Author's Note: .... yeah. xD DON'T ask about how the hell I got this idea, or why I wanted to write it at all. Just don't. Because I don't know. Anyway, I'll jump straight to a few minor translations.

Oui, parler de Francis Bonnefoy - Yes, Francis Bonnefoy speaking

merveilleux - marvelous

Vous êtez beau - You are beautiful

Je l'ai su - I knew it

Arthur considered cursing himself, but changed his mind and instead downed his fourth glass of champagne. He had absolutely no idea about how he got roped into this bet, and by Francis of all people, but he was not going to give up! Or rather, he was not going to get drunk. Not after only four glasses. He looked at Francis, who sat there and smirked at him, having downed his fourth as well. This was all about who would get drunk first, and they had done this game many times during New Year's Eve. But this time, the Frenchman wanted their little game to be more interesting and had come up with a fun part.

"The first one to get too drunk to stand and sing his national anthem loses, mon cher," the frog had said with a grin as he burst through the door with three large champagne bottles in his arms. "The loser has to do whatever the winner says." At this, Arthur had spluttered a protest, but Francis had covered his mouth and grinned predatorily at him. "Whatever the winner says, Arthur. And I already know what I want you to do if I win, so you'll need to start thinking if we're supposed to drink through the night. Oh, and... Angleterre? Did you manage to get the whiskey you promised?"

Since seven o'clock in the evening, they had been drinking. The whiskey was gone, and they were now working on the champagne. Arthur was well aware of that the edge of his vision was going a little foggy already, but he had been able to drink much more before. And it was obvious that Francis hadn't brought the good champagne, since that was something they both thought should be enjoyed thoroughly and quietly. This was the weak and cheap stuff he kept only for games like this. The frog refilled their glasses a fifth time.

"You seem tense, Angleterre," he said with a smirk. "And you keep glancing around. Going blurry already?"

Arthur glared at him, but couldn't suppress a smirk.

"Forget it," he replied. "I'm fine. But I think your hand is shaking, Francis." He raised an eyebrow and lifted his glass. "Are you bothered by something? My presence, perhaps?"

Immediately, Francis's smirk turned into a grin and he raised his glass a little bit.

"Oh, hardly," he chuckled. "But it is awfully cold in here, don't you think? Can't you afford proper heating?"

This little verbal battle was normal as well; they both knew that it meant nothing, and they knew that it wouldn't go further than this. So instead of continuing to talk, they drank more. And more. And soon, the first bottle was empty. Arthur blinked a few times to try to clear his vision a little.

"Alright, Arthur," Francis smiled sweetly. "I'll go first."

The Frenchman stood (he did sway a little bit, noted Arthur) and began to sing with a surprising calm. And as soon as he was done, Arthur followed suit. He realised that he had probably swayed even more than Francis as he stood up, but he wasn't too bothered. He wasn't too drunk yet. After he sat down, Francis immediately refilled their glasses, and so they continued.


Arthur groaned loudly when he woke up; he was on the sofa, and his head was resting in someone's lap. This someone was, as he realised after opening his eyes and staring at a bearded chin, Francis.

"Agh... My head..." Slowly, he sat up and rubbed the back of his head. "It's like when Scotland slammed my head into that rock over and over again..."

"Wow, he did that?"

Oh great. The frog was awake. And it was loud.

"Shut the hell up and let me die..." Arthur shoved weakly at the Frenchman to make him move over, but gave up after a moment. "This is the last time I do this, you hear me?"

Francis chuckled and patted his friend's shoulder sympathetically. Arthur said that every year, and he went back on his word every year as well. The poor man had such a hard time resisting the offer of a drink... Especially when someone else paid for it.

"I won, by the way," said Francis and tilted his head. "You got through the first part fine, but then you fell down. Remember what I said yesterday?"

"The loser has to do anything the winner says, I know..." Arthur glared a bit at the Frenchman. "But if it has something to do with you and sex, then I'm not going to care, okay?"
Francis put on a faked hurt face, but soon laughed when the other kept glaring at him.

"Oh, relax," he cooed. "Look, mon ami, I shall go and get you something for your headache. And then, when you feel a little better, we can talk about what I want. Sounds good, non?"

A short while later, when Arthur's raging headache had calmed and settled for a mild (but annoying) throb and Francis had gotten them both something to drink, the Brit looked at his old rival and frowned.

"Well, spit it out, then," he muttered. "What do you want me to do?"

Francis smirked slyly.

"Tell me, mon cher, how have you been lately," he asked, seemingly out of the blue. "Have you been well? Or have you felt lonely here on your island? I know for a fact that you don't go out as much as you used to, Arthur. Doesn't it feel rather sad to be an old man already, just sitting in your house, sipping tea and reading or solving crosswords...? You were so wild just a few decades ago."

Arthur grunted, but smiled vaguely. The punk wave was a very fond memory for him, and he sometimes did wish he had it back. He had been approached by quite many back then, both men and women, and in a way it had made him feel rather good about himself. Despite his age, he had felt very attractive, and he had liked it. In fact... He wouldn't mind feeling that again. Slowly, Arthur looked back at the other nation.

"It's been... lonely," he replied quietly, taking the bait. "I guess I sort of miss "being around", you know. But..." He closed his eyes, hesitating for a short moment. "I guess I miss feeling attractive..."
Francis grinned, clamping his hand down on the other man's shoulder.

"And here I try hard every day to make you feel wanted," he laughed and dodged a swat at his head. "Anyway! You want to feel attractive and wanted again, like you did when the punk was big, non? So, we're going to make sure that you get that feeling again!"

The green-eyed Englishman raised one impressive eyebrow and eyed Francis, clearly rather curious.

"And what is your suggestion...?"

"Not suggestion. Order. You have to do whatever I want, remember? Anyway. You, mon cher Angleterre, are going to spend a month at America's house. You are going to do chores around the house or whatever he asks you to do, but no cooking, and-"

"Hold on!" Arthur glared. "Why no cooking?"

