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"Non, non. Zat won't do. Get me somezing zat fits ze zeme(theme)," said a voice. Its owner peered into the mirror, raising fine eyebrows at its reflection. "Why 'ello zere, 'andsome." He greeted it with an impressive eyebrow ripple, "vous are looking trés parfait."
The maid he'd rejected wasn't the least bit phased as she scuttled in with another new outfit. This complimentary of his reflection was nothing new around here. The man tore his gaze from the mirror and scanned the attire, nodding his approval.
He tugged the ruffled pink shirt from his upper-body, exposing skin. The toned abs trembled with the pattern of his breathing. He put on a winter-ice flannel and left the top few buttons undone. Then he put on some fancy Levi jeans and ventured into the bathroom. Combing his long, slightly shaggy hair, he arranged his mop into the normal-do. Save the turquoise ribbon he used to tie a bowed-ponytail with. Narrowing his eyes in scrutiny at the mirror, he decided to shave his little beard so there was only stubble left. Le fillies adore la tickle, non?
Finally, he meandered from his restroom and into the kitchen. Someone had already made him breakfast, probably Renée again. So he sat at the table and forked slices of crépe into his mouth while sipping Chardonnay until his meal was finished. Suddenly an inexplicable wave of loneliness barreled into him. It was Christmas Eve and he didn't even have a tree. Not even a girl to spend the day with. Well, except for Renée, but she didn't count. Been there, literally done that.
That gave him something to do, at least. After purchasing a tree he would throw a decorating Christmas Eve party. It was a lot to do in one day, but he was Francis Bonnefoy, after all. He stood up and strode out the door, grabbing an overcoat. He drove to the store, where he bought a large tree and at least four boxes of decorations. The tall blonde grinned in his excitement once he was in his house. He set up the tree after clearing a space in his living room and put up the new and old ornaments. Putting the variety of decorations in a row beside his tree, he left the interior of his home to string up the Christmas lights that accented the outside of the house. Neighbours raised eyebrows, some children even chastised him for not being in the "festive spirit until just now". To which he simply released his trademark cackle, and the kids fled. They immediately went to complain to their mothers about the creepy man with the beard and the foreign accent. Not that the mothers ever minded, of course, he was well-liked amongst their community. Very well-liked indeed. . .
Hours passed after the invitations were sent out. With only 15 minutes to 5 p.m., he had received 25 RSVPs. He hadn't wanted too many attendees; there were way too many countries. And they were allowed to bring two-three guests anyways. Unfortunately, this was the biggest party of the year. No one really enjoyed throwing them for fear of the arguments that usually ensued. Often there was too much bickering and the issue of selecting people who wouldn't murder each other. Hurting nations' feelings when they weren't invited wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. Unless it was a gross, horrid park. The biggest get-togethers were usually the world-wide meetings, how pathetic.
Right as he finished cooking the last bit of their dinner the sound of slamming car doors sounded. The man jumped before quickly regaining his composure and flitting over to the door. He flung it open and flourished his free hand in a grand, welcoming sweep. The first guest was blonde-haired and wore glasses before his blue eyes. He was followed by a shorter male with green eyes and about the same hair colour. That one happened to be the whole reason he had thought up this plan. Otherwise he would have just ran out to a bar, spent another holiday by his lonely self, had another meaningless one night stand. The Brit was followed by twenty-three other people, including the boy who was always forgotten. What was his name again?
The door closed behind them and the party started. People were welcome to the snack bar, but dinner would come later. They danced, they drank spiked cider, they hung ornaments, they argued. The arguments, however, died at dinner after Feliciano insisted that they need be polite due to Christmas just four hours away. They ate foods of various cultures and drank alcohol of various origins. Germany and Prussia guzzled beer, England and his brother downed whiskey, France sipped at his wine, et cetera.
Eventually everyone finished their meals and the conversations started to fail. Thus came the clapping of Francis' soft, slender hands and a call to attention. His blue eyes glinted with the flame of the candles, shimmering in delighted anticipation. "Time for truth or dare!" Oh crap. At least it was a minor of dangerous games he could've suggested. Knowing him, the list was plentiful and nearly imponderable.
The maid he'd rejected wasn't the least bit phased as she scuttled in with another new outfit. This complimentary of his reflection was nothing new around here. The man tore his gaze from the mirror and scanned the attire, nodding his approval.
He tugged the ruffled pink shirt from his upper-body, exposing skin. The toned abs trembled with the pattern of his breathing. He put on a winter-ice flannel and left the top few buttons undone. Then he put on some fancy Levi jeans and ventured into the bathroom. Combing his long, slightly shaggy hair, he arranged his mop into the normal-do. Save the turquoise ribbon he used to tie a bowed-ponytail with. Narrowing his eyes in scrutiny at the mirror, he decided to shave his little beard so there was only stubble left. Le fillies adore la tickle, non?
Finally, he meandered from his restroom and into the kitchen. Someone had already made him breakfast, probably Renée again. So he sat at the table and forked slices of crépe into his mouth while sipping Chardonnay until his meal was finished. Suddenly an inexplicable wave of loneliness barreled into him. It was Christmas Eve and he didn't even have a tree. Not even a girl to spend the day with. Well, except for Renée, but she didn't count. Been there, literally done that.
