England was more than content to find himself waking up in France's arms. At first, anyway.

Yawning, he stretched out like a cat before snuggling tighter against Francis's well-muscled chest. Long strands of blonde, greasy hair brushed over his arms as he adjusted, pleasing Iggy with their feel. He'd always wanted to touch this hair, to know its texture- soft, yet stringy, and easily woven around his finger- and now, after so long, he had what he'd sought after.

Content with keeping his eyes closed, he grinned and drank in the warm, damp scent of french roses and bread as it mingled with sweat and his lingering aroma of earl-grey tea. There was nothing that spoke of roughness in this stronger being- well, except for the stubble on his chin. That was such a pleasant change from his previous bedmates... or couchmates, as the case may be now. Gently the Englishman pressed his face to the Frenchman's bare neck, trying to stifle all other scents but his. It was just too good, too desirable, too... too suddenly in reach to contaminate.

Then one leg toppled from the too-thin couch, giving him an awakening jolt. And England remembered who he was.

Crying out in shock, he tried to sit up... before France's gold-dusted arm tightened around his slender waist possessively.

"Mon amour," he murmured sleepily, intoxicating England with the sticky sound of his voice. Caught like a fly in amber, he strained and tried to make himself grab at the pants that lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Then he quieted into an immobile silence. A shaky look crept into his eyes.

"F-france..." he whispered, managing the ability to cover his mouth. What was he doing? France and he were both upperclassmen, and shouldn't be messing around like this... not only that, but sleeping together before so much as a first date? It was completely idiotic!...

…Though if he were to be honest with himself, the situation didn't worry him because of that. It more worried him because, according to statistics he'd glanced over at one point, very few men stayed interested in... well... sluts. And he certainly had acted like he was one last night.

That silky voice spoke once again, gentle and void of the uninterested tones Arthur was beginning to anticipate. "Why such anxiety, ma chere? You quiver like a little mouse." Laughing softly, obviously in no rush to have him gone, he sat up and gathered England in his seemingly chivalrous embrace... did he have any idea what effect that had on him?

"France..." Iggy whispered in a raspy voice, turning his head away as he found himself unable to meet his eyes. "I-I need to go."

He knew as he'd uttered them that the words had sounded like lies. Though in a way they were the truth- he didn't need to be somewhere, though. He just needed to be gone, to have time to think. To escape.

The lone rough part of the Frenchman's being brushed against his cheek, then forgivingly was replaced by the soft, moist lips that were set upon it.

"So soon? Honhonhon, no such rushing, amour!"

A blush crept across the Englishman's pale face. He could feel the lust in France's vital regions- he couldn't ignore it. Soon, tears were building in his eyes. Was he only acting this sweetly to lull him into more... ah, intercourse? He wanted Francis, so badly, but he didn't- he couldn't be used and thrown away like that. He was a proud soul, and wouldn't show the pain, but he was also brittle- and brittle things broke very easily.

The other male seemed to realize that Iggy was doing just the opposite of relaxing, and instead of pressing himself upon him brought him more tightly into his arms; not in a provocative way, but rather in a comforting one. Wrapping his arms around his neck, his legs around his waist, England buried his face into France's chest and choked down sob after sob. His shoulders hunched and trembled.

"Shh... it's alright..." the Frenchman cooed, his hands massaging the tension in his back. "England, have I hurt you? I know you are slender at the waist, and I am none too small, but-"

"Sh-shut up!" England cried in reply, voice choked. It wasn't that. His posterior did hurt quite a bit, but it didn't concern him... yet how? How could he explain this emotional hurt France was inflicting much more strongly?

Now Francis pressed him a little- but gently. "Mon amour, I wouldn't hurt you purposefully. It's okay to admit. So that I can help?"

"You can't help me. You can't. I need to go." England whispered, a bit brokenly. France was trying to bend him, whether he realized it or not, and slowly but surely he was snapping beneath the pressure.