"Because he always makes fun of your cooking?" Francis raised an eyebrow. "I don't want you to start this with feeling angry, Arthur. Anyway. The next part is what will make this entire thing work." As the Frenchman began to grin, Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine. "You are not allowed to wear anything else than that waiter outfit when you work."

".... What?"

"I know you have that outfit, Arthur."

"... So what if I do?"

"You're going to wear it, or else that dense man will never get it."

Arthur groaned and leant back.

"You're so annoying, Francis," he muttered. "Fine, I'll wear it, but only if you stop making my headache worse..."

Alfred yawned loudly as he stumbled up to his house. It was late in the evening, and he felt absolutely exhausted. Not only had New Year's Eve been a busy night because of the party, but lately work had been piling up.

"Key," he grunted as he rummaged through his pockets. "Where's the key... Ah! Found you! Hah, trying to hide from the hero..."

But as he put the key in the lock and attempted to turn it, he found that the door was unlocked. With a slight frown, he opened the door and slowly stepped inside. And was greeted by a sparkly clean hallway.

"... I'm pretty certain about that there was a lot of stuff on the floor this morning," he mumbled to himself as he pulled off his jacket and kicked off his shoes; whoever had cleaned the place had gone through a lot, and he didn't want to ruin any effort by tracking mud all over the place. "And that I had locked the door. Who...?"

He began to look through all the rooms. Every single room was clean. Not a speck of dust anywhere. But surely there had been more than just a day's work...? And of course, when he went to check on the old pile of clothes by the washing machine, it was still there.

"... I need some coffee," he muttered to himself and headed to the kitchen. "I need to drink something that wakes me up..."

But just as he entered the kitchen, he saw a man with sandy blonde hair by the smaller kitchen table. Emerald eyes stared at him over a cup of tea, impressive eyebrows raised. And what was more, this very familiar man wore no shirt, only a white collar along with a black tie.

"Welcome home, Alfred," said the man by the table, actually giving the American a slight smile. "Did everything go well at work today?"




"... Alfred?"

England, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Iggy, Arthur Kirkland, Artie... Whatever one should call him, he had far too many names anyway. The important thing was: Arthur was in Alfred's kitchen. Without a shirt. Drinking tea. And asking him if everything went well at work.

"We're not married," he blurted out before he could think about the words.

Arthur watched him with an amused look in his emerald eyes.

"No, we're not," he said, a smile tugging at his lips. "I just thought that I should visit you and see how you were doing."

You're half naked. Why the hell are you half naked?

"Oh... Uhm... I'm fine, I guess... It... It went well..." He rubbed the back of his head nervously. "Just... minor stuff today..."

And Arthur just smiled at him, lifted his cup and took another sip of his tea. As if he belonged right there in that chair. As if he lived in the house. A small frown showed on the American's face.

"Arthur, did you..." He shook his head to clear it a little. "I know for a fact that the place wasn't this clean when I left. Did you clean up?"

A chuckle.

"Yes, I did," replied the Brit. "It was a bloody mess, but a lot down here is gone. I thought I'd try to clean upstairs tomorrow."

Alfred held up one hand.

"Woah there," he said quickly. "Who the hell said you could clean my house?! Who the hell gave you a key to my house?!"

The Englishman rolled his eyes.

"You gave me a key," he said. "Years ago. And this was..." He stopped himself for a moment and looked away, a slight blush creeping to his cheeks. "This is because I lost a bet..."

And so, Arthur explained the bet, but left out the part about the outfit. When he was done, Alfred just stood there and stared at him as if he was had just been accused of being a serial killer.

"So," said the American slowly, processing the information. "You lost a bet to Francis." A nod. "Francis decides to make you live here for a month, taking care of all chores but the cooking." A slight flinch, but a nod followed. "All without asking me if I needed any sort of help? I don't need a damn maid, Arthur!"

The Brit looked straight into the younger man's blue eyes and furrowed his impressive eyebrows.

"Do you know what I found glued to the ceiling in the hallway," he asked. "Toast with peanut butter and jam. And there was a half-eaten hamburger in one of your shoes. And then there was all that dust and grime, and you had obviously not cleaned the kitchen for a long time. The damn oven sounded as if it was giving birth when I opened it, and there is still something weird in the cabinets that I don't dare to touch." He shuddered. "You, Alfred F. Jones, have a home that's more filthy than the bloody ground you walk on when you head outside, and I have not even checked all rooms upstairs yet. I don't know how Francis found out, but most likely he had talked to Matthew. This place is disgusting, Alfred, and I will not let it remain this way."

Alfred blushed heavily. He knew that the house hadn't been cleaned for a long time, simply because he had been busy, but he had somehow lived with it. He had stopped thinking of it long ago and had hoped that no one would point it out. But now, Arthur was there and all up in his face about it.

"I... I was going to get around to it," he mumbled. "I just... didn't have time."

Arthur calmly stood up, and that was when Alfred couldn't help but stare. The man was not only missing a shirt. He had no pants on. The only thing that shielded Arthur's lower regions from Alfred's view was a small black apron. He stared. And stared. But the Englishman, who normally would've snapped at him, merely stepped closer.

"I'm going to take care of it, Alfred," said Arthur with a slight smirk and placed his hand on the younger nation's shoulder. "Just let me take care of everything, alright? I'll help you around the house, and you can focus on getting work done. Perhaps you could work at home. If you needed help with that, I'd be around."

Alfred blinked and nodded slowly.

"Good. Now, do you want some coffee?"

"... Ah... yes, please... Uhm... you know where I keep it, I think, so... I'll just... I need to make a phone call..."

He quickly left the room, and as soon as he heard that Arthur began to make the coffee, he picked up his phone and dialled a very specific number. One. Two. Three. Oh, for God's sake...

"Oui, parler de Francis Bonnefoy," cooed a familiar voice.

Alfred groaned. Of course he didn't understand French...

"Will you speak like a normal person, Francis," he asked. "You know I don't understand jack of your language."

