It is really sad how my inspiration works. I just can't find a way to bribe it...

Warnings: Smut, boys 'n boys, bad cleaners.

Disclaimer (I don't wanna disclaim): I don't own these characters...

A day of work

England slammed the snooze-button of his alarm clock. Ringing of hell. Good morning Arthur, ready to go to hell? It might have just asked that instead of ringing.

Not that England hated a good day of work. It's just that he hated this specific day of work. And the specific place and specific job he'd be doing today.

Fridays had become a bit of a hazard recently. Mondays too, but up until now the Fridays seemed to hold the largest threat.

It had something to do with the new plan of their bosses. A month ago, for some reason they had met in pure peace, discussing things in the absolute absence of any of their countries. Just the bosses, all together on one large ship somewhere in the ocean where no-one really knew whose territory it was, without really fighting. Just discussing. And actually coming to a decision. Without consulting even one of their bloody nations!

England remembered waiting for whatever came out of that meeting. He hadn't been able to concentrate on his paperwork from sheer nerves, but when he switched to embroidery he couldn't complete three stitches without pricking himself painfully in the finger.

When finally the phone rang, he somehow managed to pick up within a second. His boss had told him something about less paperwork from now on and a different schedule and the details would come in a report the next day.

That next day had not been good.

England groaned and turned on his stomach, frowning at the red time on his alarm clock through his eyelashes. He had to get up early. But he didn't feel like it at all. Maybe he could feign illness?

No, his boss would know immediately. Nations couldn't abuse the liberty of fake illness.

The report had stated a new schedule indeed. They would no longer work in the office from Monday to Friday. The office work would be limited to Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Saturday and Sunday remained weekend, thank God, but Monday and Friday became... problematic.

Their bosses wanted the countries to get along better. World peace, that kind of childish dreams. They thought the best start would be to let their actual countries get along better. And to train them in their social behaviour.

Social behaviour! What did they mean by that! Did they see them as children bullying each other at random and throwing temper tantrums when they didn't get what they want? England most certainly wasn't! His social behaviour was quite proper, thank you.

But nevertheless, their bosses had created a nice plan to improve their social behaviour and their stance towards another. To make them get along better, they'd had to work together.

Sounds perfectly understandable, of course.

But the method!

Every Monday and Friday, all nations would spent a day with another nation. One would go to another, creating pairs of two. During the day, they would work together on a perfectly normal job that required some sort of social interactions with costumers or colleagues. The pairing up, the location and the job would be chosen at random by a computer programme for every day.

Last week, on Friday, this ordeal began. England had been sent to Greece, where he spent the day selling ice cream.

He had shuddered at the thought.

Of course, Greece had slept through the day, making their cooperation rather easy. And even though Greece hadn't provided any form of company or help on the job, England had to admit he had rather enjoyed the day in the end. Lots of different people had come to the stall to buy an ice cream. Some of them stopped for a chat with England. Some of them ate their ice cream in front of the stall, leaving England to enjoy their conversations. He had seen children cry for an ice cream and lovers buying one to share.

Even though it felt completely useless, for he had done no paperwork whatsoever, nor had he progressed with his embroidery any further, he had enjoyed the day. He had slept like a baby that night.

Monday had been very different. Norway had been sent over to him, and they had spread pamphlets for a musical through London. Not quite as an appealing job as the selling of ice cream, but at least Norway had been better company than Greece. Norway wasn't much of a talker, and didn't seem to show any emotion through his face, but it was clear he enjoyed the chattering of England's friends. When the fairies had mellowed his mood, England had been able to start a conversation with the northern country. They had so much in common, apparently!

But today.

Yes, today was a problem.

His boss had made sure to sent him his assigned job on Thursday evening, late enough so that nobody would be around when England read it. A wise decision, for blood would have flowed had there been anyone around.

His boss had sworn it was purely random generated by a computer, and not someone's sick humour.

Oh, sure it wasn't. It was just an evil twist of fate.

But he couldn't back out. The results would be catastrophic.

England smashed the snooze-button once again when the sounds of hell erupted from the evil machine to send him out of bed.

Who was it who got the bloody brilliant idea of applying the job of cleaning hotel rooms in Paris!

France's boss should have known better than to let his country do that kind of job together with someone else!

England cursed under his breath and swung his feet over the edge of his bed. He ran a hand through his messy bed hair and grumbled.

Good morning Arthur, ready to go to hell?

He took a quick shower and ate the omelette his friends had made him. Too bad they weren't strong enough to flip the omelette over, one side was burned and the other side was still raw. But they only wanted to help and to stand by him in this awful day. It's the thought that counts, after all.