"Je t'aime..."

"Liar."

Sighing, the man sat back after a soft kiss on his forehead. "I'll cook breakfast. Don't leave, I implore you, but walk around the house as you will." A will-breaking smile. "Do calm down, ma chere. You act like a first-time lover. This concerns me."

With care he loosened the Englishman's arms and legs, then set him to one side and stood. Naked as he was, England couldn't help but stare- he'd seen other men and women clothesless, but there was something more... something more tasty about this body. The blonde hair that dusted his arms and legs, that curled into thick swirls across his chest and lower; the tamed strength visible beneath his cream-colored skin; the angular face that was framed with gold from every side, housing bright and tender blue eyes. Each of these things made Englands' mouth water in a way that disturbed him greatly. But all of it was bait, bait that many others had taken. And now, he had been captured by its allure also.

"I love you." he mumbled quietly, face heating ashamedly, then grabbed a pair of pants and fled that particular room- leaving France to stare after him in confused wonder. For different reasons, Arthur couldn't agree with his silence more. What the hell is wrong with me?

At first, he'd intended to leave. He was sure he wouldn't be stopped, and it was much more safe for his sanity than lingering. But then he found that he couldn't just go- not to spite Francis. So he turned left instead of right when he entered the hallway, and walked into the bathroom rather than out the door. There he did his business, began pull on the pants, and groaned in annoyance when he realized that they weren't his. But he couldn't go back, not now.

Sighing, he instead loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and rid himself of both items. Then he stepped in the shower. The startling chill of the water as he turned the handle made him gasp as it hit his chest- it felt kind of nice, though, really. Freshening. Then, slowly, the cold was replaced by heat and steam.

What to do, what to do? He'd already brought himself down to a level no self-respecting man would accept- by the terms of himself and the Frenchman both. Sleeping before the first date. What had he been thinking? Twitching, his hands curled into tight fists. Angry, frustrated, ashamed... lost. So lost. What to do?

Since the first day he'd set eyes on Francis, he'd wanted him. At first he'd hidden it behind his uptight, harsh demeanor; but somehow, like his silky hair around Englands' finger, he'd managed to weave his way inside. Now he had a tight grip on his heart, one that neither of them could break- and once France lost this lustful interest it would be torn out by his clutch. If he had played his cards right, he might've stood a chance. But probably not now. The key was supposedly to seem a good, faithful man, and now that he'd whored around and lost all mystery and respect...

Crying out furiously, he punched at the shower walls in a fit of passion. Soon his knuckles began to bleed- a little at first, but soon in proverbial torrents- and the walls were dented and worn. But he couldn't stop, not in the unstable state he was in now. So he cried and sobbed and punched until he'd worn himself out, too tired to continue, then collapsed with his bloody hands clutching his soaked blonde head. France, despite everything, was winning. And he didn't even know it.

Je t'aime, I love you. He said that, the filthy lying bastard. Another loud sob erupted from the crumpled Englishman. Wasn't it bad enough that he was so uncharacteristically fazed by this stupid situation, without those unknowingly mocking words ringing in his ears? Je t'aime. What the hell! He pushed off with his heels, hitting the wall with extreme force. Then he flung himself at it, again and again. By now his arms and sides were bruised, turning to hues of black and deep purple where they weren't streaked with waterlogged crimson. It wasn't that he was masochistic, or into self-pain, it just... it was all he could do. If he didn't inflict pain on himself like this, he would instead take it out on someone else- and France was the nearest living thing.

Finally, out-of-breath and in every way exhausted, Iggy rang the last bit of anger out of himself with one last ram. Then he sighed, fists loosening, sliding wearily to the bottom of the tub. The water stung his new injuries, bringing weak and silent tears to his closed eyes, but unable to feel a drop of emotion he merely laid there and panted wearily.

"I messed up," he said in a soft voice. "I messed up spectacularly."

