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Hetalia Paint It White! Script 2America: Okay dude's its time to kick ass! As the heroes we'll intercept their lame attack with mad skills.
America: Oh Crap!
Russia: Ha ha ha.. Now you can see what happens when you play with big unstable guns..... Or Maybe Not
China: We will stop them at Red Cliffs! ... Suck Ball! I knew fortune cookie was full of bad lie.
England: Bastards! You're dealing with a former pirate now!
France: What kind of bland is not a crime? Why do you not express any kind of individuality. Unfortunately trying to make me bland is unforgivable, so consider yourself Punished...... Noo!!
Germany: Do not allow them to come anywhere close to us. Understood?
German Men: Understood
Germany: Here they come.......
Italy: Germany! Germany! I know I say this alot, but this time i really mean it! Please Germany! Help Me! Help me! Help me! Help me!
German Man: Germany! We got trouble! The Enemy is attacking!
Germany: Ah! Why!?
America Boss: It sounds like those pranksters in Hawaii
Request: Pirate!SpainXReader"Buenas noches, mi chula." Your eyes snapped open, not even bleary after your sleep.
No. Oh, no.
He was back.
You sat up in bed, immediately covering up; you were only in your nightshift. He stood in your room, hand pressed to his arm and favoring his left leg. He grinned, though it looked more like a grimace, he was gritting his teeth so tightly.
"My crew and I require your assistance once more." When you were slow to get up, he drew his sword and held it up to your chest.
"Lo siento, I'm not feeling the most patient at this moment. If you would hurry." He pressed the blade to you, the cold metal barely nicking your skin. You quickly stepped back, glaring at him. You used an angry facade to hide your frigid fear whenever he came to you.
"Claro, Antonio," you spat. He replaced his sword into his scabbard. Not even given a chance to gather anything or dress, you crept trough the foyer with him, slipping out the house. Antonio kept ahead of you, thoug
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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