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hetalia2011-08-05 07:55 pm
cattiechaos.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2011-08-05 07:55 pm
Entry tags:
False Advertising - Part 1 & 2
Title: False Advertising
Author: Cattiechaos
Genre: Humor/General
Pairings: Slight France/England
Rating: T for sexual references
Summary: Arthur Kirkland needed a maid. He got Francis instead.
Part One
On the exterior, Arthur Kirkland was the picture of the perfect gentleman. He prized order, sensibility, and chivalry – the qualities of any civilized member of society. These days, the only thing that could get under his skin was a particularly confounding piece of legislation, or Francis, or Alfred. (For what it mattered, Francis and Alfred had always managed to get under his skin, and that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon.) He dressed impeccably, his Parliament office was immaculate, and yet, under it all, he harbored a dirty secret.
His apartment looked as if it were in a state of a post-apocalyptic meltdown. It was strewn with miscellaneous objects, from the miniature potted plant he had been forced to take home at the last Christmas party, to an antique bust of Mozart. A sewing kit lay half-buried underneath last week’s Financial Times and a veritable mountain of organizational folders, which was decidedly ironic. Arthur had attempted to vanquish the mess himself, but made a hasty retreat after he plunged waist-deep into a pile of conference notes from the ‘90s. Even his cat seemed to disapprove the mess, fixing Arthur with critical green orbs that seemed to say, seek professional help.
So Arthur did. He skimmed ads in the London Daily until he found a cleaning company that seemed suitable, the ad of which read:
Complete and discrete service
in your apartment, office, or anywhere you want it!
Experienced and reliable professionals
guarantee your satisfaction.
Call: 714-1789
So now Arthur was waiting, sitting in the parlor room in his favorite chintz armchair with a copy of his favorite Dickens novel. The day seemed innocuous enough – no meetings, no conference calls, no quandaries of any sort – but Arthur had learned by now not to trust these deceptive lulls of peace.
11am came and went. By 11:03, began to grow antsy. By 11:15, he was more than a little peeved. He was just considering phoning the cleaning company when abruptly, at precisely 11:17, the doorbell rang.
He had a few choice words in mind as he strode to the doorway and pulled the door open, ready to scold the maid for her tardiness, when the words he had already been half- forming simply died in his mouth.
Arthur could have said anything. He could have said “You’re a man?” He could have said “You’re wearing a French maid’s outfit?” But what actually came out of his mouth was: “Francis?”
Part Two
“Bonjour,” Francis greeted breezily, sauntering past Arthur with a wink. “Funny running into you here, Angleterre!”
Arthur could only stare in stupefied silence. Lo and behold, Francis stood before him like Arthur’s own personal vision of hell, clad only in fishnet stockings and a skimpy French maid’s outfit complete with frills, a plunging neckline, and a white lace apron that was just barely hanging on, and Arthur didn’t want to find out if Francis was wearing underwear or not. (It was unlikely.)
“What are you doing?” Arthur said finally, easing himself into an armchair and wishing dearly that he had just taken a mop and broom to the place himself. Anything to have spared his eyes this sight.
Francis laughed merrily, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. “I should be asking the questions,” Francis retorted, almost pouting. “You’re the one who ordered a stripper.”
Arthur’s heart almost shut down then and there.
“I – I beg your pardon?” he spluttered, turning three shades redder. “A – a stripper?” Oh, why had he bothered to get out of bed this morning?
“You did call the number, didn’t you?” Francis queried, raising his eyebrows mischievously. “714-1789? You didn’t really think it was a cleaning service, did you? Mon Dieu, did you read the ad at all? Why do you think it said ‘discreet services’? What did you make of the line, ‘providing you with the little extras’? Or when it said we’d service you in your ‘apartment, office, or anywhere you want it’? It hardly sounds like a cleaning service.”
Well.
It did sound painfully obvious when Francis read it like that.
“It’s not my fault I’m not a perverted frog,” Arthur said disgustedly, rubbing his forehead. “You own a brothel?”
“Don’t insult me,” Francis sulked, tossing his golden tresses back in the most disgruntled fashion. “I haven’t had a brothel since the Moulin Rouge. For God’s sake, they’re exotic dancers, adult entertainers, if you will! We’re a huge hit at bachelor parties and the occasional bachelorette party.”