He would've gone on further, soothing his nerves with the pointless droning, but sticky syrup glued his mouth shut as it emanated through the door.

"Angleterre?" it called.

When England didn't reply, that sweet and succulent syrup took the form of a shirtless man who wore his jeans- though unbuttoned, as he couldn't fit in them otherwise. Arthur learned this as the curtain was pulled back and he opened his heavy eyes.

"France..." he mumbled tiredly, closing them once again. What a sight he must've been, naked in this condition... like he was the victim of 'dropping the soap', as America would brashly put it. He'd lost all pride. He'd made himself look pathetic- or more likely, insane.

"Ahh..." France breathed raggedly, sounding confused and the slightest bit frightened. Frightened? Looking at himself from his perspective, he guessed he could see that. Being in the house with someone who could do this. Maybe even concerned for his safety, as he would be for another fellow nation.

A soft squeak, then the water stopped pounding his injured flesh. "Ma chere..."

"I'm fine." England told him, voice strong and authoritative considering.

"No."

Francis's large hand, strong and firm yet amazingly soft, slid underneath and cradled his cheek. For a moment they sat like this, neither speaking a word.

Then, so tenderly it grated Arthurs' nerves to a fine powder, he shifted his slender body into a warm cradle and lifted him to his chest.

"Stupide, mignon Angleterre," he said sadly, carrying him down the hall. Iggy frowned.

"I can walk on my own, Francis." he growled flatly, trying to save the last dregs of his pride.

"I know." he replied. "But you don't fight me, non?" When Iggy remained silent, he continued. "Breakfast is ready." Another few moments of dark silence followed.

Setting Arthur down on the couch where they'd slept, watching his face as he flushed brightly at the prospect of lying naked in front of him like this, he began to murmur once again. Never before had he heard the Frenchman speak this gently.

"It doesn't take a genius to realize that I've done something to wound you. Something different than how I angered you before... something more." A little teasingly he added, "I hope you don't act like this every time you make love, I don't think I'd be able to keep up with that..."

"You're implying that there'll be more times with you, you hairy buffoon!" England cried, eyes glinting with malice.

Francis recoiled, stung. Iggy flinched also at the reaction, startled and ashamed at himself, regret dulling the fire in his eyes. But just before he could apologize, the Frenchman said something that killed the words on his lips and rekindled his fury.

"I meant having to console your pathetic self those few days you actually managed to find some prostitute to sleep with you, Eyebrows." he spat, falling back into the old routine.

Tears came to Iggy's narrowed eyes. "Y-yeah, well, at least I don't have to drug my prostitutes! Who can blame them for wanting to blur that hideous face?"

"I seduce them with french wine. There's a difference. And this is coming from the one who should have a bag over their head- during intercourse or no!" His face was turning a deep crimson, teeth bared.

"Then why the bloody hell didn't you do that last night!"

"Why the 'bloody' hell did you sleep with me sober?"

"Because your wine tastes like shit, and I'd prefer even you over it!"

"Merde!"

"Exactly!"

"I don't know why I let such a tasteless Englishman sleep with me. Well, I won't make this mistake again, surely! Next time, I'll find someone who can cook me a worthwhile breakfast- and speaking of shit, what gives you the right to judge my delicious wines when you can't so much as cook toast!"

"Goddammit, I hate you!" Iggy shouted, the tears spilling over his eyes and streaming down his face. "Stupid... s-stupid frog-face...!"

"Stupid, am I?"

His voice had changed, once again. And as England watched his expression cool and soften, his thumb gently brushed a tear from his cheek.

"And you hate me... or do you?"

The crease between Englands' thick eyebrows deepened, his eyes squeezing shut. His hand fisted tightly, trembling and white-knuckled through the blood... at least, until France's warm hand rested over it, holding and heating his hand until it loosened.

"Ou est-ce que tu m'aimes un peu, aussi?"

Or do you love me a little, too? A broken sob worked its way up his throat, undeterred by the biting of his lip. A little? More than a little- too much, much too much.

