SMUT CAKE

RATING: T

PAIRINGS: FrUK, UKFr, RoChu, England/Russia/France/China (or those four in any other order)

GENRE: Humor & Romance

DESCRIPTION: What better birthday present is there for Arthur than a cake with SMUT CAKE written on it in large letters? Well, maybe one that didn't involve stealing Ivan's vodka.

LENGTH: One-shot.

POV: France

Hetalia characters, please consider yourselves disclaimed. (Like a boss.)

This story was a Krismas present for Kris, a.k.a. IgneusGlacies.

EDIT (12/29/11): I changed some of the French. Thanks, flyingsaucerscout, for the corrections. :)


In my expert opinion, there is no sight in the entire wide world, not even in Paris, cuter than a sleeping Arthur Kirkland.

His closed eyes, his mussed-up hair, his small smile, the way he grabs the sheets as though he's a child of four and they're his security blanket … it almost renders me unable to find his massive, caterpillar eyebrows ugly.

Almost.

Oh, and he's not trying to stab, punch, kick, slap, take porn from, or otherwise maim me at the moment.

That's definitely nice.

You're probably wondering, Oh, monsieur, how did you ever get the opportunity to witness the amazingly adorable Arthur Kirkland asleep? You must be the god of stalkers everywhere!

My response is that, oui, I am the god of stalkers everywhere – but that isn't how I'm able to watch him sleep.

No. My reason is much more magnifique.

Prepare to be jealous.

I, Francis Bonnefoy, am his roommate.

Yes.

Beau, non?

Anyway, I am getting off topic. I must inform you of the reason why I'm watching Arthur sleep.

Well, not exactly. I watch him sleep every day to help fulfill my daily dose of cute. (Except for the days when he wakes up first; on those days, I simply either curse his existence or pretend je ne parle pas l'anglais.)

Today, however, I am not simply watching him sleep; I am attempting to wake him up. Because today is a very special day. It is the day that I will finally, finally, finally, find out what those delicious British lips taste like.

(Oh, and it's also his birthday. But that's not important, except in my plan to capture him. Ohonhonhon.~)

I know just how I'll wake him up, too: Gil and I perfected the strategy yesterday. We call it the Stalker Glare™. It's easy to use; you simply stare at the person you want to wake up as though they're a delectable (French) pastry and you haven't eaten in years. (Remember that – it may come in handy for you later in life.)

It works perfectly on Arthur, of course – how could anything created by the combination of Gil's awesomeness and mon in-depth knowledge of l'amour not work perfectly?

"Holy sweet mother of Winston Churchill," he gasps, his face becoming more red than a stripe on his flag (so cute~.) "You bloody frog! What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Waking you up, of course!~" I told him, smiling my best innocent smile (which is quite good, since I learned it from Antonio.)

"Well, don't do it like that, stupid gi – AHHOLYFFRUMMPHSHIT."

That last noise was the sound of me glomp-tackling him onto his bed, nearly knocking both of us off. (Luckily, I saved us from the cold, hard floor by grabbing a lamp, which fell onto aforementioned floor instead. But no matter!~ It was an ugly lamp; it didn't match my complexion.)

"Happy birthday, mon petit lapin.~"


"Oh, by the way, Arthur, I baked you a birthday cake," I inform him, extending a hand to him to help him up. (He slaps me instead, which I, unfortunately expected, but being a gentleman to mon petit lapin is always worth the effort. Besides, who knows? One day, he might not refuse it. That day would be the second best day of my life – after the day I discovered porn. Good times, good times.)

"What type of drug did you put in it this time stupid frog?" he asks.

I do my amazing I-am-completely-innocent-what-are-you-talking-about pout. "Why do you automatically assume that I drugged it?"

He counts reasons on his fingers. "One, you're a frog. Two, you're a pervert. Three, you know of my less-than-admirable reaction to drugs. Four, you have a secret stash of alcohol that everyone and his bloody cat knows about. Five, there is no way I'm wrong, because I'm British and you're French. And six, you haven't denied it yet, frog."

"I'll deny it now!" I announce. "I solemnly swear that I did not drug your birthday cake."

He scoffs. "You're a terrible liar. Now, get out before I throw you out on your arse. My paper about the modern-day applications of the themes that appear in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet won't write itself."

"Modern-day application of the themes in Romeo and Juliet?" I say, raising an eyebrow and grinning in my warning-great-but-possibly-perverted-idea-coming look. "I could help you with that, if you desire. There is, for example, the theme of great derrieres …"

"What does that have to do with Romeo and Juliet?"

