Characters:
Francis 'France' Bonnefoy
Arthur 'England' Kirkland (sexy bastard)
Antonio Fernandez 'Spain/Espagne' Carriedo (smoking hot)
Gilbert 'Prussia' Bielschmidt (the one, the only, the awesome)
Matthew 'Canada' Williams
Jett 'Australia' Kirkland
Ivan 'Russia' Braginski
Yao 'China' Wang
Alfred F. 'America' Jones
Ludwig 'Germany' Bielschmidt
Feliks 'Poland' Łukasiewicz

Pairings; B.T.T., B.T.T.+England, kismesis(hate)PRuss, RoChu, RusCan, RusGer, RusPo, FrUKUS
Russia's getting a lot of action

Summary; How do we cheer up Francis? Throw a party at Ivan's of course!


"Come on, Francis," Arthur shouts in French, this being the rare occasion he'll admit he speaks the frog-language, "Let us in!"

"We're only trying to make you feel better, honest!" Antonio shouts in Latin.

"Hon hon baguette Eiffel Tower!" Gilbert shouts, both Arthur and Antonio smacking him.

"If you don't open this door, I'll pick the lock!" Arthur shouts.

At no answer, Arthur pulls a safety pin off his dress, folds it open and shoves it in the lock. After a few rattles and grunts, the lock clicks and the door swings open. Francis lifts his head from his knees, glaring at the empty door from his seat in his sofa.

Gilbert clears his throat, calling through the door in his American-style, because someone had to have taught Ludwig how to do it, announcer voice; "Ladies and gentlemen, nations and humans, I present to you; the smoking hot Antonio Fernandez Espagne Carriedo!"

Antonio struts in the room, swinging those hips I know you all drool over. A pair of tight red booty shorts are stretched over those delicious hips, a bull tail tied to a belt loop being revealed as he twirls slowly, Francis realising there's no way on Earth Antonio can be wearing underwear under those shorts. A pair of bull horns have been perched over his tousled hair, his silver cross hangs from his bare chest, and his long legs end only when they reach his folded pirate boots. Antonio struts up and down a little, winking and smirking and hip-slinging at Francis.

"Turned on enough yet?" Gilbert's voice asks, "I don't think you are! Go get 'em Arthur England Kirkland, you sexy bastard!"

Antonio flings himself at Francis's feet, ducking down out of view as Arthur struts in. His dress is a dark blue denim, held together with not stitches but laces, leaving bare skin down his sides under the crossed strings and the occasional safety pin. As he turns, pausing with hand in his hair to show Francis his side, Francis drinks in the obvious garter belt holding up his ripped stockings. Doccers sit proudly on his feet and a series of piercing bedazzle his ears and lust-lined face. A bunny tail portrudes from a slit up the back of the dress, and blond rabbit ears sit over his blond hair.

"You like that?" Gilbert's voice asks, "You likin' that? Well, hold your French horses and feast your eyes on the one, the only, the awesome; Me!"

Arthur pours himself over the back of the sofa, legs straddling the cushions as Gilbert struts in. His corset and mini-skirt are pink, his stockings and lace gloves are purple, his collar and Doccers are black and the dog ears and tail are as white as his spiked-up hair. He catwalks, duck-facing and peace-signing at random intervals, Francis spluttering with laughter.

"Feeling better, Franny?" Gilbert asks, voice dropping back into it's familiar Prussian accent.

"A little," Francis says, "I didn't think the three of you would dress in drag just to cheer me up."

"That's not all we did!" Antonio cries, dashing from the room, all three nations behind him oggling that ass, and dashes back in with a box. He reaches into the box, pulls out a fake brown moustache and sticks it to his own face, "I got us one each!"

Francis laughs as Arthur and Gilbert take their moustaches in blond and white respectively. He takes his, a thick black one, gluing it to his lip. "And now all four of us look ridiculous!"

"Not ridiculous enough," Arthur says, "Go on; go get your little tunic on."

"Why?"

"You'll never guess what Matthew and Jett've gone and managed to do," Arthur says, "They've only gone and tied Ivan to a chair. With duct tape. And invited everyone over to Ivan's for a party. Right now. The gayer the better."

Francis's face lights up in dark glee. "I'll grab my tunic."

In under an hour, Francis has changed, into a short blue tunic and lacy red underwear, and the quartet have somehow managed to get from Paris to Moscow, only being mistaken for prostitutes three times (and the drivers would flee as they saw the moustaches). Music pulses from the building, silhouettes dance over the windows; the party is in full swing.

Inside, the Bad Touch Trio Plus England find Ivan tied to the same metal chair he'd found himself tied to in Chapter 37; Glitter Bondage with a layer of duct tape, three layers crossing over his mouth, both glare and aura as black as his soul. That last clause was a joke, of course; Ivan Braginski has no soul.
"Great party, Ruski!" Gilbert cackles.

Ivan's glare intensifies, Gilbert laughing openly at his kismesis, until Matthew taps at Gilbert's shoulder, slinking his way past with an ice pop in one hand and Yao's hand in the other. Both are giggling drunkenly, Matthew's giggling sounding suspiciously French, both men's eyes dilated in a drug-induced haze. They both perch in Ivan's lap, Yao on a thigh and Matthew on the opposite arm, curling into him and beginning to suckle and lick at their ice pops.

Francis's hon-hon-hons join Gilbert's keseses-es as Ivan's eyes clamp shut, determined not to pay any attention to them, and Yao and Matthew begin to make little slurping and moaning noises.

"Mate..." Jett whines, visibly disgusted, "Mate, why?"

Over the course of the night, Jett witnesses things no amount of alcohol could ever let him forget, from Alfred (dressed as Wonder Woman) and Francis dragging a passed-out drunk Arthur into a spare bedroom, to Ludwig in the sluttiest Snow White dress imaginable laying leisurely across Ivan's lap talking to him about politics. Eventually everyone has either passed out or gone home, and Jett is left sober and awake under the calm, never-ending stare of Ivan Braginski.

At around midnight, Feliks had managed to strike up a deal with Ivan; Feliks removed the tape over Ivan's mouth and gave him vodka in return for Feliks getting to paint Ivan's nails and put make-up on him. Ivan has been left with lilac nails, glittery lips and winged eyeliner all masterfully applied, with a crown of flowers and ribbons put on his hair for good measure, and a moustache that fell off almost an hour after it was applied.

"Are you as tired as I am?" Jett asks him.

Ivan nods, sitting patiently as Jett cuts him free with a butterly knife. "The things I do for these Europeans."


What the hell happened? Basically, Ivan let Matthew and Jett tie him up and throw a gay party at his house to apologise for his shitty boss (Putin). And Gilbert/Antonio/Arthur are cheering Francis up after he lost Eurovision. By dressing in drag (This and the moustaches being slight references to the beautiful Conicha Wurst).

Here you go; that Eurovision chapter I was threatening to not write. I think this is the longest chapter yet. I might do more of these. Opinions?

Slightly earlier update, because I hate revising. Speaking of which; GO REVISE! Revision is knowledge, knowledge is power, power is world domination, world domination is Nash Grier having to sweep up after your wide array of animals when they're shedding their fur.

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-Laurel Silver