Hetalia kink meme part 22
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hetalia kink meme
part 22
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In his day, when he had donned that golden wig and studded blue platforms, when he had been La Francoise, child pageants were of a higher order. Not every cross-eyed hick in the county was allowed to pluck up their sullied urchins, souls dead and mummified in yards of pink tulle, and present them as the shining hope of the future. When they had said they wished for love amongst all and the sanctities of world peace, they had said it in utmost certainty. It wasn’t some standard cue-card drill, it was a display that being fashionable and functional were not mutually exclusive, that a babe fresh from motherly loins was capable of holding their own in a billiards match and appreciating the bouquet of fine Chianti.
And all that was his reality, before that tragic day that his skirt was uplifted and the title of “la” came only to preface “laughing stock”. But Francis dare not think that now, only clapping a hand over his tearing eyes and casting a look to his beloved Mathilde.
Mathilde, a girl with so much light and potential, rescued from her barbaric family one snowy Christmas morn. A bit too kind-hearted, the other mothers said. Showed her belly too much, and not in the right way. In the way that she was just begging to be stabbed right there, right where her bleeding heart lay. But to Francis, she was a beacon in the squalor and mange that had become modern child pageants. She wouldn’t dare kick a stool from below her competition’s feet, knowing that it all took a winning smile and practiced curtsy to become queen and not cherry bombs slipped below doorframes. She would campaign for world peace and mean it; she would spend her prize money on benefitting the less attractive and not false teeth or credit card debt; she would save the world the ruination the waves of Bump-its and glitter were drowning it in.
All she had to do was win.
Francis’ silken train of thought was interrupted by the cry of a Spaniard, as it so often was.
“Antonio.” He nodded. The man’s face was slightly reddened- he had yet to understand that the elevator at the Ritzy Glitzy Hotel had been repaired twelve years ago, always insisting on rocketing up the steps with his little treasure in tow. Lovina herself was still out, curled into her father’s neck with her mouth slack and head lolling dangerously. Though as much Francis wouldn’t like for the poor child to experience a broken neck (or, even more dreadful, what had happened to little Feli at the Dawg Stars of Tomorrow Pageant), she was the biggest contender they had and it was very difficult to wear necklaces well on a snapped neck.
“How have you been, friend?”
“I’ve been well. Lots of work, preparing for these.”
“I see. Where is Mattie?”
“She’s…merde. “
“I’m right here, Papa.”
“Why, Mathilde! What on Earth are you doing inside that potted plant, it’ll mess up your hair terribly and I didn’t bring the straightening iron!”
“You put me here and I thought I was supposed to stand here. For the pageant.“
“Well, merde!” Francis wailed, plucking the terribly dim light of his heart out of the soil. “Well, we’ll have to fix that, won’t we? Because not to offend you, ma choupinette, but your hair is now the fifth horseman of the apocalypse. What do you suggest we do?”
Antonio, wanting to help his dear friend, offered “I saw a waffle iron in the kitchen.”
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