"S-s-stupid!" he whimpered, feeling hopeless and sick to his stomach. "How co-could I...h-how could you, you b-bastard..."

"How could I... imply what we both know? Or, how could I love you also?" Francis asked in a low, deep voice, taking the Englishman into his arms once again as he sat down beside him. "mon amour, why else would you treat me with such harshness. Frustration and embarrassment, no? That I understand. You may not like it, but we're more similar than you think."

"No, how? How, you wine bastard! How!" he howled, his trembling body pressing close to the only source of heat and comfort it could find: him.

England flinched and sucked in a breath as France's hand touched his neck, half-expecting the usual response to his screaming- and readying himself to choke France back.

"Shh. It's alright, ma chere. Don't be frightened." he whispered soothingly, instead cupping Englands' neck and jawline in his large hand. The long, fine blonde hairs that dusted his arm tickled Iggy's sensitive flesh.

"I wasn't-" Iggy retorted immediately, only to have the fighting breath drawn out of him- not by strangulation, but by the dizzying softness of France's kiss.

At first he fought it, eyes growing wide. He didn't want to be used again, and almost always when France kissed someone it led to that. But instead of letting him go he grasped him by the wrists and brought a halt to the scratching and hitting. Soon France manipulated him to his will, keeping the interaction tender and light until his lips willingly parted and allowed his tongue to slide through. His eyes closed, and as France released them his spindly fingers inching underneath his thick head of stringy blonde hair. Just as he expected- his mouth was hot, and tasted like mild garlic and rich wine. Sweet and doughy... yet with a faint pungency. Then all observation was lost in breathless lust.

Finally, just when England thought he'd forget how to breathe, France pulled back- creating a silvery strand of saliva that stretched between the two of them. Iggy blushed, averting his gaze.

"Don't do that..." he pleaded weakly, wiping his mouth with one skinny arm, then rubbing his eye with the other.

"Why not, mon doux? Don't cry, don't cry... just tell me what's wrong."

His emerald eyes trembled miserably, staring into the calm and caring blue of his... life. First as a brother... then a crush... an enemy... and lastly as a lover., the most important and prominent thing in his meek existence.

"I-I want..." he gasped, clutching his heart. Why, why was this so hard?

Fear of rejection... his mind answered. It was annoyingly accurate.

Francis seemed to see that. "It's alright. I won't judge. I just want to help." he promised, resting one hand atop his shoulder. The other swatted his own away, to press against his palpitating heart. "Just tell me. What do you want?"

Arthur felt... small. Not just in the physical way- though in that respect he was tiny compared to the older man- but also in a mental and emotional way. He hunched over slightly, tense and quivering. He'd never acted like this before... at least not for this long a time span, or this violently. Today, he was exceptionally insecure. But oh, hell! What did he have to lose?

"I want you." he gushed suddenly. "I want you so badly, but I don't want you, also. I don't want you to use me like this. I want you to want more from me than sex. I want you to love me, dammit, not lust over me! I want you to want me like I want you!"

Spent, Iggy slowly leaned against France's shoulder and listened to his breaths come in soft, shallow gasps. France was still, stiff with something of shock.

God, he was sore.

"That's a lot of things you want, monsieur Angleterre." the Frenchman said finally, voice sounding very strange. Monsieur? England bit his lip. That didn't seem good...

"I'm sorry," he choked, voice not much more than a sniffle. "I'm such a bloody crybaby. But you might as well know that... so you can find some whore who won't become so attached if-" His mouth went dry, leaving him unable to continue. So instead he closed his eyes, apprehensively awaiting his reply.

