England regarded his Frenemy closely. The Frenchman was smiling and laughing behind his dish of food, occasionally sipping a class of his favorite Romanée Conti. However, that wasn't the odd thing. The odd thing was… he was wearing pants. His hands were above the table the entire time, and not once was a rude gesture made. He seemed to just be talking, drinking, and enjoying his dinner innocently, and that's what scared England's eyebrows stiff. He treated the Frenchman to a glare, maybe he just hasn't found an opening yet…England bit his lip, before looking down at his food, poking it with his fork. Maybe France was… sick.. It wouldn't be the first time he'd caught Gonorrhea.. but.. maybe he caught.. the big one this time. Frightened, England even pondered if a nation could die from HIV.. Probably.. if the circumstances were correct.. England shook his head viciously, ridding his mind of the image. Ugh, dead frogs, do not want!

France paused, and slowly placed his fork down. "Angleterre, zhis has been fun!" he placed his hands on the table, standing up. England's eyes followed him as he did. "But, I think it iz time for me to go 'ome, Oui?" he smiled cheerfully. England also stood up. "Ah, yes. I agree!" He hesitantly held out his hand. What would the froggy whore do this time? Yank him in by the arm with a kiss? Take him on the table? He bloody well hoped not, they were in a public place! France smiled and grasps the Englishman's hand, wringing it chiefly, before pulling back. "To our next encountre Angleterre!" he said smartly, and started for the door. England waved, before pausing.


France skipped smartly through the bright Paris streets, whistling La Marseillaise with a gentle flick of his lips, occasionally singing the lyrics to himself. He gaily made his way home.

"Allons enfants de la patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé !"

He arrived at his large house, home to the government's important people, including Nicolas Sarkozy and Francis Fillon.

"Contre nous de la tyrannie L'étendard sanglant est levé ! (bis)"

The keys jangled as he slowly took out the one for the front door.

"Entendez-vous dans les campagnes, Mugir ces féroces soldats ?"

He pushed the key into the key hole, listening to the series of clicks caused as he turned it, followed by a larger click, and he opened the now unlocked door.

"Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras Égorger nos fils, nos compagnes !"

He skipped a little, waving his hands around, starting to refrain.

"Aux armes, citoyens !"

He once against searched his key ring for the inside door.

"Formez vos bataillons !"

He held it up, and it glittered in the moonlight.

"Marchons ! Marchons !"

Once again, he danced to his own rythem.

"Qu'un sang impur Abreuve nos sillons !"

In one fluid motion, he unlocked the door and walked inside, his boots clacking loudly on the marble floors of his ritzy Paris sky rise. He whistled his way to the elevator, and began to look for his house key, mumbling softly to himself as he did so. He hit the penthouse button with his shoulder, and the doors closed.

"clés de voiture… Clés du bureau de Nicolas Sarkozy… Le cabinet de viol clés… Aha! la clé de la maison!"

He smiled now, holding the singled out key up where it signed dully in the Fluorescent lights above. The steel elevator doors opened, and he skipped over to his door, before opening it and walking inside. He closed it behind him, and tossed his keys on his bar counter. He slipped off his coat, and placed it inside the hallway closet, and walked around the house, quietly undoing his scarf, letting that linger on the arm of the couch. He turned towards the bar and slowly smiled. He slide a gloved figure down the back of a chair, mahogany, brown, and extremely comfortable. His face twisted slightly, and his lips parted as he regarded his companion. "Bonjour Mademoiselle Chaise…" he said softly, leaning down to press his lips against the chairs back. He pulled back and continued to stroke the chair as though it was a lover. His eyes softened and he wrapped his arms around it, pressing his cheek against the cool surface. It felt so nice to his skin.. he closed his eyes and stayed like that, in a moment of pure contentment. Then, in a flash, he jumped off and his pants fell to the ground, and he pressed the tip of his penis to the seat of the chair. He shivered, the cool sensation traveling up his soft member, causing it to harden slightly, he gently bit down on the chair, and started to touch himself vigorously, until he was completely hard, and then he straddled the chair. He gently licked his bite mark, one among many. He wiggled slightly, getting comfortable, and then began to move. He gripped the chair's back tightly, knuckles already starting to turn white, the friction causing sensation that made him tingle. He licked his lips, forcing on keeping the movement even, it was harder than it looked, and Mademoiselle Chaise was the biggest tease France had ever slept with. But that was how he liked it. He made a small noise in the back of his throat, and fucked it harder, his hips moving without his own will at this point, and his noises became more guttural, before he yelled softly, and humped forward hard, and came. He immediately collapsed, resting himself on the back of the chair. He clung to it tightly, and pressed a kiss against it's now warm surface. "J-Je t'aime… Mademoiselle Chaise.." he whispered softly, eyes clouded with contentment and love, before he slowly closed them, tired from his ministrations.


All of him singing is the French national Anthem, if you honestly want translations, look it up :I

"clés de voiture… Clés du bureau de Nicolas Sarkozy… Le cabinet de viol clés… Aha! la clé de la maison!" = "Car keys… Key to the office… Key to the closet… Ah! The house key!"

"Bonjour Mademoiselle Chaise…" = "Hello Miss Chair"

"J-Je t'aime… Mademoiselle Chaise.." = "I-I love you… Miss Chair.."

Now, brb going to hell