France x Reader: We Fell in Love

He touches your forehead with his, making a blush rise to your whole face. His nose is against yours, brushing it ever so lightly, and his eyelashes lace themselves through yours. His blue eyes are half-shut, looking very romantic, soft, and sweet.

"Mon amour…" he whispers to you before he lightly caresses your cheek.

"F-france…?" you say helplessly, terribly confused.

"Has anyone ever told you…how very beautiful you are? Like a rose or a star… Votre beauté est incomparable…"

"O-oh," you whisper, not knowing what he said, but some part of you is screaming to get away from him. "F-france…please…stop…"

His lips lightly peck yours, and there is a bit of a smirk on his face that taunts you. "Stop what? Are you not enjoying this, (name)?"

"N-no…"

His fingers caress your lips, and you shudder underneath their gentle touch. God, you're such a liar.

"I don't believe you."

And then he comes in for a correct kiss, one that'll be just as passionate as it is sweet, one that'll make you feel like you're sunbathing in Heaven.

"YOU FROG!" an angry Brit yells, and suddenly, France is on the ground, being hit maliciously by your big brother, England. "SHE IS NOT ONE OF YOUR DIRTY WHORES! DON'T YOU EVER TOUCH HER AGAIN, YOU PERVERTED WANKER!"

"I-iggy!" you blurt as you grab his arm, trying to pull him away from the French pervert. "S-stop! You'll kill him! A-and…and…he…he isn't worth it…"

The two stop their fighting to stare at you, and you think you see France's eyes darken for a second…but it must just be your imagination.

England stands up, cleaning his hands. "You're right, (name). Forgive me for acting so brutally like that." He holds out his elbow for you to take, and you do. "Should we head to the library today? Oh, and forgive me for picking you up so late from school. Had I known that Frenchmen would be there, I would have been here an hour before needed."

"I know, Iggy," you say, but you feel strange.

Truth be told, you kind of…wanted France to kiss you. That slight peck he had given you was technically your first kiss ever, and you hadn't minded it.

But France didn't deserve it. Throughout his years as a country, he had slept with so many women that they could all band together and make the largest country in the world. And that was not an exaggeration.

You glance back at Francis, but he's already flirting with another girl. And from the way she is giggling, he's going to get lucky tonight.

***

"(Name)!" your human friends cried out as they sat with you at lunch.

"(Name), we need your help! Desperately!" one of them cries.

You look up from your thermos of hot tea and a plain sandwich. You're pathetic at cooking, and tea is the only thing you cannot mess up. And a sandwich? It is really hard to mess up a ham-and-cheese sandwich.

You're not that bad!

"What?" you ask softly, not liking the loud, ecstatic voices they're using.

"Well, do you remember how we're doing a play that's opening in two weeks?" your other friend says. You nod, confused to as how it applies to you. "Well, our lead actress broke her leg, and she can't be in the play!" You stare at the both of them. "You sit with us during every rehearsal! You know the lines and lyrics! Besides, you look the part, and we know you can sing, so you're perfect!"

You start shaking your head, not saying a word.

Your first friend butts in. "But (Name)! We need someone to do her part, and you're the only one who can!"

"Remember how nervous I get just presenting for a minute in front of twenty people in my English class?" you point out meekly, wishing you could burrow your way into your cardigan and never appear. "How do you think I will be able to handle a whole two hour play in front of hundreds of people? Guys, I can't!"

"But (Name)!" they whine.

"Can't you find anyone else?" you say, and you realize then, like you do every day, that you barely ever speak above a whisper while your friends speak like if they were permanently fused to a microphone and the sound being emitted from their mouths came through a speak set on high. "I mean, someone who…doesn't have stage fright?"

"You have sat out in the audience and backstage for two months and a half with us. We know that you know everyone's words and all of the lead's songs! Please!"

You can already feel an anxiety attack coming on, but you nod and then pray to Holy Rome that you can make it through this ordeal.

