right, Italy. Really, I'm fine." England reassured with a smile, straightening up in the chair a bit. No gentleman should slump that low. Italy smiled back at him and his brother apologized, too, for causing the collision. Just as the two began to turn away, Italy whipped back around to England.
"Wait! I just noticed, your eyebrow is all messed up! Let me fix it, at least, you don't want to walk around like that all day, ve." Next thing England knew, a hand was reaching up towards his face. He tried to stop the boy, but Italy was insistent.
England had to admit; the shocks of pleasure that overran his mind and travelled through his body as Italy touched him were quite amazing. He saw more than felt his own eyes flutter closed, and that soft moan might have been his—he really couldn't tell. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had an inkling that this was a bad thing, but, honestly, how could anything that felt this good be anything but?
Suddenly, the ministrations stopped and England forced his eyes open. He was met with the sight of both Italies still standing before him in the chair. Romano was farther away, one eyebrow arched up and a look of disbelief on his features, while Feliciano was leaned slightly forward, one hand still hovering in midair, away from his eyebrow.
"Ve, England did you try to fall asleep? I just touched your eyebrow for a second…"the Italian trailed off, unsure of what to so.
England stiffened, his eyes widening a bit, knowing he was caught in the most awkward situation possible. His mouth opened and closed several times, attempting to formulate something, anything, to say, but the Englishman's words just died on his tongue each time.
"I…"
The awkward silence continued for a few more seconds, the Italians only staring at England, who was still slightly slumped back in the chair. Luckily, or not so, for England, France chose this moment to sweep in next to Feliciano.
"Ah, mon cher, what are you—oh." The light in France's eyes morphed into a knowing, and sensual, glance for just a moment when he spotted England—splayed out in the conference chair with a slight blush across his cheeks. It disappeared in the next second, though, and he turned back to the Italies. "Perhaps you two should go find your seats? I will help Angleterre recompose himself." The two left, Romano glancing back one last time before Feliciano pulled him along, already having returned to his ever cheery disposition.
As soon as the brothers were gone France faced England, his fingertips pressed together in front of him and a playful look on his face. "Well, I did not know the great and mighty Arthur had any erogenous spots, as they call them." He said with a smirk. England did not respond, his limbs weighed down with a boneless feeling from the pleasure that had previously ran through him. "Perhaps I could…help you along?"
Before the Englishman could protest, France rotated the chair away from the other nations and sat right down in England's lap. The back of the chair was high enough, he decided—only the crown of his head would be visible over its back. Without hesitation, France placed four of his fingers on the side of England's face and ran a thumb over one bushy eyebrow. A gasp and spasm ripped through the smaller nation's body, and he finally seemed to find his voice.
"S-stop it. I-ah-I don't want this." England asserted, back arching slightly off the back of the chair against his will. France gave him a smug smile and pressed his thumb across the eyebrow again.
"Oh, I don't know, Angleterre. This" he grabbed England's hardening member through his trousers, "tells me otherwise."
At the touch, England let out a moan; an honest, long, drawn out moan which he had been holding in since the Frenchman had begun stroking him. France's smirk only grew. "That's a good boy. You don't have to resist this, you know. You need to relax…" Soon another hand settled in on England's temple, and the shocks of pleasure doubled as both erogenous eyebrows were assaulted.
A series of gasps and breathy moans escaped England's mouth, and somewhere in the back of his mind he garnered the coherence to raise a hand in an attempt to conceal the sounds coming from his mouth. The action was pointless, though, because a particularly hard stroke sent him reeling, his hands latching on to the arms of the chair. He certainly wasn't getting quieter, but France didn't care. Soon enough, the noise coming from the chair grew loud enough to attract the attention of the other nations.
"Hey France, what'cha got over there?" came Gilbert's voice through the quieting conference room. More and more of the nations were turning their gazes to the chair and the top of France's head. The Frenchman gave England a dark smirk, and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek before climbing out of the chair. England, much to his own horror, weakly reached for France as he stood, whining at the loss of touch.
"What I have, mes amis," France began, puffing out his chest and pressing a hand to it, "is a…special treat, shall we say. I think we should…seize the moment and make the best of this situation…" he explained as he rotated the chair around, revealing England to the crowd of nations—slumped down in an office chair with his legs spread wide, clothes rumpled, and an expression that, France was sure, just screamed 'iFuck me/i'. Specifically, the light flush from earlier had darkened and his lips glistened with tiny flecks of spit. His eyelids were lowered, hooding his eyes in just the right way to turn them a deep, wanting emerald green. Gilbert was the first to respond.
"Hot damn, Francis. How the hell did you get to him that fast?"
"The answer is simple, really." He folded his arms over the back of the chair, but then lowered one arm to tease the skin surrounding the other man's thick brows. England's forehead began to twitch. "These lovely growths are, surprisingly, quite sensitive." France finally ran his index finger fleetingly over England's right brow. He groaned at the stroke— it definitely wasn't enough.
France flicked his eyes back up to the waiting crowd, trying to gauge the other nations' reactions. Germany looked quite perturbed, Prussia and Spain had widening smiles adorning their faces, and South Korea looked a bit confused, leaning over to whisper to China. The rest of the nations only looked unsure.
"Well, you're not going to just keep him all for yourself, are you?" asked Prussia, stepping forward. France's mouth twisted into a devilish smirk.
"Why, of course not, mon ami."