Since you reblog it sometimes, I’m curious about your opinion on scotfran? Do you think they dated or had flings before England and France got together, or do you just ship it as well as fruk?
Kind of answered here but I'll dig more into it
I don't think nations are monogamous for a start, more that they will drift about and share intimacy with more than one person at a time without any defining, strict labels. For England France especially, I like them not because they’re ‘destined to be’ or are perfect together, but because their lives are so long entwinned that they have an intimacy and depth to them that I find very appealing and interesting.
But France has also shared a similar intimacy and history with Scotland and has at times been with him against England or, like today, all on good terms. France is not England’s alone and never has been at any point, but England and France have a well-worn respect and affection for each other that’s hard to entirely scrub away, no matter how bad the blood between them becomes. They’re drawn to each other against all odds but a defined, strict relationship in the sense that we see monogamous ones to be just wouldn’t work. Even if France chose England over Scotland or anyone else, it would only ever be for a time, never forever, and vice versa- all of them know it. It entirely depends on the point in time, the recent politics and actions they’ve taken, and what mindset they have. Sometimes England has been bitter and selfish and smug, and other times he’s been reflective and calm and openminded. Sometimes France has been vain and controlling and dismissive, other times he’s been, softer, more laid back, and a keen listener.
Sometimes Scotland suits France best and sometimes England does. It's whoever matches the other person best until that once again changes, as it inevitably will.
For scotfran then, I love it! It's cute and adorable and just as complicated. I think too that it was going on before, after, and during time periods that England and France were together as that's just the way of these immortal dirt creatures. Too many years alive and only a few of them about on the planet makes for lonely nights and forces a openness about what counts as a 'relationship'
As for me, I like writing stories of Francis and Arthur together because that's my favourite personality and relationship dynamic to explore but scotfran just as incredible and I once again cannot help but recommend checking out @senditothemoonn for their perfect scotfran art that makes my heart all soft and gooey
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[Ficlet] 2. Reindeer | the prancing and pawing of each little hoof
ScotFran, French melodrama, and some notable Scottish wildlife. With slight apologies to Edinburgh’s Christmas market - which is lovely, but really had too short a loop of Christmas-related songs playing on my last visit, so the Disney ear-worms played on endless repeat .
It is a somewhat depressing state of affairs that nothing else in France’s life truly expresses his… attachment to the Nation of Scotland better than the fact that he, La République Française, in this modern day and age, actually owns a pair of hiking boots that have suffered actual wear and tear. And that the soles of said hiking boots - as stylish as France could find and that Scotland did not scoff too loudly at for being ‘flimsy pieces of shite that’ll fall apart in the first puddle’ - are currently covered in a mixture of snow, mud, and reindeer shit.
France takes a moment in the middle of this miniature mountain Scotland, their guide and the group around them are currently dragging him up to take a breather, lifting up one of his boots and dolefully regarding the sorry state of its underside.
It is worse than he thought. The soles of his boots are coated in snow, mud, and fresh reindeer shit.
“Le romantisme est mort.” Along with France’s dreams of olfactory peace.
Around him, Cairngorm National Park is a picture of beauty. They are three hours out from Edinburgh and the abuse of Disney’s Do You Wanna Build A Snowman? in its Christmas market, the music and chatter of crowds replaced with the sound of the wind and the rolling chirps of snow buntings going about their business. Bright, flashing lights and holiday sales have given way to the long range of the Cairngorms and their persistent streaks of snow, the deep dark green of the Caledonian Forest broken up in the valleys only by the glittering rivers and the flashes of movement that are birds in flight, the occasional grazing deer.
“My face is frozen,” France announces to the world at large, sniffing away the cold in his nose once his foot and its sticky coating has been placed safely out of smelling distance on the ground once more. “I shall never be able to use it again.”
“Your mouth’s still going,” says Scotland with the precise lack of sympathy that always makes France wonder why he ever bothers kissing the other man. Scotland does make a rather effective windblock when he stops beside France, dependably, attractively, solid, but, considering he is the reason France is even being exposed to the wind in the first place, it makes an exceedingly poor redeeming feature. “We’ll worry when that stops.”
“Écosse,” France complains, but all the words that might’ve followed it are lost when his mouth is suddenly obstructed by cloth - the heavy weight of Scotland’s scarf, taken straight from Scotland’s neck and looped thrice around France’s by Scotland’s steady hands, tail ends now flapping behind France’s shoulders.