He hurried out to catch his plane.

To a hotel in Paris.

Could this get any worse?


"Bonjour, mon cher! Ready for a day of hard work together with moi?"

"Always," sarcasm dripped from England's voice, "how kind of you to pick me up from the airport."

"I wouldn't want you to get lost in Paris, mon cher."

"Really now?"

"Who knows what kind of damage you'd do."

"A lot, probably," England muttered under his breath.


"Do be so kind to lead me to the hotel so we can start our work," England smiled coldly.

"Bien sûr. Follow me, mon cher."

England stuffed his hands in his pockets, determined to look as unwilling as possible while still doing his job. France shot him a look of disapproval, but didn't say anything about it. They walked to the hotel in sulking silence.

The hotel wasn't as shabby as England expected. He would never expect an expensive hotel to let in two inexperienced guys to clean their hotel rooms, for an expensive hotel naturally had high standards for everything. Therefore, England had reasoned they'd be cleaning in a hotel where cockroaches would crawl over your legs when making the bed.

He was glad to see he was wrong. It looked like a decent hotel. Not the most expensive one, but certainly not the cheapest one either.

"This is it." France tucked the card with the address on it away in his pocket. "Looks like we have many rooms to clean, mon cher. Better to get started quickly."

"Eager to get to work, are we?"

"I just hope to be finished soon."

"Good, I'd love to be done soon too. I can't wait to go back home. This city gets on my nerves."

"Paris does that," France grinned, "some nerves in particular, even."

England raised an eyebrow, and decided he did not want to think about whatever hidden meaning that sentence was supposed to have. He straightened his shoulders and briskly marched into the hotel.

The lady at the desk pointed them to a room where they could change into a fitting uniform and gave them their instructions on cleaning. Soon enough, England found himself pushing a trolley stacked with fresh towels, linens and cleaning tools though the hall of the hotel. Entering the first room without a 'do not disturb' note on the door – that would be the third room, bloody French – he pulled in the trolley and put his hands on his hips.

"Let's do this quick. One starts on the bathroom, the other on the bed. Any preferences?"

"If I had known this beforehand I would have made them prepare a maid outfit for you, mon Angleterre."

"I bet you would have, so I'm glad you did not know beforehand. Bed or bath?"

"Can't we do both together? We'll be needing a bath once we finish on the bed."

England sighed. "This day is going to be horrible. You'll do the bed then, I'll go cleaning the bathroom."

England swept all the materials he would need to clean a bathroom from the trolley and strode into the small room with all the dignity he could bring up. He made quick work of the toilet, the bath and the sink, grabbed the used towels and went back into the room to change them for the fresh ones on the trolley. It was a pleasant surprise to see France had actually done his work and was finishing off with mints on the cushion and tea next to the little water cooker.

"Really, France? Tea?"

"This hotel accommodates a lot of tourists, apparently tea is what they ask for," France replied haughtily.

"Good tourists, "England chuckled.


"And the last one," England swung the door of the last room open. They only had one more room to clean, and they had an hour left before they had to be finished. France had worked hard and had not once tried to molest him. Just a few dubious remarks, but that was hardly anything compared to his normal behaviour.

"Considering we have still one hour left for this one room, how about a little break, mon cher? We have only stopped for lunch for 15 minutes, we have deserved a little break."

England thought about it for a moment. "Yes, maybe it is better if we have a break now. If we finish too early, they'd probably find something else for us to do anyway. Better enjoy our well-deserved rest while we still have the chance."

While England rolled the trolley to the side of the room, France flopped down on the bed, spreading his arms and laying back.

"No need to be modest," England mumbled, taking a dignified seat on the other end of the bed.

"No modesty, I was just hoping you would lay down avec moi, mon cher."

"Then you can hope all you want, but it's not likely to happen."

England felt a little disturbed as he caught the smirk appearing on France's face from the corner of his eye.

"Not likely, mon cher? Do I hear you imply it's is not completely impossible?"

"I did not intend such implication, I assure you!"

"It is your lower consciousness then, because you do in fact, want to lay down with me."

"I do not! Please stop saying such nonsense."

"D'accord. I won't say it again."

England turned his head in surprise, not expecting the harassment to stop so fast.

He was right not to expect it.

One hand wrapped around a shoulder, the other entangled its fingers in the hair on the back of England's head. Both pulled him swiftly forward, making him land on top of the Frenchman with a low 'oof'.

He lay there for a moment, completely stunned, and the hands began to stroke the back of his head and his shoulder, pressing him into France's chest tenderly.

