Well, after a long spiritual journey of self-awakening (meaning: a long, dull, lazy week) I've come to the realization that I am absolutely, positively, without a doubt terrible at updating my stories. I mean, I absolutely suck so much that I wonder to myself why to I even bother writing multiple chapter fics? ;n; Well, here goes another chapter! :D (Oh, and there's an implication of rape, so…)

Hetalia is't mine. If it were, then I would've been able to teach France how to Tweet properly *referring to when France sending out his canary Pierre.*

As the sun poured its warmth through the hotel drapes, France stirred in the deluxe king-sized bed, the sun's rays tickling his senses to the point of making his eyelids flutter open. He bellowed a deep, tired yawn before turning onto his side and scooting his body closer to the curvy form occupying the bed with him.

France didn't know her name, and because of the way he was downing glass after glass of wine the night before, he couldn't remember having a clear image of her face, either. But he can remember that she was one of the bartenders trying to stop him from drinking himself to his grave, and that she had that sweet heart-shaped face. France can also remember that she had really soft hands from the way she was clawing at his back and a beautiful British accent from the way she was calling out his human name in pure orgasmic ecstasy. He sniffed at her tussled hair and took in the musk of strawberry and sex-induced sweat; there was just something about intercourse that heightened the body's senses in the morning after and makes the lovers appreciate life more!

He propped himself on an elbow and gently tugged at the bartender's shoulder, turning her so he can see her face. She was gorgeous: her lips were pink and pouting even in sleep, her cheeks were kissed with just a hint of rosy hue, and when her own eyes opened slightly before they closed again to allow her more sleep, he was able to see they were shiny green-colored jewels, still cloudy from the magic of the night before. Only when he made a move to brush her bangs from her forehead did France notice the eyebrows. They were thick and slightly darker than her hair, but they were shapely in a beautiful well-kept trim, not unkempt and unsightly bushy like England's…

France's shoulders stiffened when that man came into mind. Much to France's chagrin, his mind wandered to that day when England stopped him to give him another infamous dull British lecture.

France was cleaning up his space at the conference table, tapping a stack of paper on the table to put them into a neat pile and finishing the last of his honey croissant when England stepped up behind him and cleared his throat to get France's attention. As annoying as England was, France still turned to him and gave him his attention.

"What is it that you want, Angleterre?" France asked him.

"Nothing really, just…" England trailed off, looking away and nervously rubbing the back of his neck. France cocked an eyebrow at him; if what he wanted to say to France was making him this nervous, than it must be pretty bad. England looked back up at him and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I just want to talk to you…"

Both of France's eyebrows went up. "Really?" He asked incredulously. "About what, exactly?"

England sighed softly. "It's nothing really, I just-"

"Well, goodbye, then!" France chimed as he tucked the papers under his arm and quickly maneuvered around England, nearly sprinting towards the doors.

"Wait, you bloody asshat!" England shouted as he grabbed the crook of France's arm and pulled him back. He stepped aside as France nearly tumbled back into him, almost falling to the floor with his stack of papers before catching himself and gaining his footing. When he saw that France wasn't hurt and was instead shooting death glares at him, he continued calmly, "I wanted to talk to you about your- er- problem…"

"Problem? What problem? I don't have a problem…"

"I knew this wasn't going to be easy," he muttered to himself. He looked into France's eyes. "France, you…you do have a problem. You have an addiction to sex and as much as I hate your furry, flabby, pasty, flat ass, I just-" he cleared his throat again. "I just can't help but, uh, worry about you…"

"U-uh, um, what?" France half-laughed, his eyes wide with surprise and his mouth turned up in a bemused grin.

"I said that I'm worried about you, France. I mean, you've gotten completely sick with lust. Yes, I know you were the world's pervert since the day you learned what the penis can do- and probably even before that- but now, we all see that it's worse than before. Heck, it's not even your sick way of 'spreading the French love' anymore!" England clearly felt that he was on a roll, because his voice became stronger and more earnest. "Now, it just seems like you're having sex more so than you would eat, drink, or sleep! It's like sex is a first priority to you, and nothing else!"

France erupted into a fit of laughter, earning him a piercing glare from England. When his laughter died down enough, he clapped a hand on England's shoulder and wiped tears forming at the corner of his eyes. "Oh, my, England! I never knew you held such concern for me! That's so- pfft!- sweet!" He sighed in content. "But you have no reason to worry about me, because I don't have an addiction, okay? I am just like any other man with a healthy libido, except they can't keep up with me, such as yourself!" He said that last bit with a wink and tried to walk away.

"No, you frog! It's isn't healthy," England spat, making France stop in his tracks and groan in an annoyed tone. "You and I both know that your mind is sick with this and it's going to destroy you! At the rate you're just sticking your damn self into any woman willing to lay in bed with you, you're going to get an STD or an STI, if you haven't done so, already! And then what? You're still going to deflower woman after woman and spread that shit to them?! That's what a sex-crazed mutt would do! A person who's addicted would do such a thing without thinking of the consequences!"

"And what the hell makes you think that I can't control my urges, huh? I'm not addicted to sex, because if I were, than I wouldn't be able to stop myself, and you know it!"

England's eyes widen with disgusted shock before they set into a death glare, glistening with tears. "You can stop yourself?" He scoffed indignantly. "You honestly believe that you can stop yourself without any sort of help, without any rehabilitation?! So, I guess that that one time when you literally tossed me on that forest ground centuries ago and shredded my robes and held me down to-!" England choked on his words, his shoulders shaking with hidden sobs and his cheeks soaked with tears. He sniffed and dried his cheeks and eyes with his suit's sleeve before finishing, "France, you…you are completely obsessed with sex! Top denying it and get help!"

France gaped with his own feelings of indignation. "I don't have an addiction, dammit! And how many times are you going to bring that up? I apologized time and time again and I thought you had let go of it, already! Will you stop-?!" France's rant was interrupted by a sting across his cheek. His head snapped to the side.

England's hand was poised in a stiff position, tingling after making a brutal contact with France's face. There were fresh tears dripping from his green gem eyes, which made them shine even more. In a low voice, he hissed, "If it wasn't for the millions of innocent citizens you have, I would tell you to just fuck every person that you meet so that you get a disease and die, and to take your obsession with you to your grave."

France gently touched the reddening cheek, his face stunned before it was angry. He stepped away from England and left the room, forgetting the paper scattered on the floor as he fumed. That damn Brit! How dare he claim that he had a problem, an obsession, as if he was one to talk?! He was so obsessed with America that he practically dotes on him and stalks him, and he can't even see that America doesn't want to have anything to do with that British bastard; it's like the whole Revolutionary War hasn't even happen! He's wasting time and precious love on America when France could be getting that love and appreciating it properly! He could show Britain better love if given the chance! He would've shown England what he could do. He could've shown England what he was missing out on! France felt the front of his pants become tighter as it brushed against his throbbing member. There was no one else in the room, so he should've-

France stopped himself before the memory took over. He looked down at the sleeping beauty as she stirred in her dream and lied back down with her. He slid the sheet down her porcelain shoulder and kissed it gently before nestling his face in the crook of her neck, cushioned by her silky golden hair. He smiled sadly to himself.

Silly Angleterre didn't know what the French love was…