Arthur could only shake his head. “All these centuries and you still manage to amaze me. It’s outrageous.”
Francis waved his hand airily. “We offer full and discreet service, of course, but when I saw your name on the list of clientele, I couldn’t resist a personal visit...”
“And that’s why you’re dressed that way?” Arthur snorted.
“Of course. It’s for old time’s sake,” Francis replied, fluffing his apron teasingly with a self-satisfied smirk. “Does this bring back any memories, perhaps?”
“No. Nothing that hasn’t been blocked out from my mind,” Arthur replied flatly. “You understand that I still expect you to clean this apartment, right?”
Francis scoffed. “I don’t clean, Angleterre, and certainly not after the English.”
“You will clean this apartment.”
“I think not. I do not offer that kind of service. But if you’re looking for something else...” the suggestive lilt to Francis’ tone left no question as to what he was referring to.
“No,” Arthur replied emphatically, a trace of fear shadowing his expression. “Francis. What are you doing? Francis, keep that on!”
“Don’t fight it!” Francis cried dramatically, thrusting his arms out in a theatrical maneuver. “Surrender to the power of l’amour!”
“I’ve left the surrendering to you for the past few hundred years; I don’t see why I should change anything n—gah! What are you doing?!?”
“I will not be known for bad customer service, Arthur. Just close your eyes and think of England!”
“FRAAAAAAAAAAANCIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS!”
Fin.
A/N:
Francis doesn’t actually violate Arthur, by the way |D It was all just a bit of good-natured fun/psychological torture – nothing too scarring :Db. This is the last bit of humorous writing I’m doing for a while, so I’d like to hear your comments if you are inclined to provide them. Fluff/humor was fun while it lasted, but like champagne bubbles, they can’t sustain a writer forever. It’s time to go back to writing the serious, historical stories that I love most.
I based the ad off an actual cleaning service ad I found online, which had the phrase: “Providing you with the little extras”. I think they meant they’d put a mint on your pillow, and I don’t think French strippers were involved, but I still had to write this.
Did anyone notice that the phone number for France’s maid company, 714-1789 is the date of the storming of Bastille? July 14, 1789.
Author: Cattiechaos
Genre: Humor/General
Pairings: Slight France/England
Rating: T for sexual references
Summary: Arthur Kirkland needed a maid. He got Francis instead.
Part One
On the exterior, Arthur Kirkland was the picture of the perfect gentleman. He prized order, sensibility, and chivalry – the qualities of any civilized member of society. These days, the only thing that could get under his skin was a particularly confounding piece of legislation, or Francis, or Alfred. (For what it mattered, Francis and Alfred had always managed to get under his skin, and that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon.) He dressed impeccably, his Parliament office was immaculate, and yet, under it all, he harbored a dirty secret.
His apartment looked as if it were in a state of a post-apocalyptic meltdown. It was strewn with miscellaneous objects, from the miniature potted plant he had been forced to take home at the last Christmas party, to an antique bust of Mozart. A sewing kit lay half-buried underneath last week’s Financial Times and a veritable mountain of organizational folders, which was decidedly ironic. Arthur had attempted to vanquish the mess himself, but made a hasty retreat after he plunged waist-deep into a pile of conference notes from the ‘90s. Even his cat seemed to disapprove the mess, fixing Arthur with critical green orbs that seemed to say, seek professional help.
So Arthur did. He skimmed ads in the London Daily until he found a cleaning company that seemed suitable, the ad of which read:
in your apartment, office, or anywhere you want it!
Experienced and reliable professionals
guarantee your satisfaction.
Call: 714-1789
So now Arthur was waiting, sitting in the parlor room in his favorite chintz armchair with a copy of his favorite Dickens novel. The day seemed innocuous enough – no meetings, no conference calls, no quandaries of any sort – but Arthur had learned by now not to trust these deceptive lulls of peace.
11am came and went. By 11:03, began to grow antsy. By 11:15, he was more than a little peeved. He was just considering phoning the cleaning company when abruptly, at precisely 11:17, the doorbell rang.
He had a few choice words in mind as he strode to the doorway and pulled the door open, ready to scold the maid for her tardiness, when the words he had already been half- forming simply died in his mouth.
