ENGLAND FUCKS EVERYONE! SEX EXTRAVAGANZA. Except not.
Cracky subject? Yes. Cracky fic? Not really...
Rating: T because there is no explicit stuff.
Pairings: England/Spain, England/Prussia, England/China, England/Russia, England/Lithuania, England/Greece, England/Turkey, England/Belgium, England/All the Nordics, England/America, England/Germany, England/Canada, England/Poland, , , England/Japan, England/Seychelles, England/Switzerland, England/Taiwan, England/Vietnam, England/Hong Kong, England/Estonia, England/Austria, England/Hungary, England/France.
(Told you it was a sex extravaganza – some are much more prominent than others.
Summary: England muses on the people he's had sex with, and what it meant to him. Includes the word 'halcyon' (so proud).
The pairings in this are all listed, but some are detailed while others are just mentioned. Some are pretty damn cool. Read at your own risk. Also, dates may not be accurate... Spain is somewhere in the 1600s, Russia in the early 1800s, America just after WWI, Poland just before WWII, Itabros just after WWII, Japan just after Hiroshima/Nagasaki, no idea about the others...
Also! How about some trivia (hardly canon) ... about a previous fanfic? Cool, huh? Today's trivia topic... 'Split Second':
1. The weapon used were very tiny, microscopic little robots that fly into the brain and kill.
2. The weapons only affect those on the land of the country – anyone jumping at the right second would be safe, as would anyone in the water/out of the country... people would figure this out kinds quick, so a lot less people die than you think. Apart from in the first countries struck. Sorry, Korea and Russia.
3. Japan and Hungary have a kid and call it Hungaripan. It is near Antarctica. Latvia marries Sealand (who survives due to not being a country).
... PANTS OUT. ENJOY THE FIC! (Especially the ending. ahahahhahahahahahahah)... the paragraphs looked so much longer on Word...
./.
Well it was obvious that shagging Spain would be inevitable. Pretty good, it was; those pirate days filled with havoc and the sweet rusty tang of blood staining the ships. Those days when the strength of your army was equal to the size and general aesthetics of your hat. Spain and I would fight for days; armada and traitors; sword and gunpowder; arrogant Spaniard and arrogant Englishman. Those sweet, halcyon days when our polished swords would clang together with almighty and glorious fury. It had to happen one day. That lusting glint in his eyes when our blades would collide, that grin that broke out whenever I saw his ships – we were building our way up to unavoidable and passionate sex.
It happened on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean, pressed up against some native tree. He wasn't my first – God no – but it was the first time that it meant something, the first time where I felt control. We dropped our bloodstained blades and I knocked his hat off his mess of chestnut curls. He crashed his lips onto mine and pushed me against that tree; I remember holding my hat on with one hand the entire time, and I remember laughing heartily when Spain screamed my name at the climax of it all. We returned to our respective ships and fought for many more years, always remembering that phenomenal evening every time we annihilated each other's ships.
"We're just building ourselves up for another fuck, idiot!" He'd always shout at me, gun pointed at my forehead and a flirtatious smile on his olive-skinned face.
"'Course we are, cunt!" I'd laugh back, pointing my own gun at him and tracing his jaw line gently with my sword. "It always comes down to sex."
And indeed it did. We'd fight, we'd steal and we'd fuck every time we met. I always kicked his hat aside and kept my own one on, and I always laughed when he screamed my name.
Swords, stealing and sex. The sensual sunsets and rocking ships of the days with Spain were a much simpler time; battles and fucking, that's all it was.
It didn't take long for Prussia to want in. The silver-haired arrogant prick found me one day in the streets of London not too long after the affairs with Spain had died down. My grandeur was still there, and I still smirked at him with defiance in the same way I'd smirked at Spain before the fucking started. Prussia leant casually against the wall next to me and kicked a pebble across the paved street.
"You're pretty fuckin' hot." He laughed. Then left.
Prussia said that same exact sentence every day for weeks, and it only changed when he found me on the deck of a ship one day. He stroked the wood of the majestic boat and stroked the feather in my majestic hat. He stared right into my eyes with those crimson orbs and licked his pale mainland lips.
"You did it with Spain on this ship, then?" He asked, draping an arm around my shoulder.
"Spain and I do nothing but fight anymore." I replied with a grin. "Got too boring when every fight ended with a fuck."