“Better?” Scotland asks him, his grin as lopsided as the collar of his disturbed coat.
France considers it. The scarf is a terribly ugly thing that seems to be hoping it can pass for some shade of the colour green, knitted inexpertly with lumps and bobbles in the loops. There is, however, no-one on in the National Park to see France wearing the thing apart from Scotland, a few humans, and some reindeer, and it is a very long and thick scarf, warm against the wind from Scotland’s body-heat and still smelling of the anise and fragrant woodsmoke of Scotland’s aftershave.
France buries his - frozen - face in it, feeling his damp breath heat his cheeks, and deigns to reach out and grasp the solid comfort of Scotland’s hand. “Merci bien.”
If he dies on this mountain hike, his corpse will be iced to the arm of the one responsible for his death, and Scotland may carry him home.
Scotland squeezes his fingers back, and pretends to be very interested in the shapes of the clouds overhead.
They continue on to the reindeer like that, hand-in-hand with the rest of their group up to the plateaux of the Cairngorms to see the UK’s only free-roaming herd. The reindeer shit grows more common the closer they get to the animals - France is beyond wincing at the awful squish underfoot at this point -, but it is a forgiveable sacrifice to be able to move amongst the herd, gloves peeled off to let velvet reindeer muzzles bury themselves in their palms for guide-approved treats.
“Oh,” says France, and has to resist bending forward to kiss the - female, according to the guide, because France cannot tell at all when they all have antlers - reindeer which currently has its muzzle buried in his hands on its gentle head. He does not wish to end this trip with antlers to his already abused face. “Oh, but you are perfect.”
Having already taken pictures on his phone (how does he even get signal out here?), Scotland strokes along the same reindeer’s back. “Even though you had to take a hike to see her?”
“You think I am going to try and tell a reindeer where to live?” France scoffs. “In December? Think of the outcry in the stables of Père Noël.”
“...You think all the French reindeer are going to threaten strike action?”
“Écosse, do not make me stop cuddling the reindeer to come around there and hit you.”
So, can you pleaaaaaaaase make some headcanons for Scotfran? It’ll be greatly appreciated, dude
My dude… MY DUDE!!!! Low key ScotFran is like.. one of my otps. Auld Alliance pair!!!!
So they first met and started interacting because England is a jerk face.
Not for any real reason? Scotland just doesn’t like England and France has that whole rival thing going on.
Allistor had fallen head over heels too fast too soon.
Francis knew and just thought it was super cute and decided it wouldn’t be bad to have someone around to just.. have around?
But Allistor’s feelings did run true and deep and regardless of how flippant Francis was about such feelings, didn’t care.
He’s very passionate and loyal. So Francis didn’t feel the same, who cares? He did that’s for sure.
It took a lot of him going to Francis’s aid, without expecting anything in return, for Francis to really see how much Allistor cared for him.
Allistor just shrugged when asked why he put so much effort in. No one needed answers.
After some fights and wars, Francis really really gave Allistor that chance, dinners, dates, time together, anything.
It made him so enamored with how just, pleasant Allistor would be with him.
Compared to how Scotland would act with his brothers, even after getting along with them more so in the past few years, he doesn’t treat people as well as he does Francis.
Gosh he swoons for Francis and would get that stupid smitten smile on his face and would casually flip off his brothers for making fun of him.
Francis just loves the fact that he can just have Allistor around, for hugs, kisses, body guarding, anything.
Francis makes their food, refuses to let Allistor touch his kitchen, or any kitchen.
Cuddle fiends, PDA, touchy touchy touchy.
It’s so gross, and the thing is they would totally get a room if they could but sometimes restrictions are necessary.
Allistor braids Francis’s hair sometimes, it’s always water-fallish and cute and really well done.
One time Francis connected the freckles on Allistor’s back and maybe have turned him blue with the marker because so. many. freckles.
They read poetry to each other every so often, they each love the other’s accent very much.
When Allistor is drunkish, he gets sappy and touchy and ready to fight anyone who even looks in Francis’s direction.
They smoke every so often. Allistor does it more but sometimes Francis will join him just to have that soft peaceful moment in the nightlight.
Allistor has definitely beaten people up defending Francis, from even stupid petty shit like they didn’t think his outfit looked it’s best.
Francis has in turn down petty blackmail to those who oppose his beautiful Scotsman.
Look they’re just really cute okay??
Bonus NSFW
They have so much sex holy shit.