Arthur could have said anything. He could have said “You’re a man?” He could have said “You’re wearing a French maid’s outfit?” But what actually came out of his mouth was: “Francis?”
Part Two
“Bonjour,” Francis greeted breezily, sauntering past Arthur with a wink. “Funny running into you here, Angleterre!”
Arthur could only stare in stupefied silence. Lo and behold, Francis stood before him like Arthur’s own personal vision of hell, clad only in fishnet stockings and a skimpy French maid’s outfit complete with frills, a plunging neckline, and a white lace apron that was just barely hanging on, and Arthur didn’t want to find out if Francis was wearing underwear or not. (It was unlikely.)
“What are you doing?” Arthur said finally, easing himself into an armchair and wishing dearly that he had just taken a mop and broom to the place himself. Anything to have spared his eyes this sight.
Francis laughed merrily, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. “I should be asking the questions,” Francis retorted, almost pouting. “You’re the one who ordered a stripper.”
Arthur’s heart almost shut down then and there.
“I – I beg your pardon?” he spluttered, turning three shades redder. “A – a stripper?” Oh, why had he bothered to get out of bed this morning?
“You did call the number, didn’t you?” Francis queried, raising his eyebrows mischievously. “714-1789? You didn’t really think it was a cleaning service, did you? Mon Dieu, did you read the ad at all? Why do you think it said ‘discreet services’? What did you make of the line, ‘providing you with the little extras’? Or when it said we’d service you in your ‘apartment, office, or anywhere you want it’? It hardly sounds like a cleaning service.”
Well.
It did sound painfully obvious when Francis read it like that.
“It’s not my fault I’m not a perverted frog,” Arthur said disgustedly, rubbing his forehead. “You own a brothel?”
“Don’t insult me,” Francis sulked, tossing his golden tresses back in the most disgruntled fashion. “I haven’t had a brothel since the Moulin Rouge. For God’s sake, they’re exotic dancers, adult entertainers, if you will! We’re a huge hit at bachelor parties and the occasional bachelorette party.”
Arthur could only shake his head. “All these centuries and you still manage to amaze me. It’s outrageous.”
Francis waved his hand airily. “We offer full and discreet service, of course, but when I saw your name on the list of clientele, I couldn’t resist a personal visit...”
“And that’s why you’re dressed that way?” Arthur snorted.
“Of course. It’s for old time’s sake,” Francis replied, fluffing his apron teasingly with a self-satisfied smirk. “Does this bring back any memories, perhaps?”
“No. Nothing that hasn’t been blocked out from my mind,” Arthur replied flatly. “You understand that I still expect you to clean this apartment, right?”
Francis scoffed. “I don’t clean, Angleterre, and certainly not after the English.”
“You will clean this apartment.”
“I think not. I do not offer that kind of service. But if you’re looking for something else...” the suggestive lilt to Francis’ tone left no question as to what he was referring to.
“No,” Arthur replied emphatically, a trace of fear shadowing his expression. “Francis. What are you doing? Francis, keep that on!”
“Don’t fight it!” Francis cried dramatically, thrusting his arms out in a theatrical maneuver. “Surrender to the power of l’amour!”
“I’ve left the surrendering to you for the past few hundred years; I don’t see why I should change anything n—gah! What are you doing?!?”
“I will not be known for bad customer service, Arthur. Just close your eyes and think of England!”
“FRAAAAAAAAAAANCIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS!”
Fin.
A/N:
Francis doesn’t actually violate Arthur, by the way |D It was all just a bit of good-natured fun/psychological torture – nothing too scarring :Db. This is the last bit of humorous writing I’m doing for a while, so I’d like to hear your comments if you are inclined to provide them. Fluff/humor was fun while it lasted, but like champagne bubbles, they can’t sustain a writer forever. It’s time to go back to writing the serious, historical stories that I love most.
I based the ad off an actual cleaning service ad I found online, which had the phrase: “Providing you with the little extras”. I think they meant they’d put a mint on your pillow, and I don’t think French strippers were involved, but I still had to write this.
Did anyone notice that the phone number for France’s maid company, 714-1789 is the date of the storming of Bastille? July 14, 1789.