"The Romeo in the movie – not the Leonardo DiCapprio movie, the other one – had an ass that could only be described as truly magnifique," I explain, fondly remembering the film in question. (There's this one bit, the part with the argument about the nightingale and lark, where he's naked, but they only show him from the behind, side, and close-up in order to avoid showing his private parts, and oh. The beauty. What I would give to see mon Arthur in those poses …)

"Right. And that's definitely something my professor would simply adore reading about." My arguments defeated (in his mind, not my own), the Brit opens his laptop, sits cross-legged on his bed, and pointedly does not look at me.

"Off you go," he says. "Away. Shoo, frog, don't bother me."

A tweak of his hair, a stroke of an eyebrow, a poke in the right spot on his neck, the word "bother" whispered into his ear … there are a hundred things I can do to have him bickering with me for the next hour. I can write a book about how to control Arthur Kirkland. (Well, half a book; I haven't figured out how to get him to surrender to me in the ways of l'amour yet … but I will, don't worry.)

I don't do any of those things, though. Instead, I attempt to use a brand-new method to bring his attention back to its rightful place (moi, naturellement.)

I head over to his chest of drawers and open the one where I know he keeps his underwear.

And, wrapped in a protective plastic bag, underneath his British flag boxers, there it is.

Faster than an Italian running away from the British army, I grab it and whip it in front of his face. "Look, Arthur! C'est beau, non?"

It is, of course – I made it. With my own two hands. (A little money combined with a small strip show for the campus cooks can go a long way in the bribery field.) The cake is circular and pure, creamy white, decorated around the edges with delicately iced roses. The scent of a delectable mix of chocolate and vanilla – along with something else I won't mention – wafts into the air, mouthwateringly good.

Yet, with all this perfection before him, the only thing that dense Brit of mine notices is the words painted onto the top of the cake in bright red icing.

"'Smut cake?' You made me a cake with 'smut cake' written on it in large letters? Of all the things, 'smut cake?' You are such a git, you give all the other gits in the world a bad name. My God."

"Well, Arthur," I tell him, grinning widely, "I only wrote that on the cake in order to suggest to you what we would do with it."

"You … WHA – mmph."

Yes, you guessed correctly.

With my expert French ninja skills, I stuffed some of the cake in his mouth.

France – one. England – …

… over nine thousand.

The payback starts here, mes petites.


"… and the Germans are all either too serious or too bloody insane – not to mention their beer is bloody terrible, totally insulting to good English beer – and the Japs are too quiet and the Italians are too hyper, whether it's stupid-hyper or angry-hyper, and the Greeks and Spaniards do nothing but sleep and eat and deplete the UN's money, and …"

Arthur pauses in his angry, drunken rant to take another bite of the cake – which, he admitted after his sixth piece, is "not half bad, for something made by a frog."

(Although that sentiment may have only been because he's drunk. Yes, I drugged the cake. Honestly, would you expect anything less from the brilliant moi? Of course not. If you did, you would not be reading this fan fiction, oui?)

(A/N: And there goes the Fourth Wall. Oops.)

"You know, Arthur," I say casually, causing him to freeze his hand halfway to his mouth, "I notice that you haven't insulted la France."

At this point, I turn and give a wink to the camera I've hidden in the light fixture of the room for the benefit of myself and Elizaveta, the nice, yaoi-obsessed girl I sit next to in my Art History class.

"W-well, that's because I'm only warming up," he explains in between more bites of cake. (Honestly, the entire thing will be gone before I finish my first piece.) He then proceeds to go into detail about exactly why France – the "nation of frogs," as he so lovingly calls it – and its people are the scum of the Earth.

Personally, I'd prefer not to hear my beloved home insulted, no matter how ill-formulated and untrue the insults are, so, instead, I'll plan how I'll seduce mon petit lapin into celebrating his birthday properly with me.

He's drunk, therefore, I have no reason not to gaze at him as I plot. Hmm … should I simply grab him? Non, he would push me off. Could I, perhaps, use one of my magnifique pick-up lines on him? Non, he would make fun of me. Or maybe I could be honest, tell him how I feel about him, seduce him from le coeur … He has such a nice heart, really, underneath all of his adorable blustering and refusing to show emotion … It's almost as nice as his eyes … Mm, such belle eyes, the color of tree leaves in summer … And his mouth, what a delicious mouth, what I would give to taste that perfect mouth …

Wait a second …

What, exactly, is coming out of that mouth at the moment?

It sounds as though he's still insulting the French, but …

"… and why are they all so bloody hot, damn it? It's as if they're trying to make the rest of the world look bad or something! And those stupid accents! So sexy, they almost make you forget about how annoying they are, and how … how … how fucking beautiful their language is! It's like … like love and sex vocalized. Fuck. And their food …"

I stare at his face – it's so cute when he's on one of his rants. "Arthur, did you just … compliment me?"

