Kinky
There were few people who did not know of France's particular... interests, as it might be said. Those who did not were rather thick, especially to France's mind. It was not as if he was hiding anything. In fact, he did not know anyone who was as open about their fetishes. Not that he did not know what made most Nations tick by this point, it was on a need-to-know basis.
And France had needed to know.
No one needed to ask how French spies had gotten to be a staple of certain culture's entertainment. France was there and by the time anyone noticed him it was too late, or maybe he had already gone. Certainly there were some people who cursed him for this (even Hungary, though she was far worse than even he, he had to admit), but France did not care to much about that.
After all, plenty of them would enjoy it if they gave themselves the opportunity. They were just not open with themselves.
So nearing Valentines Day he had given himself an early present of England getting ready for a shower. The tie being loosened, the coat being shucked off and tossed over a chair. Shoes being kicked off, belt undone, shirt unbuttoned. Piece by piece, everything was discarded. By the time England had entered the shower, France was gone with no one the wiser.
Also, he was not the least bit guilty. He simply accepted what he felt and filled in that abyss with what he could. At least he could be honest to himself. And England in anything was always a treat, let alone England in nothing. France knew it all well.
At least, he thought he did. France thought he had himself all figured out in this area.
Then, after he had sneaked into England's house to wish him his own particular brand of Happy Valentines... he saw that.
"E... Engl.. England?"
The Nation turned, a faint pink blush covering his entire face and down his neck, at least, as far as France could see. "What are you...? Just stay quiet France! And don't you dare tell anyone, I don't want anyone else knowing I'm in this!"
The white parasol in England's gloved hands came down so as to block his face. It was too late though, because France had memorized every single detail of what he had just seen. Not that it stopped him from wanting to see more.
England was wearing a white and pastel green tea gown. He was also certain England was wearing a shift and a corset, but for some reason those two things did not mean nearly as much to France as the dress. Those long sleeves... the frothy front and the sleek train behind... and France was absolutely certain he saw pale olive drab mules which must have been eighteenth century.
He must have opened his mouth to say something, but his mouth was so dry and his mind so blank he could not get anything out.
"I... I lost a bet with Spain!" England moved the parasol enough so as to only mouth the words, as if actually saying it was worse than the fact it had actually happened. "Don't you dare laugh!"
France blinked. He was trying to think, he really was, but all he could think about was how long he could keep that on England and exactly how those lips would wrap around his–
"...never mind. Laugh. Say something. God, you're freaking me out. Stop staring like that, it's not that bad."
He realized he was staring down at the dress and managed to pull his eyes up on to England's face. England's eyes moved away as he tapped the now closed parasol against his shoulder. France moaned.
"What the bloody–"
France carefully pushed him back against the wall, pushing himself into all of that and lightly sucking on England's earlobe.
"France! France! What are you... oh hell, stop that!"
"Non. Oh non. Jamais. Mon dieu, tu es... Dieu."
"Get your hand– You're... really turned on by this, aren't you?"
For the next two hours, France could not get another comprehensible word out of his mouth.
"Non. Oh non. Jamais. Mon dieu, tu es... Dieu." = "No. Oh no. Never. My god, you are... God."
I feel somewhat wrong for having written this, but oh well. Sort of a sequel to Sexy.
Happy Valentines Day.