"Ah, l'Amérique!" Francis laughed in his ear. "How good of you to call! I trust that our dear Angleterre arrived safely at your home? Did you give him a good welcome?"

Alfred frowned disapprovingly, and if the Frenchman had been there he would most likely have been very nervous at the sight.

"I was out," he muttered. "But this was just what I wanted to talk to you about." He took a deep breath. "What the hell, Francis? I mean, what the hell, man? What the fuck is this about a bet? If you or Matthew thought my place was filthy, why didn't you just, I don't know, tell me instead?! Fuck, I don't want to get a heart attack or accidentally beat someone to death when I get home because I thought some fucker broke into my house, okay?!"

Francis just laughed.

"Oh, relax, it was just a bet!" He sounded more cheerful than he should. "It was New Year's Eve; we were having our little drinking game as usual, and thought we'd make more fun of it. The first one to get too drunk to stand and sing his national anthem lost, and that was Arthur. And the loser had to do whatever the winner wanted."

Alfred closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

"Another thing," he said quickly. "What the fuck is with those clothes he's wearing? Or... No, wait. Make that, what the fuck is with the clothes he's not wearing? Why is he naked, except for that apron?!"

It got quiet, and Alfred imagined that Francis had such a massive nosebleed that he was about to pass out. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

"You would have to ask Angleterre about his choice of clothing," replied the Frenchman with a sly chuckle that made Alfred wonder why the hell Arthur hadn't killed the man; he was creepy. "I'm afraid I cannot explain his antics, dear l'Amérique."

Alfred promptly hung up and spun around to walk back to the kitchen, but stopped in his tracks as he found Arthur standing there; on his left hand he balanced a small round tray with a coffee cup, and in his right hand he held his own tea cup. A smile played on the Englishman's lips, and his large emerald eyes eyed the American curiously. His long eyelashes batted almost seductively.

"Your coffee," he said politely. "And if you don't mind me asking, what was that about?"

"N-nothing..." Alfred mentally cursed the small stutter and took the coffee and sank down on the couch. "It was nothing..."

Arthur sat down next to him, placing the tray on the coffee table in the same movement, and leaned back with a smile.

"Really, Alfred, you seem rather tense," he said softly and sipped at his tea. "Are you certain that nothing is wrong...?"

The American was surprisingly quick with beaming a smile at him.

"Nothing's wrong," he replied. "I'm just... I'm just stressed, that's right. I'm stressed, I mean, I just got back from work..."

He laughed nervously, and Arthur gave him a smile as a response before turning his attention back to the tea. Alfred watched him from the corner of his eye; he couldn't deny that the older man did look rather good. ... That was, he was in good shape. Tip top. Or well, it looked like it at least.

He must've been working out or something, thought the American to himself. I mean... He's slim, but not... not too slim... And he's more muscular than I thought... He forced back a smile. No. No, maybe not... Maybe he's always been this way. He was a strong empire once, wasn't he? He's still strong. He thought of his own efforts, of all the days he had spent exercising. ... God, I'm pathetic. Arthur probably doesn't even exercise the way I do, and he's looking so... No! I am not thinking that!

He frowned slightly and glanced at the older nation again. The pale skin, the unruly hair, those thick eyebrows, those deep emerald eyes, the way he kept his eyes half closed when he sipped his tea, and... those full lips, the tongue that darted out to catch a few drops on his upper lip, savouring the taste... Oh no, he did not think that! While it was very true that Arthur was a handsome man, something that very few could deny, Alfred F. Jones was definitely not attracted to him. He did not swing that way.

"I'll be right back; I'll just fetch the coffee pot." Arthur stood again and glanced at the American with a fond smile. "You drink too fast."

Alfred stared after the Brit.

I really didn't know he'd actually look good without pants...


Arthur closed the door to the kitchen and smirked. Of course he knew that Alfred had been staring at him; it was hard not to notice. He chuckled silently and picked up the phone (he never did know why Alfred insisted on having at least four different phones in the house) and dialled a number. It took mere moments before someone picked up.


"It's me, Francis." Arthur smiled. "Just wanted to let you know that it seems like you were right."

"Oh, but mon ami, of course I was right!" The Frenchman laughed. "Despite what you always think, your body is very beautiful. Why would I be wrong about l'Amérique wanting you?"

"Oh, shut it, you frog. Just don't let it get to your bloody ego, alright? It was one thing. I bet you'll never be right about something again."


It was only eight o'clock, but Alfred felt like he was ready to explode. First of all, Arthur was acting weird, trying to come close to him all the time. When Alfred had decided to cook something (since Arthur wasn't allowed to do it), the older man had been around him all the time. And it was just the same when he was watching TV; Arthur calmly moved around in the living room, cleaning up what he had missed earlier. Which meant that the American constantly got a lovely view of Arthur's bare butt as he bent down to pick something up. Not that he was actually looking at Arthur as much as he could. Nope, not he. He would never look at another man that way, absolutely not. He wasn't Francis, after all. And from what Alfred knew, Francis had been after Arthur for centuries, so the Brit was most likely just trying to piss the Frenchman off. But... Trying to piss Francis off by appearing in Alfred's house, wearing nothing but that weird waiter outfit and saying that he'd help around the house...? No, there was something weird going on. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was weird, and also kind of... No. No, it was not kind of hot; in fact he had never even thought that h-word! Especially not about Arthur! He held back a groan and glanced at the Englishman again, who was at the moment bending down to pick up a magazine he had dropped. Quickly, Alfred looked back to the TV, blushing furiously. Good God, now he couldn't concentrate on the show... He bit his lip and sighed deeply, turning off the TV before leaning back a little bit.

"What's wrong, Alfred?" He turned his head again and found himself staring into a pair of slightly concerned green eyes. "You love that silly show; you never miss it... Why did you turn off the telly right in the middle?"

Alfred smiled weakly and shook his head.