I lost my hat to the seas that day, when Prussia grabbed the back of my head and forced his tongue down my throat. It happened right there and then on the deck, thrashing wildly on the wood and thanking the Lord that the only ones watching were the seagulls.
Prussia never talked to me outside of sex. We'd see each other occasionally, give a polite nod and walk away to fight and conquer and whatever else we nations did for fun back then.
And every week, Friday, at sunset, I'd go to my ship and he'd be waiting on the deck. Shining hair ruffled by the fresh sea wind and blood-red eyes alight with fiery lust. I'd shove him roughly against the mast and force him to his knees, I'd make him beg for it and then push him to the ground and not leave the ship until well into the night.
Then Prussia just came less and less until after one last half-hearted fuck, I walked to the edge of the ship and looked over at the moonlit waves. I stared at them, and then I stared at him.
"See ya, Prussia." I laughed.
Back then, I was still full of it all. I could conquer and fight and laugh and live. I made my way East for more – caught that same glint in his eye in the Orient. His technology was amazing for his time, and yet when our swords rang out against each other, I knew that we were equal. He smiled at me – a smile so different from the rough European smirks of Spain or Prussia – a smile that was kind and beautiful. He invited me over for tea, and we were fucking before it was even cool enough to drink.
"You are an interesting country." He told me, his voice hushed.
"As are you." And then I snogged him. I pushed him back onto the floor of his decorated room, kissing every bare piece of skin on his body. After the sex, I sat up straight again and calmly drank my tea. It was delicious.
"Why did we just have sex?" China asked, smoothing down his messy hair.
"Because." I glanced up at him. "These things happen."
China nodded, and we sat in awkward silence. He stared at the wall, looking as far away as he could from me. Stared at my tea until I'd finished every last drop. I set the cup down, and then I grabbed China's shoulder. He looked round quizzically, brown eyes glinting in the sun. So different from the others. His eyes were brown, but not like Spain's. They weren't a golden, fresh brown like the arrogant Spaniard's. His eyes were filled with age and knowledge, like a book waiting to be read. His hair was shiny and smooth like fine silk, and his skin was soft like that of a beautiful woman – so different from the pale, strong skin of Prussia and the rough, fighting skin of Spain. So much more gentle.
So I kissed him again, softly and tenderly. I pulled his hair loose, running my fingers through the silken strands. China kissed back; his delicate hands rested on my waist, my hips, my thighs. He let out a tiny little moan and I fell on top of him again.
We only had sex on that one occasion. I left the East to return to Europe, and I left behind that strong smell of hot tea and steaming rice; the soft, fragile hands of the beautiful China and with his sweet taste on my lips, I knew that China would stay in my memories forever.
It stopped after that. The sweet and fierce sex that haunted my dreams faded away, gave into the rough and conquering attitude that the new me brought along. I was England. I conquered, I fought and I didn't love. I fought for the empire and I fought for me. On those snowy slopes I gazed down in contempt at the Tsars and the serfs, I laughed at them and took my companion's wrist in my hand, snowflakes falling in our hair.
"Your country fucking sucks." I sneered. "You're doing it wrong."
He wrenched his arm away and looked sad for a moment until his face brightened. He put a gloved hand on my shoulder and smiled.
"Have you ever been drunk, Russian-style, da?"
I shook my head and he led me down the hill to one of the peasant taverns. They really knew how to live their year in pointless ignorance, those peasant Russians. You farm in the best parts of the year and you harvest and you stockpile it away. Then when winter rolls around, you hide away in the taverns and you get Russian-drunk. Takes three days to do it properly. You spend the first day drinking; you spend the second day enjoying being drunk; you spend the third day recovering; you repeat on the fourth day. Beautiful. So Russia led me to the tavern and got me good and drunk. They drank to the Tsar and I drank to myself. It was the second day of the binge that we succumbed to our libidos. The vodka hadn't done it for me, and I was bored as hell. Late at night, and I pushed him down onto the snowy street to have my way. Russia didn't care, he liked it and I got some satisfaction from it all. Russia was pretty naive back then, in a way. I don't know how long it took him to realise that I wasn't going to come back.
