In my 1,135 years of life there are many things I've come to learn. First off, don't drop the soap, and secondly, if you decide to drink like a fish, you're going to get fried. Oh and, make sure you know your idioms. They may come in handy if ever you decide to write a narrative.

Mum's The Word

The pounding of the bass, almost shriek-like lyrics ringing from a rather large set of speakers, darkness filled with the flashing of overly bright lights, perspiration in the air, and plenty of bodies moving in a wild sort of sync to the equally wild music. Alcohol being tossed around like a party favor, (along with the faint sense of narcotics) and laughter and screaming abound, it was everything that was the essence of an American club.

And I hated every bit of it at that moment.

Honestly, I shouldn't have agreed to go with that git to such a disgraceful place. The sort of place that gave his country a bad name where I came from. (Not to say there weren't equivalents in England, I'd just like to fervently deny them or blame it all on America.)

If you haven't guessed who I am by now, then either you don't know me very well or have a particular case of stupidity that I'm afraid I can not cure. I suppose if you're one of the French I could understand this, but otherwise, wow.

To enlighten you, you may address me as the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. If you wish for a shorter name then you may leave it at England. If you find it rather awkward calling me the name of a country, then I suppose you could call me Arthur Kirkland. Albion would be acceptable if you're from the 2nd century brought back from the grave. But do not even think of calling me some derogatory nickname, if you wish to keep your head intact.

Names aside, there I was, the UK (there's another one for you) in a filthy American nightclub, alongside a drunken Frenchman, watching the bloody American whose presence I had somewhat come to enjoy (not that I'd admit it) with some rather trashy looking shallow girls, dancing his bloody arse off in an extremely disgusting manner.

If was vulgar. Lecherous. Despicable. Perverse. And most importantly, it was pissing me off!

As I sloshed around a cup of ale, I considered throwing it at the blue eyed man, but instead decided to down it in one gulp. And then order another one. Or maybe two. Yes, two sounded delightful...

You see, if were one to look into the past, they'd find I hadn't been teleported to this place by otherworldly creatures, nor had I been kidnapped by the Jamaican Mafia and sold their to sample the alcohol. (Which was the only good feature of the establishment, may I remark.)

I had come their of my own will. My own bloody will, y'ken? Though it was not my idea. Rather, the preceding event went something like this...

I was at a park near my house, beneath a budding tree, and reading Percy Bysshe Shelley's, "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty" (it's good poetry, you had ought to look it up sometime). The words of, "..outwatched with me the envious night- They know that never joy illumed my brow..." danced around in my imagination, consumed with the beautiful melody of poetries calling, a rhythm engulfing each word, turning the simple phrases into an experience rather sensual.

And then this happened.

"England! Yo, England! ENNNGGGLLLAANNDD!" America called, (or rather yelled at the top of his bloody lungs..honestly, how does that boy manage so much volume? Did he turn his voice-box up to eleven?) running towards me, looking out of breath but rather excited.

His loud...scream-y...and kinda high pitched voice just wrung in my ears...like...a cat.. yowling after having a rusty stake driven into its capillary veins and twisted in a clockwise direction...with a donkey braying in the background...at a local Wal-Mart on Black Friday...anyway..

I was thoroughly disrupted from my haven of poetry, and not to happy about it. However, being an adult, I replied in a calm, mature, and well-worded manner.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU WANT? HOW DID YOU FIND ME HERE YOU STUPID ARSEHOLE? I'M FUCKING READING, YOU PRAT!"

...so much for maturity...

However, he just laughed and acted as if I had spat out the funniest thing in the whole damn world. Wanker...

"I asked that secretary guy at your house where you went, and he told me here!" he began, and I internally cursed Workbitch (as that was my nickname for him...what? I didn't make it up...) and all his ancestors to rot in their graves, "So anyway, I'm inviting everyone after the meeting out to go get a drink at this cool new club that opened up near where the meeting hall is! Wanna come?

I sighed. "First of all America, it's "want to", secondly, no, and thirdly, if that's all you have to say then why didn't you just text me or email me or use some other method of technology we have now in the twenty-first century instead of flying all the way out here?"

He pouted. "Okay so, "firstly" as you put it, 'cuz I don't wanna, number 2, by "Do you 'want to' come" I meant "You're coming whether you fucking like it or not~" , and letter C...okay, I don't have a very good response to letter C...sorry." He said, a trickle of sweat coursing down the back of his head.

I rolled my eyes, deciding to ignore the first remark and "letter C". (At least he knew C was a letter). "America, I'm not going clubbing with you after that bloody meeting, whether you like it or not," I said firmly. It would be a huge mistake if I agreed, and probably cause me a lot of hell and heartache, as most of America's plans eventually did.

"But Ennnggglllaanndd!" He whined, very childishly, may I include, "You have to! If you aren't there who will I talk to when the music stops playing and I sit down?"

"Talk to France."

He crinkled his nose, in something of disgust. "Nah..Don't wanna. He'll get to rape-y if he gets drunk."

"Talk to Japan."

"Japan isn't coming, I already tried to invite him, but he said that it's against his religion." (Which I honestly doubted it was, I'm pretty sure he just made up an excuse that America would accept and let be.)

"Talk to...Russia."

He glared and huffed, replying with, "The day I WANT to talk to Russia will be the day you WANT to fuck with France."

I shuddered at the thought of doing...that...with France, and sighed at the American's obstinacy.

"I REALLY don't want to go America.." I said, giving him a pleading look.

"It'll be fun England! I promise!" He said with a cheeky grin, and at that point I realized the argument was all but lost. Damned Yank, Lord knows how I always got roped into his idiotic plans.