"I'm just not in the mood," he mumbled, still not looking away from the older nation. "I think I've got a headache, actually..."

It took merely a few seconds, and then suddenly Arthur was almost in his lap as he carefully brought their foreheads together. Alfred didn't move, but a blush did begin to bloom on his cheeks.

"Well, it doesn't seem like it's a fever or anything else," muttered the Brit with a small smile. "That's good... Alfred, why are you blushing...?"

"Ah... It's... It's nothing... Just... just a bit warm."

The Brit frowned. A moment later, he was sitting on the younger man's lap, gently stroking his cheek. Alfred stared into the emerald eyes, taking in a mischievous spark.

"A bit warm, you say," said Arthur calmly. "You do feel rather warm, yes... But I'm not sure..."

Alfred gulped as the older man's face came even closer... he was far too close now. He held back a yelp as he grabbed Arthur and lifted him off, quickly getting up.

"I should go and get some sleep", he said with a quick grin. "I'm probably just tired."

He hurried out of the living room and ran up the stairs.

Oh god, I need a cold shower...

As soon as he reached the bathroom, he locked the door behind him and ripped off his clothes, desperate to free himself from the jeans that were now straining over his groin.

"God," he mumbled to himself. "I'm so glad he didn't notice..."

Quickly, he stepped into the shower and turned on the water. It was ice-cold, but he didn't mind at the moment. It was just what he needed. But for some reason, it didn't help. He groaned quietly at the slight strain in his crotch, a burning feeling spreading in his body; such a familiar sensation...

"Why the hell is this happening", he whispered, his hand moving down over his chest and stomach. "He's so... Why is he..." He let out a gasp as the hand found what it sought. "Ah... O-oh God... I... I can't believe... W-why him...?"

His hand began to pump, clutching lightly around the hard member. The water rippled down over his body, spreading an icy sensation over his skin. But the warmth that had sought its way beneath his skin almost seemed to burn everything away. Everything except the source, and the feeling of the hand that now took a firmer grasp and pumped faster. His breathing was getting ragged, hard to control in some way. He leant carefully against the wall, his legs almost giving away beneath him as his hips bucked involuntarily.

"Ah, fuck...!" His head rolled back, a moan escaping his lips. "Ahn...! Ah...!"

He closed his eyes, imagining how Arthur had looked in that outfit, imagining how he'd slowly remove the apron, smile at him...

Do you want me, Alfred...?

"Ah...! Oh, fuck yes...!"

He imagined a seductive smirk, emerald eyes glinting, a hand reaching out to touch him...

Then... Go ahead and take me, love... I'm all yours...

Alfred bit his lip to hold back a loud moan, but something did pass his lips. One single name.


His body shivered violently as he came, staining his hand. When his muscles slowly began to relax, he started to sink to his knees, water still rippling over his back. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"What the hell is he doing to my head," he whispered. "... Oh God, did I just... No... No, I can't have... did I really just jack off while thinking of..."

He wobbled a little as he got to his feet and shivered.

"Sleep," he told himself. "That's all I need. I need to sleep; I've worked too much lately... That's all... I'm tired and overworked, a-and he's just messing with me..." He forced a goofy smile. "I-it's just been one evening... He'll stop soon..."

But three weeks went, and Arthur did not stop. Instead, he actually seemed to double his efforts in making Alfred pay attention to him in every possible way. Alfred tried to keep him away at first; but the more he tried, the more Arthur seemed to want him. The Brit seemed to be an expert when it came to teasing someone sexually, which was actually a quite big surprise. Alfred hadn't thought that the old man had it in him. Arthur was, in fact, very handsome despite his age, and it seemed that he was very well aware of it. But if he didn't know, then at least someone had made sure to tell him every day... Francis, of course. Who else? Everyone had both seen and heard of his attempts (and failures) at getting into the Englishman's pants. But even though Arthur had been persistent in shoving Francis away and telling him to sod off, Alfred was sure of that he had seen a small smile and a blush on the older man's face because of the compliments.

"Ah, mon cher, you look so very beautiful today! What do you do to make your hair shine like a field of golden wheat on a gorgeous summer's day?"

"Angleterre, you are such a thief. You have stolen my heart with your beauty, mon amour."

"I need a map, Angleterre. It seems that I'm lost in that merveilleux emerald paradise that is your eyes..."

There were more examples, of course, but it seemed that Arthur had always appreciated the words. And Alfred wasn't entirely certain about that they hadn't gone further... But then again, if they had... Why would Arthur act this way, if he already had someone he could go to?


Alfred yawned as he stepped through the door, rubbing the back of his head. He hadn't been away for very long (it was actually not even lunchtime yet), but he felt tired. He had fallen asleep rather late, mostly due to rather graphic thoughts of Arthur (again). Just as he passed by the living room, pondering if he should get some sleep, he heard Arthur's voice.

"Look, Bonnefoy, stop saying that now... No, that's not it... No, I'm saying you're not listening to me, you bloody frog!"

He frowned slightly and peeked into the room, seeing Arthur sit there on the couch with the phone. The Englishman's emerald eyes were filled distress.

"Francis, it's been three weeks," said Arthur. "Three weeks, and he hasn't reacted... No, he's been acting strange, I admit it, but... No, that's not... No, Bonnefoy, that is not... For Pete's sake, you bloody idiot, will you just shut up and listen to me?! It's been three weeks, and he's only been acting strange! He doesn't seem to care, okay?! It didn't work at all!" He fell silent for just a moment, and it didn't seem like someone spoke to him for that moment either. "F-Francis... I... Am I... Am I ugly...? Am I really that unattractive...? He was looking at me at a start, but now... I... I try, but... A-am I unattractive...?"

A loud exclamation was heard from the phone, and Arthur frowned a little bit and turned on the speaker unit as he put down the phone on the table. He leaned his head in his hands, covering his eyes.