With Lithuania, it was in a rye field. He found me there when I was admiring the view on my way home, and he didn't say anything. Just sat next to me calmly and admired the view alongside me. Of course, he looked a bit nervous – let's face it, I was powerful and grand. It was sunset too, but I didn't care about that. Sunsets had significance for me many years ago. The first time with Spain, all the times with Prussia. The sun had thrust rays of golden honey over the seas, so until I'd given up on it with the two of them, sunsets always equalled sex.
So I waited until the sun had gone down before I turned to Lithuania.
"Who are you?" He asked, nervous.
"England." And then I kissed him. He pressed his hands against my chest, trying to push me off for a few minutes, and then he gave up and kissed back. I remember that the rye was really, really fucking itchy.
The sand was pretty damn itchy, too. I went on a holiday, travelling over to the hot beaches of Greece. Something about Greece had always enticed me; the beautiful empire it had once been, the still-beautiful country it remained. I lay down near the water's edge, staring out over the cool ocean. There was a little sense of familiarity, and I realised that I'd probably sailed there back in the pirate days. It didn't take Greece too long to notice that I was there, and he perched himself on a nearby rock and dug his bare feet into the white-hot sand.
"Nice country." I said out of courtesy. Greece nodded his head in agreement and stared silently at the beautiful azure sea. The sky was utterly cloudless, and I couldn't help but notice that we were the only two left on the beach. Of course I noticed. I always noticed when the opportunity for sex arrived since it lost all meaning.
"Are you here to recover? Relax? Conquer?" Greece asked in his quiet, monotonous voice.
I shook my head and smiled, the sun shining down with its hot caress. "None."
Greece slid off the rock and stretched out next to me on the sand, removing his thin cotton shirt and tossing it aside. He closed his eyes and sighed in contentment. We lay in silence for several minutes, the wind blowing its hot Greek kisses over us. I sighed in irritation.
"Is something wrong, England?" Greece cracked open one deep green eye.
"I'm dragging this on for too bloody long." I moaned, rolling over onto my side to face him.
"Dragging what on?"
I smirked a little and shuffled closer to him on the sand. "What I always do." I breathed.
Then I kissed him. He kissed me back. I climbed clumsily on top of him, grains of sand sticking to my back. What I always do. It rang through my head like a chant. So I tried my best to ignore it and shoved my tongue down Greece's throat, and shoved my hand down Greece's pants.
I couldn't get any satisfaction from anything. Not after Spain, Prussia, China. Those three had been the big three. It had only been them before he had left me. Pushed me away, the pure newborn country on his own in the Pacific. So from Greece, I went to Turkey. Exotic music and spices catching fire at the back of my throat. The masked man pushed me into a side street and I pushed him back. Over in ten minutes. I left without a goodbye; I only stopped to crouch and whisper in his ear: "England." From Turkey I went back north, quick fucks with nations who I barely knew. I'd whisper my name in their ear after it all and leave them there and then. Belgium, Ukraine, each Nordic country in a row. It didn't mean anything. I interlaced my fingers with Denmark's and thought about the times with Spain. Up against the Caribbean trees, locked in a fighting and passionate kiss. The sea wind would ruffle his dark hair and he'd look at me like I meant something. So I gritted my teeth and pushed Denmark up against a wall. I slid my hands around Belgium's waist and thought about the years with Prussia. Simple, wordless nights where we didn't need to talk. The air of romance caught us and dragged us away in its sweet embrace, we'd always fall to the deck and laugh and roll around. Not just fucking; Prussia and I were loving. I picked Finland up and held him against the wall when we fucked – no romance in that, not at all. I thought about China. His silken hair and his skin as soft as the kiss of a dream. The way he looked at me – so naive and yet so knowing. That's what it was supposed to be like, sex. The spontaneity and love of it all, when you don't know whether you'll stay or leave, you want to stay but you'll still love it with a passion even if you do leave. It lost that spark for me – I knew I wanted to leave, and I knew I wouldn't feel a damn thing for them.
Then bang, boom. The Great War, fighting with the French cunt and Russia on my side. I glared into Russia's changing eyes when we hit Germany hard. Those lavender eyes turned stinging violet and I could see it in them, read it clearly. He had that god-damn sickness. The trend that France made popular long ago: Revolution. Russia backed out of the war, and who stepped in to take his place?
America.