***

"Iggy!" you whisper from your spot, telling him to come over.

He excuses himself and leaves the room to meet you in the hallway, and that is when you envelope him in your arms. He is sitting with France and America, even if he hates both countries, or so he claims.

"(Name), what's wrong?"

You bury your face into his shirt and say, "Muh fwehh food ee iooh a pay!"

He laughs, brushing your hair back "What?"

You pull back to look at his face. "M-my friends…forced me into a play…" Your face is entirely red. "I…I am to play the lead…and sing."

"Oh, (Name)…" he says, frowning a bit as he pats my cheek. "Would you like me to watch the rehearsals to make you feel more comfortable? And of course, I will go and see you when the play opens."

You nod slightly, but you feel entirely horrible for having him do something like this for you. You're sure that he has better things to do than watch you rehearse for two weeks and spend five dollars for every showing.

"Y-you…don't have to…"

"Of course he does!" a loud voice exclaims, and the French accent is unmistakable: Francis.

Big brother and you both pull apart to stare at him.

"As your big brother, he must show up! And as your lover, so must I!"

"You are not her lover, you disgusting frog," Iggy snarls as he pushes you behind him.

"C-calm down," you whisper as you grab his arm. You hate conflicts so much, almost as much as public speaking and loud noises. "Don't mind him, big brother."

"Oui, grand frère!" Francis says, not making anything better.

You sigh. "P-please…Francis…stop bothering my brother," you tell him softly, and his eyes widen a bit, his face losing color. "Why…are you always so mean to him?" Arthur looks quite triumphant at your words, but you don't have any more courage left within you to tell him to stop being mean to France as well. "I'm sorry for bothering your afternoons. I need to return today anyway. I have rehearsals." And your voice cracks at that last word.

More than anything, you wish that your friends hadn't convinced you into becoming the lead.

***

Your voice is nervous as it starts, but you've already put yourself through all this acting, so you have to be able to sing. There are only two songs to sing in this whole play, and they are the songs your character sings.

You need to do this. You need to prove you're more than just some shy, awkward introvert.

Stars, they follow headfirst
Stars, they want to know
They hear our secrets
Soft and slow
They want our secrets
You must know

Honestly, you think the lyrics are kind of silly, but then again, so is this whole play, and it was handwritten and put on by the students in the Theatre IV classes.

But tonight,
It's just you and me.
Tonight, I'll show you…

It is supposed to be some grand, dramatic love tale between a rich girl and a stable boy. It takes place during the Victorian Era in London, though the outfits they've planned (you look like a Gibson girl!) and the music style and speech is…not quite accurate to its historical setting. You fly through the song though, trying to add all the steps that are supposed to be in here, and your voice falters you a few times, but it holds steady for the most part.

Once imagined,
It can't be changed.
I've given myself to you.
In this world of promises and lies,
You're the only thing I know
So, please, if you're still out there,
Come back to me,
Come back.
Remind me again
Of why we fell in love.

The director, which is the theatre teacher, stands in front of the stage, looking up at you from the audience. Tears are literally in her eyes, and she has her hand over her mouth, whispering in Spanish about the beauty of it all.

When you're done with the song, the curtain closes, and the teacher lets out words in rapid Spanish, congratulating you on your performance, though you feel like you did awful. And then again, this is only with fifteen other cast members.

Imagining the crowd that will be there the three nights it shows for the public makes you want to have your lunch come out the wrong way. You cover your mouth lightly, massaging your tingly stomach. It feels like rabid bats are flying inside there, and you really don't like the feeling.

"OHHH, MY GAWWWD!" one of your friends rushes up to you, throwing her arms around your neck. All the tactility is making you feel slightly uncomfortable, and you already feel sick. "YOU WERE AMAZING, GIRL. I CAN'T WAIT FOR YOU TO SING 'AUTUMN'!!"