"Where do you get that idea, Angleterre," yelled Francis. "Of course you are not unattractive! Vous êtez beau! He is only a man, Arthur, and we both know that men are difficult, but you are absolutely not unattractive. Alfred is, also, inexperienced on this specific area. He's a very young man. He's not without taste, of course, but he obviously doesn't see how gorgeous you are, or how your eyes sparkle when you smile. He apparently cannot see how beautiful your hair is, like golden sand in sunshine..."

Arthur's lips twitched into a small smile.

"T-that's enough, Francis... Don't flatter me so much, it's embarrassing... B-but thank you... At least you made me smile. But I don't know how to handle this. Seriously, Francis, I think I'm getting desperate, I'm considering watching him in the shower... Bloody hell, I don't want to do that...! I don't want him to think I'm some sort of a damn pervert."

"Please, Arthur, just relax. He's difficult, but you'll get to him. I'm sure of it. He must understand sooner or later, non?"

The Frenchman hung up, and Arthur reluctantly did the same. He seemed a little more relaxed, but Alfred frowned a little; he knew better than to believe what seemed to be with the Brit. Slowly, he stepped a bit closer and knocked on the doorframe.

"I'm home, Arthur..." He smiled slightly as the Englishman flew to his feet. "Uhm... Are you okay...?"

Arthur fidgeted a bit with the small apron and glared slightly at the American.

"Do you want to give me a heart attack, you bloody git," he hissed. "When did you come in?!"

Alfred chuckled quietly and walked into the room, shaking his head.

"I just came home," he replied. "I'm sorry if I scared you..."

He eyed the Englishman carefully, taking in every detail; flushed cheeks, wide emerald eyes, tousled sandy hair, perfect pale skin... Good God, he looked amazing. Of course, the best course of action would be to normally not say a thing about it, but now when three weeks had gone, and Arthur looked so absolutely perfect...

"You look great," said Alfred with a beaming smile. "Do you know that?"

Arthur blinked in surprise and stared at the younger man, momentarily confused. Surely he had heard wrong...? Surely Alfred had not just said... Wait, had he maybe heard the conversation with Francis? Alfred had always been so... dense. He would never think of giving Arthur a compliment unless someone made him do it.

"Don't say that," he snapped when the confusion passed. "Don't say that when you obviously aren't thinking clearly, you git." He sank down on the couch again, a sigh escaping his lips (oh, those sensual lips). "I... I don't look "great", Alfred. I look absolutely ridiculous... Bloody hell, I don't even know why I agreed to wear this stupid thing in the first place..."

Arthur continued to mutter to himself, and soon Alfred began to piece it all together. The outfit had been part of the bet. He was not entirely certain about why, but it seemed to be connected to that conversation with Francis. Something about Arthur not feeling attractive.

"So, you're just wearing that outfit to appear as a desperate slut, all because you can't get some to save your life?"

Ah, shit.

The moment those words left his mouth, Alfred knew that it would've been better to put his head through a wall or something. Or ask Ivan to torture him for a few weeks. Because now, an utterly furious Englishman stood up and glared at him; had Alfred been a lesser man (or one of the Italian brothers), he would most likely be a pile of soggy and bloody meat on the floor within seconds. But being the nation and hero he was, Alfred instead thought of the situation carefully for a second or two, and then said:

"You're going to kill me, aren't you...?"

Arthur stopped in his tracks, only a few feet away from the annoying American. It seemed that he was pondering the possibility of really killing the younger man, or if he should settle for severe bodily harm or just public humiliation combined with sending him as a gift to Francis. But there was something else in his eyes as well, something that Alfred could not quite read. The anger just seemed to melt away. A predatory smirk came to the Brit's lips, and he eyed Alfred carefully.

"No," he replied. "I am fairly certain of that I have a better idea of what to do. After all..." He moved a little closer to the younger man, looked into his eyes and pouted slightly. "I've been very... disobedient, haven't I...? And it is for the master of the house to punish disobedient servants..."

Alfred's breath caught in his throat for a moment. What the fucking hell was Arthur sugges-... Oh. Oh! He stared, almost hypnotized by the way the older man moved closer to him; the look in his eyes, the suggestive way he was pouting (how the hell did he pull that off?), the way he sank to his knees right in front of Alfred and looked up at him with pleading emerald eyes...

"Alfred..." When had Arthur started to sound so... "Please, Alfred... Master America... The fact that I even thought of hitting you... I should get punished, hm...? No servant should raise a hand against his master... I should feel very ashamed for what I've done..."

The American stared at the older nation for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips. But just as he opened his mouth to reply, the phone rang, making them both jump in surprise. Alfred cursed silently and stepped over to the couch and sat down, calmly picking up the phone.

"Y'ello, who's this," he said quickly. "Make it quick, will you?"

"Alfred-san." Oh, so it was Kiku... "I apologise if I interrupted something...?"

The Japanese man's voice trailed off, and Alfred smiled slightly.

"Ah, no, it's fine. What did you want, Kiku?"

Calmly, the soft-spoken Japanese began to explain why he had called. And while Alfred listened, he also heard shuffling noises as Arthur moved closer to him, still on all fours on the floor. He had a look in his eye that Alfred could only describe as seductive. The Brit had really meant what he said, it seemed. And while the American tried to concentrate on what Kiku was saying, he suddenly felt a hand slide up over his thigh. He glanced down and found himself staring into Arthur's beautiful green eyes that were laughing up at him. The hand slid a little higher up, and he managed to stop himself from taking a deep breath. However, he could not stop the low groan that escaped his lips once the fingers gently fluttered over the growing bulge in the jeans.

"Alfred-san, is everything alright? You sound a bit strained..."

"Ah... I-it's fine, Kiku... I just... I just have a headache."

He glanced down at the Englishman again and saw him cover his mouth with one hand; his shoulders were shaking and his eyes sparkled with mirth. The emerald eyes sought out his sky blue ones, and the hand lowered slightly to reveal a wide grin. Arthur mouthed a simple sentence: A headache? The hand on Alfred's thigh allowed its fingers to flutter over the bulge in the jeans again before the rest of the hand followed suit.