His troops stood next to mine; he rested a young hand on one of my vehicles. He gave me that self-centred smile and blinked his baby-blue eyes. I folded my arms and glared at him. Bastard. Wanker. Fucking twat. He never stopped grinning at me for the entire war. We fought together, we won together. On one of those irritating meeting after the war, America trapped me against the wall in a decorated corridor.
"England..." He said, moving his face closer to mine. "Russia, Lithuania, Greece?" He asked. "Turkey, Belgium, Ukraine?" I rolled my eyes, he sighed. "How many?"
"Quite a few." I mused, smirking and staring him right in the eye.
"It's 'cause of the revolution, isn't it? My revolution." His voice fell to a whisper, and he leaned in close to me.
I snorted. Stupid brat. "Not everything is because of you." I widened my grin. "There were some before you revolted, too."
I slid my hand round his neck. Beautiful America. My friend, my family, and the one I loved. He'd grown so tall – even just before the revolution, he was taller than me. It was way after China when I walked over to him, the tension between us thick and hot – and sexual. It could have been then, but it wasn't. It could have been, but he revolted. Then it stopped having any meaning.
"But it stopped meaning anything after you left." I breathed, mere centimetres keeping our faces apart.
His mouth opened slightly, but he didn't say anything. So I took initiative and gently brushed my lips against his, and then moved away again, grinning. He smiled sweetly at me, and looked slightly nervous. I took his hand and led him down the corridor, up the stairs and to the bedroom France had let me stay in. I ushered him in there and locked the door behind us.
"It's only good when it means something." I whispered, and he shuddered as my breath hit his ear.
"Do it, England." He sighed, lying back on the bed. "Please."
So I did. On France's silk sheets, the open window bathing us in sweet sunlight. I didn't do it roughly and uncaring like with everyone else. Not even passionate like Spain or Prussia. Not even slow and tender like China. I was gentle, caring, loving. America was scared – he was never scared back out in the world. He was a self-proclaimed 'hero', he never worried about anything. But on that bed, he was scared. Nervous. Virginal.
And then at the end of it all, he screamed my name. Just as Spain did, long ago. He gasped and screamed it like some revelation; like some beautiful epiphany.
He lay back on the bed, panting and gasping for hair, his hair ruffled and his forehead masked by a film of sweat. I leant further down; he met my gaze with wonder, maybe even love. So I smiled and kissed his blushing, tender cheek.
"I love you, America."
That was it. It meant something again. America had awakened something in me, something that I hadn't seen since China. I genuinely enjoyed it; there was no urge to leave, no thoughts of anything else. It was amazing – I'd forgotten how good sex could be until America. But of course, he went back to try and be pure across the pond, and I holed up in my house for a while, glaring at the wall for days on end.
Germany. Germany was battered and bruised, bandaged and trying to smile when I visited him. We'd been harsh on Germany; we'd taken money and land from him, but he was still trying to work his way back up. I remembered the love in America's eyes and then the look he gave me before he flew home. I could see it in his selfish eyes: shame, regret, no love. So I held out my hand to Germany and forgot what it was for sex to mean anything once again. It was some kind of weird German cook-out or something, sausages and odd meats everywhere. The stench of food in the air, I pushed Germany against a rough-barked tree and we did it right there and then. Over in fifteen minutes. After Germany? Canada. He looked like his brother; only he wasn't a virgin. I didn't care. I could see America's house from Canada's place and it made me scowl angrily. I took it out on Canada. I pushed him to the ground and fucked him so hard that when he screamed my name, he really screamed it. I couldn't look at his face afterwards. Too similar to America. So I just left – I didn't even stop to look back at him or say goodbye.
I was walking through that rye field when I realised it was the same field I'd walked through long ago, when I'd met Lithuania. I didn't expect to find Poland there, but I did. Poor, brave Poland. He was kneeling on the ground, quivering and sniffing. When he turned around there were bruises on his face and there was blood dripping from his nose.
"Who did this?" I snarled, kneeling down and glaring at the deep purple bruise on his cheek.
"G-Germany." He spluttered. "Ru-Russia."
I nodded, and crossed my legs. Poland attempted some kind of smile and wiped his nose on his sleeve. His hair was messy and his eyes were welling up with tears.
"They, like, want my land." He murmured.
"They knew that they weren't allowed to attack you."
Poland shrugged. "Well, they did."
