Ah, Sunday. In your opinion, it was the best day of the week.
No meetings, no childish fights with your Allies, no earth shattering migranes. Just silence, the morning newspaper, and a bowl of lucky charms.
Smiling, you took a sip of coffee. Oh yes, Sundays truely were the best day of the week. Nothing but golden silence echoed through the kitchen, and that was just how you liked it. That silence was soon broken, however, when your front door was violently thrown open and England stumbled into the kitchen.
You set down the newspaper and examined the Brit; judging by his flushed face and the way he kept swaying back and forth, you came to the conclusion that he was drunk on his ass. Why anyone would want to drink this early in the morning, you didn't really know; I mean, beer didn't exactly pair well with cereal.
Not that you really cared, of course.
"England, go home, you're drunk." You stated cooly, turning back to your cereal.
He ignored you and stumbled over to your chair, resting a hand on your shoulder to keep his balance. He glanced down at your bowl of lucky charms and suddenly grinned. "____, know what?"
You sighed. "What?"
His drunk grin widened. "I'm magically delicious!" You'd taken a bite of cereal at the time, and the moment those words left his lips you choked on it, eyes bulging. What was this fuckery?!
He planted a sloppy kiss on your neck, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Do yeh wanna eat meh up, luv?"
You blushed, trying to ignore him. Yet you couldn't help but wonder how good British men were in bed.
Not that you cared, of course.