"What the bloody hell!" He started to struggle to get back up, but France would have none of it. He quickly rolled over, sprawling England on top of the bedcovers and loomed over him.

"Isn't this much more comfortable than sitting up straight, mon cher?" France grinned.

"It most certainly is not!"

"If that's the case, I shall make it more comfortable to you."

France shifted a little down and started nibbling on England's neck.

"What are you doing, you bloody frog!" England tried to push at France, but found his arms trapped in such an awkward angle it was impossible to put in any strength.

"Nibbling, bien sûr."

"Don't say something like that!" England flushed deep, far down the point France was nibbling.

"Don't ask it if you don't want an answer."

"Get off!"

"I will in a moment, mon cher." France bit down a little harder on the nape of England's neck and gently licked the hurt spot. He kept nibbling and kissing calmly, as if England weren't struggling at all.

"You impossible frog! Release me this instant!" England tried to kick his legs, but found them confined between France's knees.


"How dare you...!"

France leaned back a little to smirk at England, "I was never too cowardly to provoke you, mon cher."

"Too much of a coward to fight, though!"

"I find it is you who seems to be too taken aback to fight, mon amant," France's smirk descended on England's neck once again, now gently suckling on the skin.

England found that he, indeed, had stopped fighting, probably because he was so expertly trapped. He tried to resist again, but found it a useless mission. He groaned when France dragged his warm tongue from his neck all the way up to right behind his ear, purely in protest of course. France moved to nibble and suckle over England's cheekbone, slowly moving towards the middle of his face.

"Get off me," England protested weakly, pushing at France's shoulders again without much determination left. France did not seem like he would stop, whatever England did, so he'd better just get it over with, right? Not that he'd enjoy it in any way of course.

France tongue dragged slowly from the middle corner of his eye, past his nose, just touching the corner of his mouth before dragging up by his jaw line again.

England whined in protest, once more pushing with limp arms.

When France nibbled his way back to England's chin, he decided to drop his arms next to his body. Pushing was no use anyway.

The tip of France's tongue traced the outline of England's lips, and he stiffened. When the soft lips finally pressed against his, he let out a sigh in relief. France's lips massaged his gently, warm and tender, soft like velvet. It was a wonderful feeling.

Somewhere in the back of his head, someone decided to ring an alarm. He was not supposed to enjoy this and sighing in relief when being kissed by the frog had never ever been on the agenda. But he couldn't help himself anymore now. France had definitely won.

The frog had to win once in a while right? Would keep their arguments spicy.

England pressed up, kissing back with a bit more urgency. His neck and face had had their chance to enjoy those velvety lips, now his mouth wanted to taste all of it.

France did not chuckle, nor did he grin triumphantly. He simply complied and made his kiss a little stronger. A little more possessive. His tongue traced England's lower lip to tempt the lips to part.

England let out a sigh and pressed his chest up against France's, and allowed him entrance in his mouth. The skilful tongue started to explore tender and slow. He flicked his tongue against the invader, tempting it to get more aggressive.

France made a sound that could have been a chuckle this time, but it was too muffled to know for sure so England decided to ignore it. Especially because France started to kiss stronger, wilder. England sucked in a breath through his nose and snaked his hands around the head in front of him to entangle his hands in the blonde locks. Had he been kissing anyone else, this would probably be the moment the kiss would start to get a little sloppy.

But the French did not give sloppy kisses.

They were experts with the refined ways of battling and pleasing with the tongue and lips.

One hand gripped in England's shabby hair, pulling softly, triggering him to let out a small noise and press up in the kiss some more for a moment. The other hand found a place on England's hip. England kept himself from bucking his hips into the touch. He would not allow France that much of an easy victory.

The thumb started to make small circles on the hip, moving up under his shirt first to reach bare skin, and moving down again to work its way underneath his waistband.

England thought this was a nice time to get some action.

He quickly moved his hands from France's head to his shoulders, pressing him to the side before he could react. He flipped them over, straddling France's hips, smirking.

France smirked back, but didn't say anything. His hand shot out to wrap around England's back and pulled him down. England let out a small huff when his chest was pressed against France's. Especially because he noticed his crotch was now being pressed against another crotch. And that other one seemed to have some trouble with being confined.

England seized France's lips again and ground down with his hips. France actually whimpered at that. England smirked inwardly, he had known those uniform trousers were too tight on the Frenchman the moment he saw them.

France's hand grappled England's tie and used it to keep him down at the same time as untying it. Since England couldn't do much more than kissing with his face trapped like this, he ground down his hips again.