"Well...I suppose.."I said, not wishing to whole-heatedly contend. However he took it as a yes one way or another, and his face lit up with a smile, giving off a happy little cheer. I couldn't help but let a small smile slip out as well, however I made sure I repressed it before he noticed it. The last thing I needed was him thinking he had actually made me happy. That would be just...humiliating...somehow..

So, after that, he went on talking about how "awesome" the clubs were at his place, whereas I merely let out snide remarks about the sanity and integrity of such establishments, which eventually got us into an argument about British Punk verses American Metal which if I went into would take this horridly off topic of the original purpose of this overly-written flashback.

So, to put the recap to an end, I was now stuck next to France and some of the other nations situated at the bar, feeling piteous of myself and wondering how many shots it would take for my eyebrows to actually turn into caterpillars.

America had said it would be a "fun" experience, and he needed me to talk to, but in all honesty he had barely said more than a few words to me, and was having plenty of fun by himself. In fact, he had invited so many nations to the place after the meeting that even if he hadn't been dancing with those girls, he certainly wouldn't be tied of tongue with everyone else.

I realized at that moment that the only reason he had invited me there was to advertise the little club of his, not because he wanted to invite me. Feeling rather stupid I preceded to down those two glasses of ale I had ordered previously in one gulp, which was rather impressive, if I do say so myself.

I suppose it wasn't totally that wankers fault, after all, it should have been obvious what he was doing. Yet for some reason, I thought that maybe he had invited me because he wanted to spend time with...

No, I refuse to type that. I'm cutting this bloody train of thought of right here, as if I were to type it I'd no doubt be writing in depressing circles of no interest to the reader.

Nevertheless, one could assume that after those sort of thoughts had been stirring about in my head, I'd end up thoroughly shitfaced. And if one were to assume that, one would be absolutely right.

I'd absolutely love to continue the story from that point, it would do me a great good, however all I can say is that as memory serves, after the point at the bar, what was to follow was a blur of yelling, laughing, familiar voices, and blacking out.

I do wish I weren't so terrible at holding my liquor.

In life, it is a good idea to keep a stiff upper lip and denote reserve and practicality in the face of turmoil.

However, when you awake in the morning with an Italian on one side of you, and a Norwegian on the other, it is perfectly acceptable to scream like a little girl. Especially if all three parties happen to be naked.

So, that is precisely what I did.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?" I yelled, my voice coming out squeaky and shocked, and making the headache I hadn't realized I had even more excruciating.

"...Hold kjeft..." one of the voices muttered, turning over on his side. I panicked, flailing about a bit, wondering just how drunken I had gotten last night.

In the contents of this paper I am about to reveal something so embarrassing and humiliating that if any a reader tells ANY nation EVER, I will track them down and sell their souls on eBay to an old Polish lady living in Tijuana.

Before this little affair, I had only ever had sex with one girl.

That's correct. Arthur Kirkland, the bloody British empire, known as a pillager and a conqueror so many years ago, is sorta, kinda..."not so great in the sack."

In fact, I was voted second to last in a national survey.

It's NOT something I'm proud of, and I'm certainly not a prude, it's just that..I believe sexual intercourse..while fun to watch and all...should be shared by a couple once they are wed, and not before...

So erm...I haven't had much..."experience", so to speak.

So naturally, as the naked Italian curled up unto my chest, and the naked Norwegian faced away from me, you could understand just exactly how horrified I was.

And the fact I had one serious hell of a hangover didn't exactly do wonders for making matters better.

And suddenly I felt a rush of guilt overcome me.

What HAD I done to cause this to happen? To make the cheerful and naïve Italy and reserved and mysterious Norway come into this foreign bed? I did have a reputation for getting violent when I was drunk...

But then again, both countries were by no means defenseless. Maybe they had been drunk as well? Yes..surely that was the case...Surely it was Italy finally snapping and showing some weird dark side and taking me and Norway, or Norway feeling lonely and deciding to console himself with the means of using us. It surely wasn't my fault, and I was just the innocent bystander wangsting about his little life at the bar, as I'm sure anyone could contest to.

Yes, because there had been witnesses, some more sober than others.

Maybe nothing had happened! Maybe, we all had another stripping party, and this is just where I slept! Maybe I hadn't dirtied myself, hadn't had a threesome, not with two men, one of them being one who feared me and the other one who could care less for me, maybe all was well, maybe this was a dream!

But as the smaller Italian mumbled into my chest murmuring something warmly and the bigger Norwegian shifted in his sleep as if he was about to awake, I suddenly realized that this wasn't a dream , was very much what it looked like, and I was in some serious, deep shit...

...No... I was fucked.

Literally.

A/N: Alright so, this is my new chapter story called "Mum's the Word". ^^

I've been reading a lot of MPreg fictions and Threesome fics lately, and I've decided to see if I could make at attempt at deconstructing the bases of such fictions in the weirdest way possible.

So, I bring to you, a crack filled story that will hopefully subvert some of the oddest aspects of all these sorts of fictions that the fandom has become so emerssed in. (Not to say I don't like those sorts, they're just numerous is all.)

If that fails then...you have an England!Centric narrative full of crack.

Using the crackiest England couple I could think of. Norway/England/Italy.

Also, I am an American, so I apologize if sounded like I was demonizing America in the beggining a little, but you have to remember this is in England's point of view and some things will just come out a little off. Likewise, England may be somewhat of an unreliable narrator from time to time.

And I think the little Norway line is Norwegian for "Shut Up". As I don't speak very much Norwegian I'm not sure.

So, if you're the mildest bit interested, I'll update soon! (Hopefully.) :3