There is not a single thing Francis could do to Allistor in a sexual manner that would not turn him on.
A tiny bit of Scotland/France. Romance Nations are melodramatic pains in the ass when they’re cold.
France sniffs. It’s a loud sniff, almost managing to sound like an unintentional sniffle, but it’s the seventh sniff in half as many minutes, each one more melodramatic and pointed than the last.
After the third sniff, Scotland had given up on offering his guest a tissue. Instead, he bites the inside of his cheek and waits for the sniff to come to its perfectly planned end, before asking: “Should I put the fire on?”
Busy huddling up in two of Scotland’s least threadbare blankets on Scotland’s sofa, his floaty hair mussed up by static and his hands cradling his fourth cup of hot tea like it is baby Jesus reborn, France looks at him. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
Scotland puts the fire on. The heating is already on, and the kettle and teapot still hot to touch, but France still shivers under all his layers like a man with fever.
“I feel like I shall never be warm again,” he moans when Scotland rejoins him on the sofa, pressing himself in close to Scotland’s side when Scotland curls an arm around him and resting his head on Scotland’s shoulder. His hair tickles where it slips over Scotland’s collarbone.
Normally, Scotland would have very little to complain about France draping himself all over him, but right now France’s shudders keep jolting against Scotland’s ribs, and the Frenchman is dangerously close to upsetting his tea over both their laps. “You ken this is supposed to be one of our mildest winters yet?”
France just hikes up his blankets further, cocooning himself and Scotland in tartan and fluff.
Scotland feels warm. And smothered.
“I was too beautiful for this world,” France groans, somewhere under one of the blankets. And then sniffs again - this time possibly genuinely.
“And yet you’ve still got to suffer it with the rest of us,” says Scotland, lifting said blanket so he can actually see France’s face again. If the beautiful ponce is determined to die wailing in his arms, the least he can do is let Scotland see it to commit it to memory. “Are ye gonna drink that tea, or just continue to cuddle it like a newborn?”
France frowns at him - an expression that hardly shakes the heavens when his cheeks are blotchy and his nose is going red. “Écosse, you are horribly unsympathetic.”
“Probably,” Scotland agrees. It’s a charge that has been levelled at him on numerous occasions in the past, and he’s liable to have it levelled at him again in the future. “But it’s fine right now, isn’t it, as long as I’m warm?”
France thumps him in the ribs with a closed fist, trying for high and mighty with his stolen blankets slipping off his shoulders like a prince’s cloak. Firelight on his blond hair gilds him half a crown. “You are not,” he says snootily, “even doing a very good job at that.”
“I could get up and leave you sitting here alone,” Scotland suggests.
He gets thumped again for that - but France lies down again, and there’s a quiet slurp as he begins to drink his tea.
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Word Count: 2152
Characters: Fem!Portugal (Isabela/Isa), Fem!France (Charlotte), Prussia, Spain, Scotland (Jack), England, mentions of Netherlands (Lars), America, and North and South Italy
Pairings: PortEng, ScotFran, mentions of Netherlands/Spain
TW: Swearing and Alcohol mention
Isa’s seashell raft is here
“So, how did you manage to get an invite to this place? Antonio hasn’t invited you before…” Charlotte asked, gracefully taking a seat next to Isabela on the back balcony of Antonio’s beach house.
“He actually invites me every summer, I’m just usually sailing around the Caribbean,” Isa said, swirling the fruit around her glass of sangria.
“So why aren’t you out there this year?”
“Arthur said they were having a family gathering, which I would assume is why you’re alone, too.”
“Jack did mention something about a camping trip…”
“Camping? Oh good god, Arthur’s going to murder someone. He hates camping.”
“Jack absolutely lives for it. I don’t mind joining him, as long as there’s a spa trip at the end of it for me, but – with all of them together? Arguing and lighting things on fire when they’re drunk?”
“Yeah, hard pass. I only like that last part, and only with Arthur.”
Charlotte laughed lightly at that, taking a sip of her wine. “You two… you’ve always been a strange pair. A good one, but still. Strange.”
“We’re not really a pair, though – we’re friends, that’s it. Besides, you and Scotty – that’s weirder.”
“You’re trying to deflect, Isabela. If you and Arthur are just friends, I’ll eat my hat. And Jack and I balance each other out – I get him out in the world, interacting with people; he keeps me from… going too far off the rails, on my bad days. Plus, he’s great at carrying my shopping.”
“I’m not deflecting! We really are just friends.”