"No, I bloody did not!" he replies angrily. "Wait, did I? Fuck. I think I might've … you know what? I didn't. Now give me some more of that bloody cake."

He doesn't wait for me to oblige, reaching over to the plate with the cake on it in the center of our small table, but loses his balance in the process and topples over to the floor. Like a pathetic, sick dog, he lies there, on his side, groaning in pain.

I'm trying very hard not to laugh.

Very … very … very hard.

"Arthur, do you … ohonhonhon … want some … ohonhonhon … help up?" I ask him.

"No, I bloody do not. You get your sexy French ass down here instead," he demands, glaring at me with a face that is less drunk than … an animal, let out of its shell of apathy and allowed to roam free – free and barbaric and incredibly hot.

Oh my.

"Oui, Arthur," I breathe, returning his smile with one of my own – the most sexy smile in my repertoire.

For any other man, that smile would have rendered him senseless, but Arthur only narrows those thick eyebrows that I somehow can't find ugly any more.

"Sir," he says.

"Quoi?"

"Oui, Arthur, sir. Say it," he commands.

Oh.

Well.

I didn't know he was into that.

"Naturellement, Arthur, sir," I say.

And then I am upon him, a lion seizing its prey, a neutron meeting a radioactive atom in an explosion of lips and tongues and energy, energy wild and amazing and utterly beyond words. His lips are dry and chapped and don't quite fit mine, but it doesn't matter, nothing matters as we move and feel and taste each other – two galaxies colliding, spiraling and spiraling out of control into a sea of everything I live for, desire and passion and lust. And suddenly, I don't know how, I am underneath him and I am not wearing pants and this wasn't how I planned it at all but I don't care this is better than any of my wildest dreams and he is panting in my ear and –

"FRANCIS BONNEFOY."

We try to ignore it, to go on as though nothing has happened, to be lost in our own unbreakable bubble of space and time, but our attempts are futile.

Our bubble has been popped.

Eventually, we are forced to give up, break apart, stand up, turn around, surrender to the thunderous voice – a voice belonging to none other than Ivan Braginsky, our Russian neighbor from the next room.

I don't know how he got in, but there he is, in our room, coated and scarved and glowering and almost smoking with anger.

"Francis Bonnefoy," he says in a voice like scraping steel, "где моя водка?"

Vodka? His vodka? It sounds like he said something about vodka …

Merde.

"Я знаю, что у тебя моя водка," he continues, advancing on me and smiling, smiling as though he's an executioner and I'm an escaped prisoner and he enjoys every second of his job. "Ты не пил моу водку, да? Потему что если ты пил моу водку ..."

He is so close to me now, I can feel his breath. It smells of sunflowers, though, for some odd reason, that only makes him more foreboding.

"…ты мертвый," he hisses, "да?"

I don't know what that means, but it certainly didn't sound pleasant.

"ДАЙТЕ МНЕ МОЯ ВОДКА!" he thunders.

Ivan is about to grab me and throttle me into the horrible, sex-less nether of death, I'm about to beg for mercy, explain that I didn't mean to steal the vodka, I only used it to drug Arthur's cake because I was out wine, surely he understands the importance and necessity of a drugged cake, and besides, I'm too sexy to die, but –

But.

Just then, a blur of red and black and light golden-yellow wedges itself between the scary (if scary even begins to cover it) Russian and myself, jabbering to him in quick, badly accented Russian:

"Нет! Не делаешь, aru! Иван, это не хорошая идея, aru! Ты слишаешь меня, aru? НЕ ХОРОШАЯ, aru!"

I'm too temporarily shocked to remember my nearness to death. "Yao … you speak Russian?"

The Chinese man, Ivan's roommate, turns to me and shrugs, a blush turning his cute features an odd mixture of gold and light red. "A little, aru."

"Yao, ты хочешь, что я не болеть Francis, да?" Ivan asks Yao, his voice suddenly becoming tender and sweet.

Merci, dio, I think to myself. Or, well, merci, Yao. Note to self: thank him properly later.

"Huh? I-I don't understand, aru," Yao stammers in return. "Я ... я не понемаю, что ты скажу, aru."

"Скажешь," Ivan corrects him. "I said, you don't want me to hurt him, да?"

The Chinese man nods nervously. "Да, aru."

"Okay, then, I won't," the Russian decides, smiling happily. Yao returns the smile (though much less joyfully) and is about to squeeze out from underneath his roommate's grip, but –

"On three conditions."

"Oh." Yao turns back to Ivan, who begins counting conditions on his huge, meaty fingers.

"Один, you will give me ten crates of sunflowers. Not nine, not eleven, but ten. Два, we will become one. И три, you will admit that you love me. Ты понимаешь?"

Yao looks down, at me, at the wall, at the poster of Daniel Radcliff on the wall (please don't ask) – anywhere but at Ivan.