France let go of his lips and panted. "You shouldn't tease me, Angleterre, or I will turn us around again."

"Like you could," England scoffed, biting down on France's lower lip and bucking his hips again.

Afterwards he would never be able to tell how it happened exactly, but France somehow got hold of the left part of his shirt, using it to drag him down and at the same time pulling the shirt open and removing it before England's back hit the bed. England stared up at the smirking nation bewildered for a moment before France shot down again and sucked his collar bone.

England arched his back and let out a short moan before trying to compose himself. "How did you...?"

"Shhhh, I want to hear nothing but moans and gasps."


He moaned loudly when France cupped his groin with a hand.

"We should free this one as well, n'est ce pas?"

England shot him a glare. He couldn't keep that expression for long, with France nibbling on one of his nipples while unbuckling his belt. He weaved his fingers in the silky hair again, pulling a little to show France his displeasure without making the man stop his actions – which were in fact quite making up for the displeasure by pleasuring.

The moist hot tongue circled around the little nub, flicking it one in a while with short or long laps. When the belt was undone, the uniform trousers followed. The tongue licked a pattern to the next nipple, giving it a similar treatment until it was standing and hard.

England choked back his whine when France released his nipple in favour of pulling down the Brit's pants and underwear. France gripped one ankle and lifted England's leg. He squeaked indignantly, trying to put his leg back down and trying to cover up with his hands.

"No need to bother, I won't allow you to hide that," France licked the inside of England's knee and slowly lapped his way up over the inside of his thigh.

"Don't be so embarrassing, you idiotic frog," England flushed completely – for as far as he hadn't been a nice shade of red yet – and tried to push away France's ascending head as well as still trying to kick his leg out of the Frenchman's grasp.

"It is you who shouldn't be so embarrassed, mon Anglais." England let out a shivering moan when France lapped up his length once, before returning to teasing the inside of his thighs with tickling flicks of the tongue.

He certainly didn't want to make these wanton sounds. Even if he was laying underneath France – who was lavishing him in very arousing attention – he could not have himself sound weak. But it was so very hard not to whimper when France teased him so, tongue tickling his thigh, silky hair tickling his other thigh and the underside of his arousal at times. Why couldn't that bloody frog just give him the attention in the place he needed, instead of playing around?

He gritted his teeth and groaned in frustration. One hand firmly gripped France's hair and pulled him up. France's face hovered over him, looking both pained by the pulling and amused by the needy look in the Brit's eyes.

"Get to it. Now!"

"You didn't seem in such a hurry last time you spoke."

"You get three seconds, or I'll kick." To demonstrate his point, he nudged his knee against the bulge in the pants France was still wearing.

"Sans delai, mon Angleterre," the Frenchman answered hurriedly. England let go of his hair and he immediately leant down to lap over the length from base to tip.

England let out a loud moan and felt his knees being pushed apart before he could take France's head into a vice grip. He wrapped a leg around France's shoulders, pushing up to get more of that talented mouth.

France hummed approvingly and started suckling on the tip, making England pant out the breath he was unconsciously holding. One finger covered in a cool substance found its way to England's entrance, circling its way inside. England immediately took a firm grip of France's hair again, making sure he'd know to watch his moves.

He sucked in a deep breath when France lowered his head, taking in England to the base. He could feel the muscles of France's throat moving around him.

"Francis," he whimpered, the hand holding the blonde hair trembling and losing its grip.

The Frenchman moved up and he suckled on the tip for a minute before moving down again, simultaneously pressing another finger inside. England had only a second to wonder when France had put lube on his fingers before his mind went reeling again of the warm, moist and tight feeling of France's throat.

His body tensed up at the third finger entering and he growled when France came up to breathe.

"Relax, Arthur."

"How should I relax with three of your fingers up my arse?"

"You were doing so well with two."

England grabbed France's collar and pulled his face close, "it's not like taking the bottom part is a daily business for me, frog."

"That I figured." France lapped at his nose playfully and smirked. "Doing it just pour moi, n'est ce pas?"

"I'll make you pay if it wasn't worthwhile, Francis," his malicious smirk made even France shudder.

"I will make it worthwhile, if you are enough of a man to relax even with three fingers inside you."

"You're calling me a sissy?"

France scoffed, "did you see the position we're in?"

England furrowed his eyebrows. "You've got a valid point there."

He let himself drop back, releasing France to go on with the preparations he was doing. He pointedly ignored the tender smile on the frog's face while he breathed in slowly to relax himself. He soon found out that truly relaxing was quite impossible, due to the wet tongue lapping at his erection again, but with the scissoring and cooing sounds of the French Nation he was able to relax his muscles enough to let the fingers stop hurting.