"I-it's nothing, really, just a headache," muttered Alfred again, desperately holding back another groan.

"I see." If Alfred didn't know better, he'd almost say that Kiku must be smiling... "Well, perhaps you should ask Arthur-san to get you something?"

While he pondered how Kiku could know about that Arthur was there at all, and how Arthur could make simple touching feel so damn amazing, Alfred said:

"A-ah, no, that... That wouldn't be good... He... He said that he was going to take care o-of the pile of laundry... Nh... A-and I don't want him t-to interrogate me about it... again..."

As they once again slipped back to the previous subject, Alfred began to try to keep Arthur's hands away. He didn't want Kiku to think something was strange, after all. But the older nation was very persistent, and soon the young American found himself giving in to those fluttering touches; and seconds later, he watched as Arthur unzipped the flyer and unbuttoned the jeans in one single fleeting motion. He stood up for a short moment, letting quick hands pull down both jeans and boxers before he slowly sank back down on the couch and leaned back, trying to continue his conversation with Kiku. Deft hands trailed over his thigh again, and emerald eyes watched him appreciatively. With a painfully slow motion, Arthur slid his hand over to the younger man's groin, fingers trailing over the hard length.

"My, Alfred," he murmured as a smirk grew on his lips. "I honestly never expected this... Is this really all because of me?"

"Eeh? Alfred-san, is Arthur in the room? I thought I heard..."

"Ngh... y-yes, he's in the room, but he doesn't have time to talk... H-he's a little... busy..." He could hear Arthur chuckle silently. "A-anyway... You were saying..?"

Once again, they continued the conversation. And once again, Alfred fought to hold back various moans and groans as Arthur's hands expertly kept working. He felt those delicate fingers wrap around the base of his hard member, saw a smile on the older man's lips, and then the hand started to pump, slowly and gingerly. And he moaned loudly, not caring about what the man he had been speaking to would think. Sure enough, Kiku was suddenly very quiet, and Alfred could not hold back yet another moan. Arthur was actually doing this to him; Arthur was actually touching him out of his own free will... He tilted his head backwards and closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of Arthur's hands. Grasping a bit more firmly, pumping a little faster...



"... Are you alright, America-san?"

"I... I'm fine, Kiku... S-sorry about that..."

He stopped himself from saying anything more and instead looked down. Arthur's breath ghosted over his skin, and the Englishman's lips were dangerously close, and he was sticking out his tongue....

"I swear, if you're about to do what I think you are, the- AH! Fuck!"

All Alfred's objections were cut short by a loud moan as Arthur's tongue travelled over the hard length, teasing, tickling, before stopping at the head again, moving in a circle for a short moment... The American shivered violently as he felt the tongue withdraw before Arthur, surprisingly enough eager, took him in his mouth. Alfred promptly hung up.


Kiku stared at the phone for a short moment, a knowing smile on his lips. When he turned it off and looked around the room, he saw similar smiles plastered on many faces. But this far, it was silent. Or at least it remained that way for just a few minutes before Sweden suddenly stepped over to Denmark and held out one hand.

"M' m'ney, D'nm'rk," said the blonde calmly. "Y' lost th' bet."

Denmark, however, didn't move; instead he just stared at the phone, completely dumbfounded. Francis suddenly flew up and pumped one fist in the air triumphantly.

"Je l'ai su," he yelled happily. "Well done indeed, Angleterre! Hah!" He swirled around and grinned at Matthew, who was staring at the phone as well. "I suppose you shall have to give up on your plans to visit l'Amérique, mon cher Mathieu, since he will be busy for a while. While it has been a while for poor Arthur, I doubt that he is going to go easy on your brother."

He stopped himself at a loud whimper, and glanced to his right. Arthur's older brother Seamus sat there, clutching a bottle of whiskey and staring at the phone (just like many others).

"M-my deartháir," he whispered weakly. "M-my little brother... My little brother is a fag?! H-how can he go against the church in such a way?!"

Best not to poke around in that. Besides, Denmark had finally snapped out of his stupor and was now sympathetically patting the island republic's shoulder while muttering "I know the feeling, man". Sweden proceeded with smacking Denmark on the back of his head.


Alfred was not entirely certain about what was going on. He had never experienced something like this before in his life, and he was fairly certain about that if Arthur decided to leave, he would never experience it again. Luckily, the Brit didn't seem to have a single thought about leaving at the moment. However, either Arthur had lost it completely, or he had hidden this part of his personality extremely well.

At said moment, Alfred had gotten pushed down on his back in his bed, his clothes thrown into a corner and completely forgotten. Despite the earlier attention when they were downstairs in the living room, Alfred found himself eager and very wanting; it had been long since he had last been with someone, and Arthur was apparently more than willing to help him out. If he got to do it in his own way, that was.

Which was why Alfred was currently on his back in the bed, staring at the man who calmly approached him after having closed the door to the room. Arthur was calmly removing the collar and the black tie, a playful smirk grazing his lips.

"Tell me, Alfred," he said softly. "How have you felt during these weeks...? What have you been thinking?"

The older nation moved almost like a predator stalking a prey; and it was all too clear which role Alfred played in that scenario.

"You've been driving me crazy," replied Alfred quietly. "Seriously, Arthur... Everything you've done has been to get excited; everything has been only to drive me over the edge... Fuck, do you have any idea about how hard it was to stop myself from pouncing?"

The Englishman chuckled appreciatively, stretching like a satisfied cat before he calmly crawled up on the bed and straddled the younger man's hips.

"Glad to know that I haven't lost it completely," he whispered and trailed one hand over the American's naked chest. "I was worried about that, you know... Worried that you might not find me attractive or that you didn't get it at all..."

Alfred stared up at his old mentor, smirking cockily.

"Well, then you were the one who didn't get it," he teased. "I've been pining for a while now, so hurry up, old man."

A finger pressed against his lips, and Arthur smirked back at him, shaking his blonde head before leaning down and whispering to him.