I knew it would be war again. That sweet lust for it burned in my veins. As people, we're supposed to hate war and killing. As countries, we love it. Why else would I have spent all those days fighting Spain? I rested my hand on top of Poland's, and he interlaced his fingers with mine. We'd be fighting Germany again. The Allies. And Russia? What would we do with him? Revolutionary boy, that's what he was. Caught it again after the Great War. The new leader? Even nuttier than ever before. Russia and Germany, two countries I would probably have to fight to the death, yet I'd fucked them both. I squeezed Poland's hand and met his gaze.
"Stop, like, coming on to me, England." Poland laughed. "Gawd, no wonder the chicks love you."
"Not just chicks." I rolled my eyes. "You too injured?"
"Hell no!"
He darted forward and I darted forward. We crashed into an awkward and slightly painful kiss; I could feel the blood crusted to Poland's face scratching against my skin, but I didn't really care. Sex is sex. The rye field was still as bloody itchy as it was back with Lithuania.
We battled, we fought, and we killed. Germany displayed his newfound arrogance by completely destroying France and tried to take Russia too. Rebuffed by the Russian winter (and the slightly nutty Russian civilians). Air force – bunch of my middle-class pricks in flying tin cans, whipped the German's arses in the sky-battles. America, what a beautiful little wanker. Sent supplies to the Russians, flung his troops and tanks in and all together, we crushed the Axis. Russia took the worst of it. But still, he pushed forward and took Berlin; took away the horrific memories of what Germany had done. Poor Poland. I looked away from Germany in disgust when we were dividing up the spoils of war. Oh, the sweet little Italy brothers were fine, though. Silly little things. I got Veneziano first. All it took was a look and a gesture towards the closet in a hallway. Five minutes. Didn't care. Romano was second. Little harder to get, I persuaded him into it after a few hours of bitching about potatoes. Same closet. Twenty minutes. Still didn't care – Romano could tell.
"You don't give a flying fuck about the countries you do it with, do you?" He grumbled.
"Nope." I lied – well, half truth. "Do you?"
Romano rolled his irritated eyes. "Of course not."
I didn't reply. We all knew who Romano had fucked – pretty little Catholic boy was as much of a sinner as any one of us.
"Sorry about all of the Axis shit." He mumbled.
Sorry? Yeah, okay, I accept your apology for aiding a country with one of the most evil people in history ruling over it while you were allied. I accept your apology for killing my Goddamn troops. Not bloody likely. Twat. But that's what Romano was, a complete and utter git. Veneziano had followed Germany around like a little lap-dog, and Romano just went along with it because they had the same lunatic of a boss. Idiots, the pair of them.
"You're the one getting fucked." I smirked.
"Fuck off." He snarled. So I did.
I walked for a long time. Days. Weeks. Just walking. Part of me was probably looking for another fuck, but most of me just wanted to get away from my own damn country. My empire had fallen, to say in the least. Spain, the glory days, my beautiful empire and army upon the seas. That's how it should be. I told myself over and over again that I didn't need an empire, but I did. How was I supposed to be Great Britain without it? I caught the next ferry to the mainland and just walked from there. East. Away from America, from France, from Spain, from all the people I knew well. I walked past China's house and paused, looking on it with regret. I ended up sitting beneath a cherry blossom tree in Japan, surrounded by flowers. I don't know what any flowers are – apart from roses and daisies and buttercups – but it was still beautiful. I thought it might be somebody's garden, so I wasn't really that surprised when that somebody arrived. I was quite surprised that it was Japan though. He was limping, and sat next to me tiredly. I wanted to apologise for what America had done, but how stupid would that sound? It would be like when Romano tried to apologise for being a part of the Axis.
"Japan?" I began, my voice shaking a little. "What America did...? He... Uh..."
Japan shook his head, silky black hair catching the light. "We both did wrong."
Japan had always been one of the most honourable people I've ever met. I don't even mean honour in the sense that a soldier of his country would rather die than shame his country; I mean honour in the sense that he's just so... noble. Japan had been brutally attacked by America not so long ago and sure, it was revenge – but I've never seen a more gruesome and corrupted way to take revenge in my entire life. But Japan considered himself partly at fault – and I suppose it was his fault in a way (America would overreact of someone got him), but I couldn't help but admire Japan.