"Ready, mon cher?"

England moaned and nodded.

A final lick was giving to his private regions before France leaned up, lifting England's knees with his elbows and putting his hands on either side of England's chest. England huffed at being folded in two like that, and forced one leg down again to have some sort of grip on the bed. He had to place his foot far too far to the side for his own likening. He bucked his hips impatiently.

"Patience, Arthur," France breathed over the skin of his chest and slowly started pressing inside.

England groaned, and wondered again when the bloody hell the frog had found time to lube himself up. Teeth sunk back into his nipple – which had gone cold from being moisturized and abandoned long ago – and France slid in completely. England clenched his teeth and growled low, trying his best to relax his muscles but finding himself unable to move at all.

France calmly nibbled on, moving over to the other nipple again at some point.

"Will you bloody well at least look impatient, just for being polite," England snapped.

France replied by bucking his hips, pressing England's body up. England cried out.

"I didn't say I was ready yet, you bloody frog," he whimpered.

"Then you shouldn't have broken my concentration," France frowned at him and bucked again, "you have no idea how difficult it is to stay still now. You feel absolutely magnifique, Arthur."

England dug his fingers into France's shoulders and groaned, "for you, maybe."

"I'll make it good for you too, mon cher," France managed to lean up high enough to catch England's lips, and he started to push inside with slow and deliberate thrusts. He gently licked at the hot tear on his cheek.

England tried to turn away his face. He would not acknowledge the pain had made him cry. He couldn't take a blow to his pride that big.

"Arthur, don't look away," France softly panted.

"What d-do you c-care," England stuttered in time with the thrusts.

"I want to see your face."

England turned to glare at France, but his lips were immediately captured again. He couldn't keep his eyebrows furrowed while being pounded into anyway.

England broke the kiss gasp when France hit his prostate. France smirked and started nibbling on England's lower lip, angling his thrusts to keep hitting that specific nice place.

"F-Francis," England moaned, hugging the man above him close. He felt himself shift over the bed at every powerful thrust France gave. With France's balls hitting his backside each time and England's length being somewhat trapped between his and France's stomach due to his overly arched back, England felt himself getting closer and closer, trying to express it with a needy whine.

A hand shot down to stroke him in time with the thrusts, and England hugged France's shoulders even stronger, returning the kiss again. The tight heat in his belly was quickly pooling together.

"Arthur," France moaned with a strained voice against his lips.

England bit down on France's lower lip and came. All his muscles clenched, and he pressed his body flush against the one hovering over him, only touching the bed with the back of his head and the lower part of his buttocks. The warm fluid spread between their bellies and chests, gluing them together.

France inhaled a sharp breath and moaned loudly, releasing in the clenching heat around him. He pressed in a few more times to ride it out completely, pressing the body that was turning limp now over the bed a few more inches.

England felt himself going completely lax and allowed France to give him that last push.

Then he squawked undignified and tumbled to the side from the edge of the bed, taking the French man with him. His shoulder hit the unwelcoming ground with a hard thud.

It took him a second to regain his senses.

"You bloody frog, stop pushing if you see I'm about to fall off! Wanker!"

France got on his knees and rubbed his shoulder with a pained expression on his face. "We were just on the edge, I couldn't know you'd fall off to the side when I was pushing you up, now could I?"

"I was hovering over the side with half of my body, idiot! How could I possibly have not fallen off?"

"Ah, we weren't that close to the edge."

"Well, obviously we were! When I tried to lay down I had nothing but air underneath me."

"You shouldn't have shifted to the side so much then!"

"I had only one leg available to push me up remember? Of course we went to the side every time you humped me further away."

France opened his mouth for a retort when suddenly the door flew open. The happy chattering of the two people entering stopped abruptly.

"Damn it," England cursed dropping his head back to the floor.

"Bonjour!" France smiled his most convincing smile, even while sitting naked half on top of another naked man, both splattered in semen. "We were just cleaning your room, madame, monsieur. Excuse us for not finishing earlier, we will be gone in a minute."

"C-cleaning?" The man stuttered. "Like that?"

"Never doubt the way of the French," England grumbled, clenching his eyes closed to keep himself from shouting at someone. Or blushing even worse, of course.

"I-I see. Well, please c-carry on, sorry for disturbing you. We... we will go to the foyer until you're finished." The man firmly pushed his wife outside, but looked around the corner just before closing the door. "You will change the bed sheets, right?"

"Naturellement," France smiled brightly.

"Bloody hell," England muttered.


Wait a minute, when did France undress himself?

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