pishposh-777

"I hate the way they talk about you." (Name) locked eyes with the Frenchman, her gaze unwavering and fixated completely on him. "I hate the way they look at you. They don't know you like I know you. They all just need to learn their place and shut up. Why don't you ever tell them off, Francis?" Francis Bonnefois merely smiled softly and shrugged, his crystalline blue eyes not quite looking into the (h/c) haired young woman's own (e/c) ones. "Because I do not see the need to, mon amour. I don't exactly mind, you see. Let them think what they want. As long as I have you, everything is perfectly fine to me." (Name) petulantly crossed her arms

      "Are there anymore…?" You ask him, referring to his countless injuries. There are no life-threatening wounds, but the fact that he's hurt bothers you to begin with. You hate it when Alfred gets hurt. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, you can't help but want to lock him away from all the dangers of the world, keeping him safe from any harm. "No, you got all of them, [Name]. I owe you big time."       You nod, stomach churning and flipping around. America sits on the couch with a small slouch, most of his body covered in bandages. His left eye is quite the shiner and throbs whenever its touched. "Who did this to you?" You que