"I'm going to take this slowly..." The warm breath tickled Alfred's ear, making him shiver. "I'm going to do this in my own pace, savour each little sensation. I've wanted to see this for a while now, love..." Arthur nibbled at the younger man's earlobe. "I am going to make this the best damn night you've had in ages, mark my words..."

The American sucked in a deep breath as he felt the older man's lips touch his neck for a split second. Then, Arthur moved back a little bit, just calmly watching him for a moment while his hand trailed over the muscular chest. He stood up again, moving only a foot or two from the bed, His fingers trailed over the ribbon that kept the apron in place, Alfred stared at him, most unwilling to take his eyes off the man.

"Oh, I just don't know," said Arthur with a teasing tone. "Perhaps I should leave this on? What do you think, love?"

Alfred's breath hitched and he shook his head.

"No? Oh, but then you would see me naked, and that would be so very embarrassing..." Arthur's smile widened a little bit. "Then again, you want this so badly, don't you...? I don't know, maybe I'll have to tie you down before I remove it..."

Alfred let out a whine at that; while it did indeed sound very tempting, he didn't want to be tied down now, and he wanted Arthur to get rid of that stupid apron right fucking now, damnit!

"Either you lose the apron, or I'm going to throw you down here on the bed," he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. "I don't care which at the moment. Just... do something; I can't wait much longer...!"

He stared as Arthur calmly began to undo the knot on the apron, watching the younger man all the time with his shimmering green eyes.

"Do you want me, Alfred," he asked softly, the apron slowly falling to the floor. "Tell me that you want me..."

Alfred held out his hand, almost in a begging way.

"Please," he said. "Please, Arthur... I want you. I really want you..."

He stared as the Brit moved back to him, straddling his hips again with a soft smile. Alfred's blue eyes moved over the body on top of him, taking in every small detail.

"I'm yours, then," said Arthur quietly, leaning in to kiss him.

Seconds later, a bewildered Arthur was on his back with an eager American on top of him, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. He closed his eyes as he felt Alfred's tongue force its way between his lips, exploring his mouth; he fought back as much as he could, trying to gain the upper hand. But Alfred was surprisingly difficult to defeat. Soon, the kiss broke, and the two nations gazed breathlessly at each other for a moment.

"Should have tied me down, Iggy." Alfred smirked, trailing one hand over the island nation's side. "Like I'd admit defeat when it comes to this. Also, I'm sure as hell not letting you top, at least not without a fight."

Arthur just smiled innocently.

"Lovely," he replied. "How nice that I was not planning on topping, then."

He pulled down the American for another heated kiss, his left hand on Alfred's neck and his right hand searching its way down over the young man's chest and stomach, down to...

"Ah...! A-Arthur...!"

He smiled innocently, only to moan loudly as Alfred returned the "favour". He had been holding back for three weeks now, and to have someone touch him... Alfred shifted on top of him, taking a gentle but firm grasp around Arthur's now rock-hard member.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered, smirking as he noticed how Arthur bucked his hips. "Just tell me, or I won't do anything..."

That was a lie, and they both knew it. Alfred had always been the one with a lack of patience. But it seemed that for once, Arthur was just as impatient as the younger man was.

"I... I want you... A-Alfred, I... I want you..." He gasped when Alfred's hand began to pump him. "D-don't tease me...! Nh..!" He grabbed Alfred's free hand. "F-fine...! We'll do it t-the way you want! J-just hurry up, you bloody git!"

He began to lick and suck on the American's fingers, sky blue eyes watching him with something akin to fascination. Slowly, Arthur allowed the younger man's fingers to slide out of his mouth, his tongue touching them one last time. Alfred stopped pumping him with his other hand, grinning as he leaned in and let his tongue lash out at one of the Englishman's nipples, making the poor man let out a whine. Of course the American knew what the whine meant: "Get on with it, you git, I can't stand any more of your bloody teasing!" Before he managed to say anything, though, Arthur had spread his legs, lifting one a little bit to give the younger nation more access. Alfred smiled slightly, one finger gently pressing against Arthur's opening.

"Make sure that you stop me if you change your mind," he said.

Arthur looked back at him, his eyes glinting slightly.

"Why the hell would I stop you now?"

Alfred's finger slipped into him, no more reassurance needed, and the American laughed softly.

"I get it," he replied, yet another finger carefully pushing into the Brit. "You'll kill me if I stop..."

Arthur bucked his hips, gasping as he felt how the younger man scissored his fingers to stretch him a little.

Oh God, yes, that spot...

Once again, Alfred's tongue lashed out to attack Arthur's nipples. He licked, nibbled, sucked; everything to bring a moan over the older man's lips. The Englishman gasped and moaned, squirming when he opened his eyes for a moment and saw his former colony grin mischievously.

"E-enough..." Arthur panted and looked at Alfred with half-lidded eyes. "Enough now... Please... Alfred, I'm... I'm ready now..."

Immediately, Alfred pulled out his fingers and positioned himself, not being able to stop himself from nipping at Arthur's neck before doing so. He felt his former mentor's hand gently trailing over his hard member, and he let out a low hiss in response to the touch. The tip nudged against the opening, and Alfred looked into Arthur's eyes. The older man looked back, smiling softly and nodding. He was bracing himself for a short moment of pain, preparing himself for the lust that would push the pain away.

Alfred pushed into the waiting warmth, letting out a moan when he realised just how tight Arthur really was.

"Oh, fuck," he hissed. "Fuck, Arthur...!"

The Brit winced, biting his lip as he sucked in a light breath; it hurt, of course, he knew it would. But he also knew that in a moment, if he continued like this, Alfred would hit-


- that spot. He gasped, eyes flying open, and his hips bucked again. The American held still for a moment, but once Arthur began to buck his hips again, more or less demanding for him to move, he started to thrust into that inviting heat. Quickly, they found a rhythm that pleased them both; fast enough for Alfred's impatience, and yet slow enough to make Arthur really enjoy it. Their moans filled the silence in the room along with the creaking of the bed, breaking the calm that had rested over the house earlier. Arthur placed his arms around the younger man's neck, his legs almost automatically wrapping themselves around the waist. Alfred smirked a little.