“But you don’t want to be, right?”
Isa sighed loudly, slumping in her chair and groaning. “Fuuuuuuck. Am I really that obvious?”
“Only to anyone who’s really looking, dear. You normally hide it very well.”
“So. Everyone knows, then?”
“Knows what?” Gilbert demanded, leaning on the back of Charlotte’s chair.
“That she’s in love with Arthur,” she said, making Isa groan more.
“Oh. Yeah, everybody knows. Except for Arthur. And maybe America, kid’s an enigma,” Gil said, sipping from an enormous bottle of apple juice.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Christ. I hate everything.”
“I mean, it could be worse. Arthur could know and, y’know, not like you back.”
“That’s definitely true,” Charlotte interjected.
“I hate both of you,” Isa growled, grabbing her glass and storming off.
“So. She has no idea that he’s been desperately in love with her since, oh, I dunno, forever?” Gil said
“None. The two of them really need help,” Charlotte sighed. “Did you bring me any food?”
“The Italies have taken over the kitchen, I’m not allowed in. They said you are, though, as long as you make dessert. Are we gonna meddle? I love meddling.”
“Isabela won’t respond well to that, and dear, sweet Arthur will react even worse.”
“So… I should definitely get Antonio to help us, then.”
“Yes.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Isa! Dinner’s almost ready, why are you in the pool?” Antonio shouted from the door, running up to the edge of the pool before dropping down and dipping his feet in.
“I wanted to break out my new pool raft, and nobody else was in here to bug me,” Isa said, taking a swig from a mason jar she was holding. “How soon is everything gonna be ready?”
“Lovino said about 10, 15 minutes? I saw you from the window, I thought you might want to get changed before then.”
“Nah, I’m good. A little drunk, maybe, but good otherwise.”
“Well, okay. I like the seashell though! You look like a sea goddess or something, it’s a good look.”
“Thanks, that’s what I was going for. You sticking around, or are you gonna go set the table or something?”
“Sticking around, I guess! Charlie and Gil are setting the table. It’s some kind of fish for dinner, and I think risotto? And Charlie made crème brulee for dessert.”
“Nice, I love crème brulee. So what’s up, then?”
“Well, Charlie and Gil were talking – you and England –”
“Oh, god, don’t you start. I know you don’t like him –”
“He’s not good enough for you!”
“That’s not the point, Toñio! If you guys are planning on meddling in my love life – or lack thereof, even a little bit –”
“We’re not! I just want you to be happy, and I don’t think he’ll make you happy,” Antonio whined, kicking his feet in the water and pouting. “He hasn’t so far, really.”
“He has, actually. Just not in the way I want,” Isa sighed, moving to the edge of her raft and kicking her way to the edge of the pool.
“And you should get what you want! If he’s going to be an ass, he doesn’t deserve you.”
“He doesn’t know, okay? He doesn’t know, and I don’t want him to. Things are good right now, I don’t want to break the status quo.”
“Well, okay. But – you should know. Wales apparently lit their tents on fire, so their camping trip ended early. England and Scotland will be here sometime tomorrow.”
“… I wish I could say I was surprised. Is there an extra room for Arthur, then? I thought we were full up.”
“We are! He’s staying in your room,” Antonio said cheerfully, getting up and stretching. “It’s the only one with a pullout couch in it. I hope that’s not a problem?”
“No, not at all! But I hope Lars dumps your ass again,” Isa said viciously, downing the rest of her drink.
“You’re so mean to me, and I have done absolutely nothing to deserve it!”
“You absolutely do deserve it. And tell Gilbert if even thinks about using my raft I will personally kick his ass from here to next Tuesday.”
“Tell him yourself at dinner.”
“Yeah, okay.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“I don’t see why we had to rent a car. I’m sure that someone could have picked us up,” Arthur said from the passenger seat, frowning intently.
“And what if one of us wants to get out of the house for a couple hours?” Jack asked, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.
“I’m sure Isabela would let me drive her car, or scooter, or – whatever she brought!”
“Okay, what if I want to get out of the house for a few hours, then? I used my own damn money, quit bitching about the rental car. And quit taking advantage of Izzie, she deserves better than that.”
“I’m not – I’m not taking advantage of her!”
“Just because you’re not fucking her doesn’t mean you’re not taking advantage of her! She’d do just about anything for you, and you take advantage of that fact.”
“I – how dare you! I wouldn’t – she isn’t – why are you like this?” Arthur spluttered, turning bright red up to the tips of his ears.