Suddenly Francis became unbearably emotional, eyes sparkling with an intense brilliance. "Ah, Angleterre, je t'aime plus que tout! Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi. Je t'aime, plus que la lune et le soleil ... même les étoiles elles-mêmes. Mon Angleterre, mon amour, j'ai attendu patiemment ... juste pour ce moment ... Oh, mon amour, mon amour, mon amour!" he cried loudly, showering his face with sweet and caring kisses. Startled, Arthur jerked himself away... then inched closer and curled up in his lap. All sorts of relief flooded through his lean and fragile body, making his injuries pound with the extra bloodflow... but it felt strangely good. Every part of his being was washed clean of stress, leaving him with a terrible case of tremors in aftermath. Nothing to lose... and everything to gain.

"Oh, shut up..." England snapped, though all of his senses were tingling pleasurably. "I didn't say anything to get you that worked up."

"Oh, but you did, mon amour! Don't you understand how long... I was beginning to think that I wasn't... that I wasn't valeur de votre temps, I suppose. My England, with your uptight and stuffy demeanor that seems so impenetrable... leading me to think I was the hopeless romantic... I suppose not even you are so void of all emotion, non?"

"No, I guess not..." Breathing in his delicious scent, he found the strength to croak; "Francis... if you're teasing me, I'll bloody kill you. Because that's- that's cruel. Even for you."

"No teasing, ma chere... I swear it." A smile spread across his face, his fingers weaving between his as he leaned to press soft lips against his forehead. "Why would you think that? Ohonhon, does it seem too easy?"

"... Yes, actually. I expected..." His voice broke, a watery smile spreading across his face. "... I'm glad, though. That it turned out well, I mean."

"Yes... but then, it wasn't that easy, was it." France stated suddenly, the smile turning into a deep frown. Looking him up and down, gaze lingering on his bruises, he sighed, "You're not very used to sorting out your emotions, are you? There must've been much pain..."

Arthur blushed, irritated that he was bringing this up. "It didn't hurt that much-"

"Not physically, mon amour."

"Oh." Iggy shifted uneasily, changing the subject. "Breakfast... it's probably cold by now."

"It can wait awhile longer."

Chuckling at the surprised look on Arthurs' face, Francis pushed him down onto his back and positioned himself above his slender body, bringing his lips down on the Englishman's and kissing away his breath and sanity.

"I think we need to seal this deal, mon amour." he murmured raggedly as he pulled back for air, then came down on him once again before he'd managed a reply, Sufficiently dizzy, his haughty brain collapsed- leaving him with one need, one real focus. France was like aphrodisiac and, well, he'd already taken it. Now, he just needed to be sated.

"Gaah..." he moaned, hardening. France chuckled into his mouth, as both of theirs began watering hungrily, and claimed it so forcefully he could swear they'd turned deep purple. Arthur panted and squirmed underneath him, desperately.

"So aroused, and I haven't so much as touched you." he tisked, allowing England breath. For two seconds he lay still, breathing hard and cooling his overheated body... but he wasn't allowed enough time to focus- for in the third second Francis's mouth descended on his vital regions. The air was knocked out of Iggy's lungs, tightly grasping the fabric of the couch.

"Ohonhon, so cute." he murmured, drawing his tongue along his shaft and leaving trails of shimmering saliva in his wake. "So cute, I could just eat you up."

"F-francis... Francis... please...!" he whimpered, trying to sit up- before being pushed down by a determined hand. Drool escaped the corner of his mouth, mixing with the sweat glistening on his pale skin. "P-please, I'm going to cum... y-your c-c-couch..."

The Frenchman pretended to ignore him, his eyes taking in their fill as he writhed and groaned, building him up with tongue-brought pleasure. Then, just before the point of release, he brought the Englishman's vital regions deep into his mouth. With one last, deep shudder, he filled the space behind those sweet lips with seed.

For half a minute or so, England could do nothing but lay there and pant. When he finally managed to open his eyes, he recognised with a fuzzy tenderness that France was allowing him that time- he watched him with his bright blue eyes, a hazy adoring look on his face and cum dribbling into his coarse beard. Then he swallowed, swiped his lips clean, and grinned.

