Poems FranceXReader

You nervously looked left and right before taking a seat at the world meeting. You were rather jumpy today but you had an excellent reason to be. France.

You didn't think he was a bad guy, but he could get a little over passionate at times. And while it was rather amusing when he did it to other countries, it made you a bit uncomfortable. "Honhonhon!" The one who laughed this rather perverted laugh was sitting next to you. You turned to look at him and came face-to-face with a rather handsome man with thick, wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes that held a sparkle of passion.

 "Hello France." You greeted before turning your attention over to Germany, who was trying to get the other countries to shut up and failing miserably. You heard furious scribbling beside you and a neatly written note was placed in front of you.

You shot the grinning blond a curious glance before reading his neat, cursive writting:

Roses are red,

Violets are fine,

I'll be six,

If you'll be nine,

Your entire face exploded in red. That-that-that pervert! Violently flipping the paper over, you snatched your pencil and began to write; France wasn't the only poet here! When you finished, you shot him a glare before slamming the paper down in front of hi. His eyesbrows raised and a smile of mock confusion playing on his lips, he silently picked the paper up with his slender fingers and read:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Thanks for the offer,

But I won't screw you,

His reaction to this surprised you; instead of the anger you'd expected, he started laughing; I mean, full blown, slamming his fists on the table laughter. Which kind of surprised you; when he laughed, he usually boomed that perverted "honhonhon!". You'd never heard him really laugh before. Still laughing, the Frenchman wrote his reply to this and passed it over to you. You read it:

Roses are red,

Russia hates snow,

For your information,

I wasn't just saying that you know,

Your face went a little redder at this. Ok, so admitably, France was pretty good with poems. And flustering the hell out of people. You felt strong arms wrap around you as a certain Frenchman whispered in your ear. "Roses aren't orange, neither is the sky. Just so you know, my poems never lie."

 Your blush was starting to become redder than Spain's tomatos. You took back what you'd previosly said; perverted wasn't a strong enough word to describe France.

 Sexy was a damn good one, though.