Title: Laissez les Bon Temps Roulet
Warnings: Prussia, always Prussia
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine... except for the plot
A/N: I don't really like how this turned out. Bumbing it up to 'M' for language, just to be safe. Also, I have a poll in my profile you should visit. I put some story ideas I had up and thought the readers could vote on the one they like best.
"Go on, feel it," a boisterous voice said from the opposite side of a closed door. A short break had been declared and England had taken the opportunity to immediately withdraw from the battlefield and reorganize his defenses. The Frog and Yank were once again proving to be a formidable duo. England had unfortunately spent the first half of the meeting enduring the relentless offensive that had been launched against him. The blue eyed duo had spent the majority of the meeting thus far reminding him of the 'neglect' he had been subjecting his body to these past several… months. Running the world is a difficult and demanding task. A task that requires great sacrifice. He couldn't help it if he was so bogged down with paperwork that he couldn't go out and relax or have fun for months… or years at a time. The other nations may be willing to shirk their duties, but England isn't other nations.
Images from earlier in the day flash through his mind. America leaning back in his chair and stretching to the point that his shirt untucked itself slightly, revealing the exposed groove above the hip that trailed down towards more 'fun' regions. England wasn't sure what it was called, but it is hot. The worst part was that France would sometimes lean in close and ask the green eyed nation questions. Legitimate questions (in French) about the meeting, but delivered on warm breath and accompanied by a delicate, yet manly scent that caused the island nation to feel a warm tingling sensation that would spread agonizingly slowly throughout his entire body.
"This meeting is a disaster," England mutters to himself as he tries to shake the two seemingly cunning nations out of his mind. A boisterous laugh interrupts his thoughts and the Englishman finally pushes open the door to the meeting. He is unsure whether or not he is ready to face what may be occurring on the other side of the wooden barrier, but backing out of a challenge to his authority was not an option. As the door gave way, it revealed an interesting scene, to say the last. Most of the nations were already in their assigned seats, conversing amongst themselves. Occasionally, some would shoot glances towards a particular trio with brows raised in intrigue. Some of the individuals were blatantly leering like hungry wolves. Following their gazes, England's eyes find their way towards France, America, and Turkey. Turkey not only had seized England's seat for himself but had the first three buttons of his dress shirt undone. However, this wasn't what commanded the other nation's attention. It was most likely the fact that America has a hand in the opening and is running it through the Mediterranean nation's chest hair. The most noticeable, and arousing, aspect of the whole scene is America's amazingly expressive face. It is tinted pink ever so slightly, and looks like the blonde American is trying to cover up his embarrassment with an overly confident expression, but having trouble keeping up the act. Quite simply, it was adorable. Not cute animal adorable, but keep that up and I'm going to push you down into the mattress uncontrollably, adorable.
"Now that is a real man's chest," France practically purred as he leaned over his accomplice and began showering the Turk with compliments on his physique. England couldn't help but notice that France and America made for a particularly devastating combination. Both had an unusually grand command of arousing facial expressions. One promised youthful enthusiasm and the placing of complete trust in your hands to let you do with their body as you please. The other promised to teach things you never knew and pleasure only dreamed of. Turkey never had a chance, the poor bastard. Moving his gaze towards the duo's unfortunate victim, he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as he watched the two blondes shower Turkey with attention, causing said nation to puff out his chest and produce a smile that almost rivaled the American's. If this were one of America's cartoons, the two would be depicted hooking Turkey up to a bicycle pump and filling him full of hot air until he burst.
"Well, better him than me," England says quietly to himself as he sneaks off towards Turkey's assigned seat. Thankfully the dark haired nation seemed perfectly content with where he is currently seated and shows no intention of returning to his designated seat on the opposite side of the room. Although the two blonde deviants would still be in his field of vision, England took comfort in the fact that there would now be significant distance between him and them. Maybe now he could finally focus on the meeting instead of trying to reign in the indecent urges of his body and mind.
"You lucky bastard," a familiar and unwelcome voice made itself known as England seated himself.
"Oh, dear lord," the green eyed nation groaned as he slumped forward in defeat. Of course, he'd escape the clutches of two moronic nations only to be driven into the metaphorical arms of another. England turns his head to the left to gaze at the crimson eyed devil seated next to him. "Please, don't utter another word."