"T-that's…tomorrow, right?" you whisper, seeing as how it is nearly five, so the rehearsal should be coming to an end already.

You spent the first hour going over everything with the director and watching the other cast members rehearsing while the stage manager read your lines. Then you spent about half an hour with the costume designer taking your measurements and going over your hairstyles and the fabrics in your color. Then you got to acting, but of course, you've only done the first act of the play.

Fumbling over your lines is a no-no, and it is quite time-consuming.

Also, your character, Amelia Charlotte Holland, is quite outspoken and fancy and beautiful and cruel and wonderful and every boy fancies her.

You're everything she isn't.

Except for, of course, you guys both are supposed to have the same hair color and eye color and both of you can sing.

That's it.

You sigh as you look down at your worn-out Oxford University T-shirt that you took from Iggy and your sweatpants. All the other girls have on tiny shorts and skin-tight tank tops, and they feel totally awesome in it.

You don't think you've really ever shown much skin. Even when you wear skirts or shorts, you're wearing knee-socks, and most of your shirts have sleeves at least a third of the way down your arms. You're not good with cleavage either.

Too bad your outfit, though long and with sleeves, will be showing enough cleavage to spark the attention of at least half the boys here.

You blush.

You've never really be fawned over by guys.

And for once, in your nearly eighteen years, you find yourself excited for a public exhibition with you front and center.

You just hoped you wouldn't mess up.

***

You're having tea with your big brother. Despite missing your first rehearsal (due to France), he's been here every day so far. Afterwards, you two go home, and he makes you tea, talking with you until you've calmed from the uneasy feeling you get every time you perform on stage. You've gotten better, you have to admit, and now the actions fall a little bit more natural to you, but as soon as you're off stage, you just about hyperventilate from all of it.

Stage fright sucks.

The sweet aroma of Earl Grey surrounds you—today's choice; yesterday was a pomegranate green tea—and you smile a bit as you look into the delicate china. It is one of Iggy's more expensive and more exquisite pieces, and he always serves you tea with a different tea set than the one before. It's been that way since you were little.

After tea, you leave to your room. You can hear the "wine-bastard" outside—for some reason, he really enjoys bothering you and big brother—and you open the window, watching the beautiful man/country singing in French. It is rather lovely, you admit to yourself, and you find yourself smiling.

But soon enough, girls crowd around him, and he stops singing to flirt. He manages to kiss quite a few on the lips, looping his arms around the waist of two of the prettiest.

And then you close your window and your curtains.

He's never going to change, is he?

Despite the fact he's older (but then again, both of you aren't human, so it isn't like it would be wrong, anyway), you kind of want him to give you this kind of attention…but you want it to be only for you. With him, you want to be selfish.

And then you feel hot tears on your face as you sink to the floor, and you realize the truth in your words.

You're in love with Francis Bonnefoy.

And then a sob erupts from your chest; it is a painful sound you've never heard in your life, and you cringe at the sound…but you cannot stop the tears as they rush down, tumbling onto the soft carpet. You grasp the fabric of your shirt with desperate fingers, and for what feels like the first time in your life, you cry freely. You let all the sadness drain away until you're numb inside and out, and then you lay on your floor, staring at the curtains, imagining Francis going home with all those girls.

And then you close your eyes and wish this feeling all away.

***

It is opening night, as frenetic and nerve-racking as ever. Everyone is rushing around as you pull on your outfit made out of cheap fabrics but nicely sewn. Even if your outfit is entirely Edwardian, you try to imagine that the play is set at the very end of the Victorian Era so that this fashion makes the least bit of sense to you.

Your thoughts about fashion are only to distract you from the crowd out there.

About five minutes before the curtain, whispers suddenly start among the girls backstage. You turn around to check out what it is and notice your big brother standing there, a bouquet of roses in his hand. He smiles upon seeing you, and you rush to Iggy's side, burying your face into his chest, careful not to mess your pompadour hairdo and exaggerated make-up that would have probably labeled you a whore during the Edwardian and Victorian period.