"Part of me regrets choosing America over you." I blurted out. Japan and I had been friends for many years, going back even to the days of China and Russia – maybe even when I used to meet with Prussia. When America was still my little child, Japan and I had been friends. I'd fallen apart a little when I had to choose – and of course, silly me, I wanted America.
Cherry blossoms floated down in front of us, and I glanced over at Japan.
"It was nice when we were friends." He met my gaze and smiled. "We should sit together more often."
I smiled back at him and reached out for his porcelain hand, as delicate as a little fairy's. He curled his fingers around mine and closed his eyes, leaning back against the smooth bark of the tree.
"I loved you, Arthur." He murmured voice barely audible as he spoke my true name.
I let go of his hand and put it behind his head, stroking his shining, midnight hair. Japan sighed, so I leant over and kissed him gently.
I didn't have sex with Japan. Now, I've had sex with injured people before (cough, Poland), but Japan was bad. Not that Poland wasn't – but damn, the little phoenix likes it rough. I couldn't do that to Japan. He was so frail – so fragile. I couldn't bring it upon myself to go any further than kissing. Of course, I would have liked to have sex with Japan.
I know for a fact it would have meant something.
He smiled at me and waved a shaky hand when I stood up to leave. I took his hand and kissed it sweetly.
"I'll never abandon you again."
I didn't, honestly. I visited Japan as often as I could, and our relations tentatively built up again until we were close friends. I actually managed to respect his boundaries – we only ever kissed. And you know what? That was enough for me. In a way. I loved Japan, but that didn't stop me. Any intimate moments with Japan were always special, they were always memorable. But I still needed sex. At heart, I was still a pirate. Still longing for those days on the open see, pillaging and killing and fucking everything and everyone. I loved what I had with Japan, but I needed the meaningless shit I had with the others. Seychelles on one of her beaches at sunset, seagulls screaming in the air and fish frolicking in the sea. Switzerland in a gorgeous chalet; we went skiing afterwards and had some brilliant chocolate – that was weirdly casual, especially for Switzerland. Taiwan in her garden – amongst the flowers. Vietnam, Hong Kong, Estonia, Austria and Hungary.
I felt awful when I went to see Japan.
It's what I always did.
I reached out and put my hand on Japan's small shoulder and he smiled at me. I don't know why, but then I saw America. I saw America's innocent smile and his pure, sweet soul. I saw his love and his fear. I saw his regret and the way he looked at me and left. I saw him – in Japan. I couldn't do it. I pulled my arm back, turned, and ran. I went back to England and holed myself up in my house, staring at the grandfather clock in the living room. I watched comedy after comedy on the television and ignored phone calls from anyone.
But I had to try and call him one day.
"Japan?" My voice shook.
"England-san?" Japan muttered. "I tried to phone you..."
I bit my lip anxiously. "I know. I'm sorry. I love you, I can't..."
"Shh." I heard him sigh on the other end. "It's America, isn't it... what he's done... to you."
I nodded, and then realised Japan couldn't actually see me nodding. "Y-yes."
He understood. He was kind and supportive – everything I hadn't had before. He knew that I needed to talk to America. He suggested that I go to see him – so I did.
After weeks of searching, I found him posing by the Seattle Space Needle. Idiot. I grabbed his shoulder and dragged him to the vague privacy of behind and unattended hot-dog stand.
"Do you regret it?" I asked gruffly, not bothering to add anymore.
"Uh, regret what, Iggs?"
"It. Us. What we did. After the Great War."
He scratched behind his neck nervously and looked away. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Typical. He whistled and annoying little tune and completely avoided making eye contact with me. I got the idea of what he was trying to say with his sheer stupidity, so I turned to walk away.
"Wait." The wanker grabbed my arm. "I don't regret it, really. We have something special."
He smiled at me. This was so not America. I raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged. He leant down a little and kissed my cheek, then looped his arm around mine.
"C'mon. I'll buy ya some fries."
"Chips."
We stayed friends – somewhat. Friends with benefits, you could say. Japan smiled knowingly at the world meetings, and it made me smile automatically whenever my hand would accidently brush against his. Sex was supposed to matter – I'd come to understand that once again.
Or at least, I understood that for a while.
But you've got to wonder – what kind of shit was I thinking about one night a few years later? When I woke up with an ache in my head, naked in France's bed.