That gave him something to do, at least. After purchasing a tree he would throw a decorating Christmas Eve party. It was a lot to do in one day, but he was Francis Bonnefoy, after all. He stood up and strode out the door, grabbing an overcoat. He drove to the store, where he bought a large tree and at least four boxes of decorations. The tall blonde grinned in his excitement once he was in his house. He set up the tree after clearing a space in his living room and put up the new and old ornaments. Putting the variety of decorations in a row beside his tree, he left the interior of his home to string up the Christmas lights that accented the outside of the house. Neighbours raised eyebrows, some children even chastised him for not being in the "festive spirit until just now". To which he simply released his trademark cackle, and the kids fled. They immediately went to complain to their mothers about the creepy man with the beard and the foreign accent. Not that the mothers ever minded, of course, he was well-liked amongst their community. Very well-liked indeed. . .
Hours passed after the invitations were sent out. With only 15 minutes to 5 p.m., he had received 25 RSVPs. He hadn't wanted too many attendees; there were way too many countries. And they were allowed to bring two-three guests anyways. Unfortunately, this was the biggest party of the year. No one really enjoyed throwing them for fear of the arguments that usually ensued. Often there was too much bickering and the issue of selecting people who wouldn't murder each other. Hurting nations' feelings when they weren't invited wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. Unless it was a gross, horrid park. The biggest get-togethers were usually the world-wide meetings, how pathetic.
Right as he finished cooking the last bit of their dinner the sound of slamming car doors sounded. The man jumped before quickly regaining his composure and flitting over to the door. He flung it open and flourished his free hand in a grand, welcoming sweep. The first guest was blonde-haired and wore glasses before his blue eyes. He was followed by a shorter male with green eyes and about the same hair colour. That one happened to be the whole reason he had thought up this plan. Otherwise he would have just ran out to a bar, spent another holiday by his lonely self, had another meaningless one night stand. The Brit was followed by twenty-three other people, including the boy who was always forgotten. What was his name again?
The door closed behind them and the party started. People were welcome to the snack bar, but dinner would come later. They danced, they drank spiked cider, they hung ornaments, they argued. The arguments, however, died at dinner after Feliciano insisted that they need be polite due to Christmas just four hours away. They ate foods of various cultures and drank alcohol of various origins. Germany and Prussia guzzled beer, England and his brother downed whiskey, France sipped at his wine, et cetera.
Eventually everyone finished their meals and the conversations started to fail. Thus came the clapping of Francis' soft, slender hands and a call to attention. His blue eyes glinted with the flame of the candles, shimmering in delighted anticipation. "Time for truth or dare!" Oh crap. At least it was a minor of dangerous games he could've suggested. Knowing him, the list was plentiful and nearly imponderable.
Literature
81. Pen and Paper
There is nothing wrong with indulging in a few joyous pastimes. Who is to say that, simply because we are nations, we are not allowed to enjoy ourselves et play a little? Hmm? One such way I play, is pestering mon petit frère. Oh, et be assured that he loves it as well; the silly man simply denies et refuses to show anything but frustration. I know his mind desires stimulation, et I can give him just that; if not more. Words are like knives at times, mais when used correctly they are paintbrushes, pillows, playthings; anything really. Angleterre uses words well, et he constantly reminds me.
« I've the playwrights. And what do you h
Literature
shout it. // france x reader x spain
Step One: x Set the scene:
x people, shelter, transportation, defense.
[now elaborate]
+ one, two, three, four(?) people.
+ abandoned psychiatric home.
+ your own two feet.
+ stolen arms.
+ (street) smarts.
/ / . . \ \ . . / /
I told you I would tell you everything you want to know.
You want me to tell you now,
You pressure me to shout it.
Need to hear about it,
Think that I would count you out.
\ \ . . / / . . \ \
She sat in the middle of a large cement room in the North wing of an old, run-down building. The building had vines growing around and in and through it, flowers blossoming up through cracks and tree branches breaking
Literature
Hetalia: FrancexReaderxSpain: Everything Changes
You laughed as Princess Peach (aka Francis) fell off the track. It was just you and Antonio now. "Better get ready Tony, I'm gonna win!" you cried, giggling as you passed his character Toad. Twenty seconds later, you won the Mario Kart race as Yoshi. "Yay for me!" you yelled, grinning at your two best friends. Francis laughed with you and Antonio pretended to be angry. "Aw, cheer up Tony, we can play another game" you said, smiling up at him. "Or we could walk to the park" he said, grinning at you and Francis. Nodding, you got your shoes on and locked the door behind you. You walked in between your friends, humming to yourself, not noticing
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First of all- I do not own Hetalia or its characters. That would be Mr. Hidekaz Himaruya (c)
Nor do I own the movie, Zombieland.
I only own the story plot and what happens in it.
Second of all, I hope you enjoyed! The next chapter will be uploaded shortly~!
Warning: Next chapter has slash/fluff. Don't like it, don't read it.
It also has Russia getting a makeover. -hint hint nudge nudge wink wink-
Thanks!
~Lexi
Next Chapter: [link]
Nor do I own the movie, Zombieland.
I only own the story plot and what happens in it.
Second of all, I hope you enjoyed! The next chapter will be uploaded shortly~!
Warning: Next chapter has slash/fluff. Don't like it, don't read it.
It also has Russia getting a makeover. -hint hint nudge nudge wink wink-
Thanks!
~Lexi
Next Chapter: [link]
© 2012 - 2024 HellsRose13
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that's a sexy picture -w-