"Nervous?" he asked softly, holding you gently.

"Incredibly. What if I forget my lines? What if I mess up? What if I freeze up?" you gasp out into his shirt.

"You'll do perfectly, (Name)," Iggy tells you. "You always do, as much as you don't believe it."

The girls are cooing and whispering about the adorable boyfriend you have.

"Thanks, big brother," you blurt as you pull away. "I'll see you when the play is over?"

"I'll be front seat," he says with a wink and then gestures to the bouquet. "I will just hold these until after, okay? Make sure to shine, (Name)." With a kiss to the forehead, he heads out of backstage and makes his way to his spot in the front row.

"Three minutes!" you guys are warned.

And you take deep breaths, preparing yourself for this.

You need to melt away your shy exterior, if only for one hour. You need to pretend they're not there.

Then it's time.

***

And then this autumn
Will finally end…

You finish the final lyrics for "Autumn", the second and last song you have to sing. So far, you've done well, you think. This is the part where Amelia's love interests comes in and finally decides to propose the question, right before the final kiss and before the evil Lord comes in and kills him.

As the lights go out, preparing for the entrance of your stage lover, you sit on the bench, in the position you're supposed to be in, and then the spotlight turns on for the entrance.

"Mon amour!" a ostentatious, French voices declares, and you freeze in your spot.

Francis, Francis, Francis.

Right now, you want to do something completely uncharacteristic and go out and punch him in the face for saying that and for ruining your opening night, but you can't. You're completely frozen.

A hand touches your shoulder, warm and affectionate, and you look up at the stupid, French bastard. England is already murmuring swear words under his breath, his whole body shaking as he tries to contain himself from running up here and kicking France in his overused baby maker.

But France looks entirely sweet, dressed in the correct attire.

"I am sorry…for what I've done to you," he whispers the correct lines, and he takes your hand gently, pulling you to your feet. "How can you ever find it within your heart to forgive me? I've been a fool, Amelia, letting the world choose my path, but I know it now…you're the one I really want." He drops to his knee as your hand flies over your heart, like you're supposed to, except this is real. He pulls out a ring, and he utters the words, "Amelia…will you marry me?"

"Yes," you say, and he slides the ring into your left ring finger before standing you and pulling you into his embrace, placing his lips on yours.

Soft and sweet, yet passionate. Delicious.

This kiss is everything you imagined it would be.

During rehearsal, your cast member and you simply pretended to kiss. Tonight was supposed to be the real thing.

But you are kissing Francis instead, as if you are one of his little girls, as if he truly dotes on you.

And yes, it may just be pretend, but for the moment, you don't care.

And the evil Lord takes his cue, rushing onto stage and "stabbing" your lover. Francis does his job convincingly, and as you are "dragged" off stage, you're suddenly left feeling empty, realizing the kiss is simply another of France's stupid antics.

***

You're no longer conscientious; as soon as you see the stupid bastard after the play, you rush up to him, fist curled, and you sock him right in the beautiful, blue eye.

"You ass!" you scream, but on you, it is still barely above a whisper. "What did you do, stealing my first kiss like that?"

"But I love you," he tells you, letting everyone in the room here it.

"Stop being such a womanizer," you blurt, and you push him to the floor. "I'm not your toy, Francis, and tonight completely crossed the line."

"But I love you," he repeats, but he is losing that gaudy edge he always has.

"No, you don't. Stop lying to me."

And then he stands, grabbing you by the shoulder and smashing his lips against yours. "But I love you," he growls against your lips before kissing you again. The stubble of his chin brushes against yours, tickling you. "All the other girls? They were only there until you finally realized that you loved me back. (Name) (Last name), I love you, and I want you to be my wife."

Maybe it sounds strange to your peers, who in actuality are seventeen while you're centuries old. But your heart drops as you stare at this man, and you do the most impulsive thing you've ever done before.

You say yes.