"Why are you so down," Prussia questions with a smirk as he leans towards the smaller blonde nation. "America and France are practically throwing themselves at you. Imagine being sandwiched in between that…"
"That's a rather horrifying thought," England counters as he straightens up and begins to rearrange the contents on the desk. It's a bit too messy for his tastes, not to mention the fact that it gives him a task to focus on instead of Prussia's, bound to be inane mutterings. If he hadn't known the ex-nation for so long, he'd think the gibbering fool fell out of an H.P. Lovecraft novel. He certainly has an impressively long list of people he's driven mad over the centuries.
"Pfft… don't act like that, I saw the way your face turned all, old man, creeper perv when America flashed his cum gutter your way," Prussia replied while patting the Englishman on the back and flashing a devilish smirk.
"W… What!?" England sputtered as he tried in vain to remember when America had done something so incredibly lewd sounding. For the life of him, he couldn't recall anything overtly perverted in America's actions during the meeting thus far. Either he missed something dirty, or Prussia is clearly being an idiot. One thing is for certain though, England has to figure out what France has planned and put a stop to it. It hopefully isn't too late to save America from the horrific French influence he is currently under.
"You know," Prussia said as he leans back in his chair away from England. The green eyed nation watches with mild shock as a pale hand reaches down and pulls up a dark dress shirt, revealing to all nearby, a remarkably well toned stomach. It reminds the Englishman of the various statues of Greek and Roman gods. Prussia's pale skin made his stomach literally look like it was sculpted out of marble. The fact that it was so pale it reflected light helped as well. Although he'd never admit it out loud, it wasn't bad to look at… However, before England could further contemplate the sculpture like qualities of his new table partner, the Prussian pointed to the furrows that ran from above the hip to the 'private' area in a 'V' shape and matter-of-factly proclaimed, 'cum gutter'.
Releasing what had to be one of many exasperated sighs to come; England pressed a hand to the side of his forehead and began to rub. He could feel a headache coming on. The only positive he could see coming from this is that the Prussian, with his stunning command of tact and language, had thoroughly killed whatever mood France and America had been trying to stir in him.
"Aphrodite's Saddle," a voice from the other side of Prussia slowly stated. England reluctantly moved his head to the side to acknowledge the individual that decided to butt into the conversation. The island nation was relatively surprised to see that Greece was up and about; instead of quietly observing the meeting in a seemingly lethargic haze. Although, given today's meeting, not much would surprise. England raises a brow when he notices the Mediterranean staring intently at the Germanic nation's stomach. "Apollo's Belt, Heracles' Girdle, Iliac Furrow; The shallow grooves on the human abdomen that run from the iliac crest," Greece says as he points to the Prussian's exposed hip and then lazily traces the path of the anatomical feature in question a few centimeters above it towards the pubic area. "… to the pubis. Not 'cum gutter'."
England silently watches the scene before him unsure of what to think. Greece is giving the red eyed nutcase an uncharacteristically harsh glare; while Prussia looks like he is seriously contemplating the information he has just been given before that signature laugh of his erupts from his lips.
"Aphrodite's Saddle, Awesome!" the red eyed nation finally fixes his shirt before giving the Mediterranean nation at his side his undivided attention. "What other names do you have for parts of the body?" Greece's harsh glare immediately softens to its standard, laid back expression, before switching to one of mild contemplation. England face palms and groans as Greece lifts his own shirt to expose himself and begins to point out various anatomical features.
"What is wrong with everyone," the green eyed nation asks out loud to no one in particular. He turns away from the two nations and chances a glance across the room. France seems to have left Turkey at the mercy of his American accomplice. England couldn't help note the slight smile and the look of pride on the Frenchman's face as he quietly observers the American. He switches his gaze towards the darker skinned Mediterranean man and can't help feeling a bit jealous. It is nice every now and then to be praised, to receive compliments, and just having someone making you feel… confident and proud about yourself. It has been quite a long while since anyone has done anything remotely similar to England. Nations tend to only provide such attention when they want something, and once that something is had, they forget about you. Although he is sure America and France have similar motives, it is still nice to experience… sometimes, when no one is looking. Or when they are looking and your merits are being praised and displayed for all to see by another. The Englishman's face, of its own accord, adorns itself with a devious, yet goofy looking smirk as his train of thought slowly begins to turn into fantasy. Socially acceptable fantasies, mind you, but fantasies involving multiple parties none-the-less.
Of course, all good things must come to an end. Unfortunately France had taken notice of England's daydreaming and flashed a knowing smirk and raised brow at the island nation. It was a look that clearly stated, 'I know what you're thinking.' Immediately England throws on a scowl and shoots a quick glare at his blue eyed rival. Quickly turning the glare into a smirk of his own; using that strange language of facial expressions that only two very, very close people develop between themselves, issues a challenge, 'I'd like to see you try something to me from way over there.' England watches with amusement as France simply throws on a fun, playful smile before turning his attention towards the presenter.
