Of all zhe things _______ 'as to by it 'as to be l'angleterre's flag. He thought heatedly, Que les moutons stupides noir. Je suis beaucoup plus beau que lui.--mon Dieu!
"Francis... Um, are you alright? You came swooping into the room, caught sight of that shirt and you've just stood there...It's starting to get slightly unnerving..."
You heard a sharp exhale of air, him shooting you his trademark "I'm-still-incredibly-gorgeous-even-when-I-glare" look (named by himself, naturally) across the kitchen. He drew his attention back to the offending article of clothing, currently folded on top of your kitchen counter.
Sighing, you decided it was better not to pay too much attention to the overly-dramatic Frenchman, which, after spending two years living with not only himself but his two friends had become a relatively easy feat. Still, you couldn't help but think to yourself as you leant against the kitchen counter top what was getting his French knickers in a twist. Did he realised that when he looked at you like that he looked more like a petulant child than a twenty-six year old? But then, you had come to learn that he was like a child at times. Living with a egotistical Prussian and a Spaniard that struggled to read social situations probably didn't help.
It was only a present from Arthur. It had long since become a tradition of his that he would bring you something back from London when he visited Parliament. Last time it was some expensive tea he had found in Soho. This time, a fashionable top with a Union Jack design from a boutique.
"l'angleterre." He eventually said; or, more accurately, breathed with disdain.
And he was still staring at that shirt.
"Congratulations Poirot, you have solved the mystery." You deadpanned, picking up the shirt, "It is indeed a gift from Arthur. Now do you mind telling me why you've been trying to glare holes into it for the past ten minutes?"
He said nothing. You noticed it though, and even then it was so subtle that anyone who didn't spend time with Francis would never have noticed. His body weight had shifted to the other foot, his eyes, which normally had a constant come-to-bed look plastered on them at all times were softly focused on your own [e/c] ones... And did you just see the ghost of a blush on his cheeks?
...Oh! That's why, you thought wryly.
What an absolute, idiotic -
" -For Rome's sake Francis it's not like I'm pledging my undying devotion to Arthur because I'm wearing the flag of a country he just so happens to represent!"
"It is an outrage!" He exclaimed, arms thrown up emphatically. "It is like 'e is claiming ownership of you mon cher! Probably as some sort of slight towards moi." He gave an exacerbated sigh, pushing back locks of golden hair from his face. "'onestly, ma chérie - Sometimes I wish you didn't spend so much time wizh 'im..."
You glowered at him sharply, "Oh Francis, stop acting so jealous."
"-Escuse moi?" He growled, disgust that you would ever suggest such a thing evident on his face.
"Jealous, Francis." You repeated, " That's what it is about, isn't it? This stupid rivalry you have with him. He's my friend Francis! Platonic and nothing more. You can be such a child at times Francis... Honestly. Does that mean if I bought a shirt with a French flag on it it'll automatically give you permission to jump my -"
You stopped dead when you realised that somewhere in your rant he had closed the distance between you. In fact, if he took any more steps forward you might as well have been sitting on the counter. Slowly, as you looked up, you were met with the sight of his mouth, no longer an infuriated frown but what had twisted into a sensual smirk. And with his arms placed either side of you, you was effectively trapped in his advance.
It was then you realised exactly what you had been just talking about.
- Did I honestly just say that to Francis of all people? You say something remotely suggestive and he's like a cat in heat.
"...If zhat's all it takes ma belle rose zhen I will buy you a thousand shirts." He drawled, his hands snaking seamlessly from the counter tops to around your neck and waist, pulling you closer to him.
Correction, several cats.
"--Francis! Get off!" You yelled, wiggling hopelessly under his embrace.
You knew he was grinning like a Cheshire cat at this point - you could feel it against your neck, his warm breath sending little electrical sensations down your body, making you overly aware of the effect he was having on you. It was far too distracting for your liking. So much so, in fact, that you hadn't realised when exactly he had taken the shirt from your grip and thrown it on the floor.
" ...Je suis un amour beaucoup mieux que l'Angleterre est. Donne-moi une nuit. Je vais vous montrer comment passionné les Français sont vraiment ..." He purred, placing butterfly kisses along the base of your neck. It took all your self control to stop yourself from moaning at his ministrations, particularly when he started nipping and biting and that one sensitive spot on your neck.
" Je veux que vous crier mon nom, encore et encore, ma belle ______."
He makes it so difficult to argue with him when he does this...
And when he spoke French, that alone could strip away layers of your resolve and you knew that whatever he was saying, well, it had to be good.
His is the country of love after all, you heard your libido purr.
- No _______! I can't let him snake around me this easily, you thought with determination. He wants to get all hot and bothered to distract me, I'll give him a taste of his own medicine.
Slowly, and with as much allure as you could summon, you moved to lean into his ear, a playful smirk gracing your lips as you whispered, "...You know Francis, my new shirt might be British..."
Your voice was husky, dripping with a sensuality that had captured his attention completely.
"~Mmm." He breathed in acknowledgement, revelling in the feel of your warm breath against his ear, the way your hands had trailed up his chest and were playing with the buttons on his shirt.
"...But my underwear is undoubtedly French."
What happened next? Well, Francis didn't really understand.
Your hands, which had been trailing the exposed skin of his chest were suddenly braced against him, exerting enough force to push him back. And his sudden relinquished hold had not only left him bereft of your lavishing attentions, but you had completely eluded him, picked up the discarded shirt in the process.
He stared at you, stunning blue eyes glazed over with a mixture of lust and confusion.
"~ Au revoir, Francis." You smirked, blowing him a kiss with mocking imitation of him.
And then you raced out the door.
"---WAIT! WAIT! MON CHER, _______! attendez! Je suis désolé! JE VEUX VOIR CETTE SOUS-VETEMENTS, ATTENDEZ!"