Shadow-Alpha11

You let go of his jacket, and he stared at you with raised eyebrows.  “Mon amour, what are you doing?” “Nothing!  Just checking on the...jackets.”  You patted his jacket as if to confirm your case. Francis smiled devilishly at you and he put the plates down on the foyer table.  “Honhonhon are you sure zat's what you were doing?”  He took a step toward you.   You crossed your arms and blushed.  “Are you calling me a liar, Monsieur Bonnefoy?” “Per'aps,” he said and took another step closer.  “You like the way I smell, mon amie?” “Of course not.”  You s

France One Shot Playing Love Games I sat with my legs crossed underneath my overly stuffy and poofy gown, glaring at my father from across the table. Just like the rest of the year that had passed since I had decided to take a vow of silence my father tried his best to ignore me. Though I found it odd that he was shifting so much in his seat, the last time I had seen him this worked up was when I first stopped talking. So since I couldn't talk I simply stared at him, knowing he would crack eventually. He finally caught my eye and gave me a sad attempt at a smile “So ___ my dear our you enjoying your meal. I thought it would be nice to

FranceXReaderXLittle!Canada: Fever          ‘Et j’ai dû côtoyer le pavé,’…The first line of ‘Désolé’ by Sexion D’Assaut blared from the small phone on (Y/n)’s nightstand, waking her up. Groggily, she grunted and lifted her head, her (h/l)(h/c) hair a tangled mess around her face. Her hand groped for her phone in the dark. If the song was from France, it meant that Francis was calling her. She had country specific ringtones for all her friends, since they were personified nations. If it had been anyone else, she would have gone back to sleep, but she had a majo

You hated headaches. Sure, you DISLIKED spiders, clowns, and Justin Bieber, but you absolutely HATED headaches. Unfortunate, considering you seemed to get them a lot. Especially at Country meetings. You were the representative for (country) and you had been coming to these conferences for 20 years, still relatively new in country terms, and you had never once seen anything productive happen. You groaned as the throbbing in your head grew worse. “YOU BLOODY GIT! Get away frog, before i-” England was yelling at France, again. Suddenly, all the anger, the irritation, the impatience you’d kept bottled up over the years, boil