'Wait, when did the meeting start,' the emerald eyed nation asks himself as he follows France's gaze until it lands on Denmark. He purses his lips in contemplation as he notices the tall Northern European. The Dane was currently standing at his spot at the supposed 'head' of the table, even though it was a round table, discussing points about his report in a surprisingly calm and dignified manner. However, something seemed off. Tilting his head he watches the presenting nation closely, scrutinizing every movement. It isn't until he glances at the Danish man's mouth that the gears inside England's head begin to turn. Quickly, almost out of instinct, England focuses attention on a different group of nations quietly discussing the report and notices that what was 'off' with Denmark was effecting them as well. Straining to filter through the voices of the nations that he can hear one by one; he realizes with rising horror that they are all suffering from the same terrible affliction.
"Everyone is speaking French," England says to himself while looking positively miserable. The last time he had to suffer through meetings entirely in French, European empires were carving up the world amongst themselves. Everyone during that time period came down with an almost incurable case of French cultural influence. Except for himself, text books be damned. This was somehow all France's doing. He probably told all the nations while England was out composing himself, to use that horribly arousing… Correction: just plain horrible language during the remainder of the meeting. His eyes narrow as a terrible thought worms its way into England's mind. France and America both have disgustingly infectious cultures. Maybe France was trying to make a move, create some sort of resurgent French Empire and America was helping. Maybe he was promised the entirety of the Western Hemisphere… or something. France had another thing coming if he thought that England would just sit around and let that happen. He knew those two had been spending far too much time together in recent years.
Once again turning his fierce gaze towards the blonde European nation across the room, England is greeted by a taunting smirk. Steeling his gaze, England watches, unamused, as the Frog blows a kiss towards him. It takes everyone ounce of England's considerable, and impressive, self-restraint to refrain from hurling a particularly scathing castigation towards the annoying man. Mostly, he refrains from doing so because France will just ignore the whole thing like England said something uninteresting and not worth listening too. Eventually the Englishman decides that all he needs to do is get through the meeting and everything will return to normal afterwards. America is often easily distracted and England honestly can't imagine the lad would keep up the charade for more than a day before growing bored.
"What the…" England mutters as he feels something brushing up against his leg. He leans back in his chair a bit and takes a peek under the table. Nothing. "That's odd," the island nation says to himself as he looks towards his side and notices that Prussia is doodling pictures of cats and birds all over Greece's white shirt. While the darker skinned man watches and occasionally points at an unmarked section of shirt before the red eyed man moves to mark it up. Clearly those two weren't up to anything nefarious. Hesitantly, the Englishman turns his attention back towards France and notices that the man seems to be serpressing a laugh in an effort to not draw attention to himself. The Frenchie then waggles his eyebrows and England nearly jumps out of his seat as he feels what could only be described as a hand squeezing his knee.
"What the hell?" The green eyed man almost shouts as he pushes his seat out from under the table and looks under it. Once again there is nothing under there. What's more, Prussia, Greece, and a few nearby nations are leveling question looks in his direction. "I apologize for the interruption," England says as he straightens out a few wrinkles on his attire to avoid the others' gazes. With what probably seemed to be undue caution to everyone present, the island nation scoots the chair, and himself back in place at the table. Shooting what could only be described as a death glare towards France, England watches as the rival European leans towards the American, looking far to amused for the island nation's liking, and whispers something that causes both nations to direct their attention towards the English representative.
"If they want to play dirty, then so be it," England mutters as he reaches for and struggles to extract his smart phone from his pants pocket. "All I have to do is find some mind numbingly idiotic video on Youtube and send it to America. That'll ruin France's nefarious plan. Maybe find something 'Murican as the vast sea of morons inhabiting cyber space call it."
Distracted with the formulation of his plan, England fails to notice the sounds of two nations desperately trying to keep from laughing from across the room. It is only when a foreign hand reaches into the island nations pocket and extracts his phone with an unnatural ease that England realizes something is terribly wrong. His senses that he had spent untold centuries honing to prevent himself from falling prey to Frogs suddenly kicks in and were screaming at him. The Englishman could feel his heart start to pound in his chest as his body is preparing to either fight or flight. Slowly, England turns toward the side of the table that he just now realizes he had unintentionally overlooked and gulps nervously at what he sees.
"C... Canada?"