A French Manicure (1/1)
anonymous
November 7 2009, 16:35:47 UTC
And the Eiffel Tower joke is from a part 7 fill.
"Ohmigod, your cuticles are, like, totally gross, France. Seriously, like, I see this sorta fuzz growin' on 'em and stuff." Poland said, as he reached for more of the watery pink solution and another Q-tip. "Did you know you totally have fuzz growin' on your nails, France?"
"Don't remind me." France replied. Any other day he'd make some sort of dirty joke or salacious comment, but today was NOT any other day. The characteristic gleam in his eyes was lost, his hair was dull and colorless, his skin was sallow. Even his beloved Eiffel Tower would not light.
Minutes of scrubbing and filing on Poland's part produced a single fingernail, smooth and perfect like ocean pebbles.
"That," Poland told him, "is like, so much better."
France didn't complain when Poland stripped him of his cuticles. The tinier, girlier Nation had also given him the privilege of having his hands scrubbed and moisturized and his nails filed. He'd also thrown in an extra buffing-up of the nails, just for him.
But when France saw Poland reach for a pink vial of nail polish, he knew he had to stop there. He could already feel the lights in his eyes returning.
"Mon ami," he said, putting on his sweetest voice, "not all of us have quite the girlish charms you do."
Poland just smiled.
"You're right! You like, soooooo need a facial. Maybe even like, a foot massage or something! And that hair? Ohmigod, so totally nasty and oily and ew. Just wait right here, I'll like, run home and get some of my other stuff!"
And as he flitted about (like a little butterfly) and slammed the door once he'd left to get whatever tortured "stuff" he needed, France could only sigh.
"Ohmigod, your cuticles are, like, totally gross, France. Seriously, like, I see this sorta fuzz growin' on 'em and stuff." Poland said, as he reached for more of the watery pink solution and another Q-tip. "Did you know you totally have fuzz growin' on your nails, France?"
"Don't remind me." France replied. Any other day he'd make some sort of dirty joke or salacious comment, but today was NOT any other day. The characteristic gleam in his eyes was lost, his hair was dull and colorless, his skin was sallow. Even his beloved Eiffel Tower would not light.
Minutes of scrubbing and filing on Poland's part produced a single fingernail, smooth and perfect like ocean pebbles.
"That," Poland told him, "is like, so much better."
France didn't complain when Poland stripped him of his cuticles. The tinier, girlier Nation had also given him the privilege of having his hands scrubbed and moisturized and his nails filed. He'd also thrown in an extra buffing-up of the nails, just for him.
But when France saw Poland reach for a pink vial of nail polish, he knew he had to stop there. He could already feel the lights in his eyes returning.
"Mon ami," he said, putting on his sweetest voice, "not all of us have quite the girlish charms you do."
Poland just smiled.
"You're right! You like, soooooo need a facial. Maybe even like, a foot massage or something! And that hair? Ohmigod, so totally nasty and oily and ew. Just wait right here, I'll like, run home and get some of my other stuff!"
And as he flitted about (like a little butterfly) and slammed the door once he'd left to get whatever tortured "stuff" he needed, France could only sigh.
"Thank you, cher ami."
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OP loves you writer!anon~! =3=
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You used my line! >///< I feel oddly touched that it was so well liked :'D
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