"Ah... Say, Arthur," he managed to gasp. "H-how long... aah... How long has it been...?"

Arthur's hips bucked in response, making Alfred sink yet a little deeper into that wonderful heat.

"Ahn...! D-don't ask... Please... Don't ask more..."

Alfred was about to say something, but was cut off by the Brit's lips pressing against his own, a tongue quickly slipping into his mouth to explore. It was all too clear what Arthur was demanding; less talking, more movement (alright, maybe he couldn't be too sure on that last part, but with the Brit's bucking hips and all, it was a good guess). He kept thrusting, trying his best to accommodate Arthur's moaned pleas for him to move faster or put more force into his thrusts. He kissed the older man's neck, nipping at the skin, his tongue lashing out to trail over the marks he left. As he moved to kiss the place where the neck and shoulder met, he managed to get a surprisingly loud response; Arthur gasped loudly when his lips touched the spot, then he moaned as teeth grazed the skin. Alfred lifted his head a little bit, gazing at the man's face. And with flushed cheeks and his eyes blazing with lust and need, Arthur looked back, panting and gasping.


That was the only thing needed to drive the American over the edge. With a loud moan, he began to thrust both harder and faster, pushing as deep as he could into Arthur; they kissed again, Alfred seeking dominance and some sort of approval for what he was doing, and Arthur eagerly responded. He wanted more; no, he wanted everything that Alfred could possibly do to him right now. He started to shiver, suddenly not certain about what he should do with all this pleasure building up inside of him, just waiting to burst out like a tidal wave...

"A-Alfred, I..." He moaned loudly. "I... I'm going to-"

Alfred captured the last word by kissing him; there was no need to hear it, he already knew what was happening.

"M-me too," panted the younger man as he broke the kiss. "Me too... A-Arthur...!"

Arthur's eyes closed, but his mouth opened in a scream that was at first completely soundless. But then a lustful cry escaped him, tearing through the air. Semen splattered over his stomach and chest. Alfred groaned and closed his eyes as well, pushing himself as deep into Arthur as he could with one final thrust; even with closed eyes, a flash of white passed his vision as he came, moaning Arthur's name. They stayed that way for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to calm themselves before Alfred pulled out and slowly rolled off, collapsing next to the utterly spent Englishman.

"Holy fuck," whispered Alfred and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. "T-that was..."

Arthur let out a low chuckle, slowly rolling over on his side.

"Sweet merciful God," he sighed with a smile. "You were absolutely amazing..." His hand trailed over the American's cheek, making sky blue eyes tear away from the ceiling and instead look back at him. "These three weeks paid off, after all..."

Alfred couldn't help but laugh at the comment, placing his hand over Arthur's.

"Maybe Francis was the one who lost," he grinned. "At any rate, who says that this last week won't pay off? One month, Arthur, not only three weeks. A bet's a bet, after all. I'm going to do my best to get you to scream like that again."

The meeting had gone unexpectedly fast, and while Alfred remained in the room to speak to some of the other nations, he caught sight of Arthur who quickly walked out. He smiled fondly, easily avoiding the questions about why he smiled like that, and continued the conversation. After about half an hour, his private cell phone started to play Fort Minor's "Remember the Name"; he quickly picked up the phone and flipped it open, raising an eyebrow as he read the text message he had received. Naturally, both Francis and Matthew noticed this slight gesture.

"What does it say," asked Matthew curiously.

Alfred began to smirk.

Got the police uniform you requested. Will see what I can do about a baton. You bring the handcuffs; don't think I kept the pair that the Frog gave me. Dinner at seven o'clock, then home. Don't be late; I'm not in the mood for waiting when you've been flirting with me all day.

When he read this out loud, the nations who were still in the room stared at him. His smirk turned into a mischievous grin.

"Hey, Francis, do you still carry those handcuffs around," he asked, tilting his head a little. "If you do, can I borrow them for, let's say, the next two days?"

Francis continued to stare at him as he automatically stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs and handed them to the American along with the key; Alfred grinned in response and began to walk off.

"Oi, hold on a minute, eh," called Matthew. "What was that about?! Who sent that message to you?"

Alfred laughed and waved at them.

"Sorry, I need to hurry up and take a shower," he called back. "If I'm not on time, Arthur will be cranky and the kink won't play out!"

"Oh, I s- WHAT?!" Matthew's shriek echoed in the room and out in the corridor. "Arthur?!"

"See you later, Mattie," shouted Alfred as he ran off. "Oh, and try to make sure that Francis isn't going to die from that nosebleed!"


He was exactly one hour late, and not exactly certain about how the hell he had managed to pull that off. He had only taken a small nap, and when he woke up it was far past time to get moving. But when he slowly stepped through the door and glanced around, there was no murderous Englishman waiting for him.


Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

He looked up at the stair, and blinked. Arthur stood there, dressed in the uniform normally worn by the police in his country, complete with the hat and everything. His green eyes glinted dangerously.

"Oh my," he said, a smirk forming on his lips. "It seems someone has broken into my house."

Alfred began to smirk as well as he closed the door behind him and pulled off both jacket and shoes.

"And what're you going to do about it, copper," he asked cockily.

Arthur came down the stairs, suddenly holding a baton in his hand.

"First of all," he said as he trailed the baton over Alfred's chest, "I'm going to make you strip for me, as a punishment for being an hour late." He stepped closer. "Then... Well, we'll see where it goes from there, won't we?"

Alfred grinned.

"Yes, officer," he replied before leaning in and stealing a kiss from Arthur's inviting lips.

Oh yes. This night was going to be awesome.

xD lemme know if you find bad grammar somewhere... It helps me a lot. :D Reviews make me happy, by the way. They save me from being murdered by dragon-sheep!