"F-france... France... France..." Iggy gasped. "I-It's not enough... I want you... I want you i-inside me.."

An amused, lust-filled chuckle emanated through the room. "As you wish, maître." More authoritatively, as he began to pull off Englands' trousers, he continued with the words "Off the couch, on your hands and knees."

England obeyed, too far gone to feel any shame. Closing his eyes, he listened with anticipation as France inserted one slender finger into him, making him sigh. He wriggled it, and when there was enough room he inserted another, doing the same until he could get four deep inside of him.

"Are you ready?" France asked, England just nodded. He felt France pull out his fingers and push his cock into him with one fluid thrust.

"A-aaah...!" Arthur started to lower his upper body to the ground, a sort of automatic response to it, but his Francis wouldn't have that- instead his muscular, gold-dusted arm crossed over his slightly-too-prominent ribage, pulling him back against his own.

"You won't get away so easily, Angleterre." he crooned, nibbling at his neck. No time or self-awareness to think- how could a person think, with their body and soul aflame? One of Iggy's hands grasped the hand over his chest, trying to pry it off... as the other went over his head and grasped Francis's blonde hair, trying to make him be closer, deeper.

And deeper he did inch, with both heads as well. Grunting, England tried so hard to bite back the pain... but a plea escaped him in the form of a silent wail, his mouth opening wide though no sound was emitted. Lucky ninja, America would probably say, though he still didn't quite get that joke...

Francis's fingertips feathered seductively along his bottom lip, enticing him to close his mouth and suck thirstily at their salty sweetness. He could hear France, his France, moaning wildly with pleasure... and through them, a low and satisfied purring. Somehow, England had always pictured himself as the Seme... but now that he had this experience... was being the Uke really so bad? Really, in a way, it was even more satisfying...

"You're beautiful, my England. So beautiful." he murmured huskily against his ear. England felt the moistness of his breath, the salivitation of his mouth as he bit into his earlobe gently. Everything, gently. Though he inflicted this pain, everything about him... was gentle...

"H-hear me, France...!" he hissed, chest heaving with the effort to speak. "I love you... I do... but for God's sake, go ha-harder!"

"Harder?" The request seemed to please the Seme. "What if I wound you?"

"Does it l-look like I c-c-care at this p-point?" he shouted, motioning carelessly at his battered body. "D-do it, Francis! Do it!"

"As you wish." He picked up the pace, submerging himself fully into England's body, thrusting in and out of the small man's arse. His muscled arms tightened around him; no mercy, no concern... and yet, now Iggy could detect a fierce devotion- now that he knew it should be there. Fire. Such fire. And Francis was the only one that could keep it lit.

At last, with a grip so strong he couldn't manage a small breath, he felt himself being filled to the point of bursting with hot, sticky semen. As France pulled out, both of them panting desperately for breath, he felt himself overfill- the liquid trickled down his long legs and dripped onto the floor. More of his own was soon to join it.

Though his grip loosened, France wouldn't let go... a soft, fluttery feeling crossed his heart, turning and allowing himself to be enveloped in the strong man's warm embrace. Gentle once again he stroked the Englishman's short, thick blonde hair, kissing him here and there, and the both of them steadied their breaths this way.

"Je t'aime..." England whispered, arms going around his neck.

"I love you, also." France replied. There was no doubting the sincerity in his words.

"So... breakfast?"

"Yes, mon amour." Then, pulling back slightly, he looked him over and smirked. "But perhaps a shower first."

England nodded, a bit conscientiously, then rose shakily to his feet. But he let their fingers entwine.

"Together, Frog-face?" he asked lovingly.

France nodded, entrancing the Englishman with his narrowed sapphire eyes. "Together, Eyebrows."

Sorry, I'm not a French expert. I used Google Translate. Please, review! *Ah, turning into the stereotypical review-hog...* Also, some credit goes to my sister, Insanity's Nightmare. She's the Yaoi expert... go look at her stuff, it's goood. Promise. :P