"Да, aru," he says quietly.

"And you agree, да?"

"Да, aru."

The second "да" is even more reluctant than the first, but uttered with enough strength for me to know it's the truth.

They've been standing there for a full forty-seven-point-six seconds, not moving, simply oozing sexual tension, and I'm wondering whether or not I should, as a master of l'amour, help them out a little, when, suddenly, their heads are banged together like two halves of a crash cymbal.

Their lips meet, their arms wind around each other, and their bodies merge like two interlocking puzzle pieces; it's as though I'm watching two beings combine into one, more beautiful and perfect than the originals ever could have hoped to be on their own.

Ah, young love~ Tres magnifique~

Arthur emerges from behind the two lovebirds (if Ivan can be called a bird; he's more of a Siberian tiger), looking very pleased with himself – a look that I must admit, like every other one of his looks, suits him quite well. He was the one to bang their heads together, of course.

I have taught him well.

He grins demonically (oh, so very sexily) and says, "So, now that you're no longer in mortal danger from large, obscenely loud Russians wielding scarves, let's finish what we started. What do you say, frog?"

I never knew being called a frog could be this arousing.

"I couldn't agree more, sir," I whisper in response, grabbing him.

The two of us fall together onto a bed – I don't know which one, it might be the floor.

Whatever it is, Arthur's presence makes it comfortable.


The next few hours are some of the most magnificent, most exciting hours in my entire life. Once he finishes fully experiencing what appears to be a highly enjoyable make-out session with Yao, Ivan produces some more vodka from his immense coat and we all get drunk. (Well, all of us except for already-drunk Arthur, who becomes even further intoxicated.)

After that … well. We make love too many times t count, mostly in pairs, but sometimes in foursomes, and, on one memorable occasion when Yao leaves for a bathroom break, a threesome. Everyone tops, everyone bottoms, and everyone middles. I learn secrets about all three of the others – their bodies, their scars, their weaknesses – that I can never reveal. I find that Yao is the loudest, Ivan the most difficult to please, Arthur the harshest, and myself the first to come.

It goes into the night and through the sleeping hours. It goes on until I might be sleeping and might be half awake and might be drunk. It goes on until I can't tell what is the dream and what is the reality.

There are many other details I can tell you, but they probably won't make any sense to you whatsoever, as you aren't here.

Sorry about that. I wish you were here, I really do.


The next morning, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and the drunk is moaning in pain.

"Holy sweet mother of Winston Churchill, I am never drinking ag – what the bloody hell?"

Oh. He noticed the … ah … positions we're in.

Arthur himself is lying on his stomach on the table; I'm on the floor next to it, my hand brushing his; Ivan and Yao are cuddled together on my bed, Yao's head on Ivan's shoulder (so cute~.)

And, by the way, we're all naked.

Very, very naked.

I give a wink to the still-recording light of the hidden camera.

Elizaveta is gong to give me so much money for this video …


TRANSLATIONS:

French:

Oui = yes

Magnifique = amazing, magnificent

Beau = beautiful

Non = no

Je ne parle pas l'anglais. = I don't speak English.

Mon = my

L'amour = love

Mon petit lapin = my little rabbit

Derrieres = behinds

Moi = me

Naturellement = naturally, of course

C'est beau, non? = It's beautiful, no?

Mes petites = my small ones

Le Coeur = the heart

Quoi?= What?

Merci = thank you

Tres magnifique = very magnificent

Russian:

где моя водка? = Where is my vodka?

Я знаю, что у тебя моя водка. = I know that you have my vodka.

Ты не пил моу водку, да? = You didn't drink my vodka, yes?

Потему что если ты пил моу водку ... = Because if you drank my vodka …

ты мертвый, да? = … you're dead, yes?

ДАЙТЕ МНЕ МОЯ ВОДКА! = GIVE ME MY VODKA!

Нет! Не делаешь! = No! Don't do it!

Иван, это не хорошая идея! = Ivan, this isn't a good idea!

Ты слишаешь меня? НЕ ХОРОШАЯ! = Do you hear me? NOT GOOD!

Ты хочешь, что я не болеть Francis, да? = You want me to not hurt Francis, yes?

Я ... я не понемаю, что ты скажу. = I … I don't understand what you're saying.

Скажешь. = Saying. [Yao conjugated the verb wrong, and Ivan corrected him.)

Один = one

Два = two

И три = and three

*smacks self* I should not like this story. I don't ship FrUK or RoChu, I bloody hate that frog Francis ... I should not like this story, damn it!

Well, I still do.

Just a bit.

Probably because it's my story.

And it's brilliant, if I do say so myself.

And I do.

(I might also like it because Arthur topped Francis. Haha. :D)

Review?