“Because you’re an idiot.”
“I am not!”
“Are too, idiot. You’re in love with her, and you should ask her out. Watching you two dance around each other is exhausting.”
“She’s not interested in me like that! I’m – I’m too fussy, too boring for her!”
“Both of those things are true, but you should ask her out anyway.”
“I’m not going to risk ruining our friendship over it. She’ll find someone better than me, anyway.”
“Like who? There’s only so many of us, and she hasn’t got many friends. Hard to, when you’ve burnt as many bridges as she has in her quest for empire. Your crazy matches hers, in a way, just do everyone a favor and ask her out.”
“What – what do you mean, do everyone a favor? You don’t mean –”
“Everyone knows, Arthur. Everyone except for her. The way you look at her, act around her – it’s like she hangs the stars in the sky.”
“She doesn’t see me like that, though! I’m not – I’m not good enough for her. Please don’t bring it up while we’re there.”
Jack rolled his eyes and sighed, but eventually nodded. “Fine. I won’t bring it up,” he lied, pulling into the driveway.
“Thank you.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Artie! Oh my god, you’re here, I missed you so much!” Gil yelled from Isa’s raft middle of the pool, waving his beer in the air.
“Why are you sitting in a giant inflatable seashell?” Arthur asked as he came down the stairs, looking at Gil in confusion.
“It’s Isa’s, I’m using it to piss her off. It’s super comfy, though, do you want to sit on it with me? There’s definitely room, plus it makes you feel like a mermaid princess when you sit on it.”
“I’ll pass, thank you. You should get off of that before Isabela hurts you.”
“Meh, she won’t do shit to me, Antonio has a no-fighting rule and he’s super strict about it. Now c’mon, be a mermaid princess with me! You know you wanna.”
“I don’t want anything of the kind, Gilbert.”
“Fine, take the donut one then, see if I care.”
Two hours later, Isa emerged from her room and came outside, still yawning a little before she finally noticed Gil was on her seashell. “PRUSSIA! What the fuck did I say about using my seashell?”
“Antonio said no fighting! Besides, what would Arthur think if he saw you trying to kick my ass?” he asked,
“That you would deserve it, because you’re an asshole with no respect for other people’s stuff?”
“She’s not wrong,” Arthur said from the donut ring, looking a very grumpy and sunburnt. “You wouldn’t even let me go and properly unpack my things. You barely let me go to the bathroom to change into my swimsuit.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re staying in her room and she was still asleep, because she doesn’t function like a normal person. Besides, I was lonely.”
“You’re up before dawn every day, and I’m on vacation! If I wanna sleep in, I’m gonna sleep in!” Isa yelled, scowling heavily.
“Whatever! Ugh, you guys are boring and lame, I’m gonna go bug Lutzchen,” Gil said, rolling off the raft and swimming to the stairs, before getting out of the pool and walking away.
“Do you think I’m allowed out of this floatie now?” Arthur asked, poking at the pink plastic. “I’d really like to go and unpack my things.”
“You could’ve unpacked them while I was asleep, y’know. When did you get in?”
“About… two and a half hours ago, if the sun is anything to go by. I didn’t want to disturb your sleep by moving things around.”
“I can sleep through just about anything, you know that,” she said before jumping onto her raft and sighing contentedly as she settled in. “Did Buttface Mcgillicutty let you put on sunscreen before you got in? You’re starting to look a little like a lobster.”
“What? Oh – bollocks!” he swore, looking down at his chest and legs before blushing. “Pardon my language.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Did you bring aloe vera with you, though? I’ll steal Gil’s if you didn’t.”
“No, I brought my own.”
“Can I steal Gil’s anyway? I really want to.”
“No, because you’re not a child anymore. Stealing things is beneath you.”
Isa snorted with laughter before beaning him with the pearl beach ball. “No, it’s not.”
“No, you’re right, it’s not,” he sighed, wincing when it hit him in the head. “But can’t I hold out some hope that you’ll eventually grow up?”
“Nah, that’s dumb. You like me just the way I am.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Ow! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Arthur hissed as he tried to pull his t-shirt on over his sunburnt skin. “Why did I let Gilbert convince me coming in the pool for hours was a good idea?”
“Because he’s like, your best dude friend or something, and you don’t like saying no to friends,” Isa said, pulling a bottle of aloe vera gel out of Arthur’s suitcase. “You could’ve gotten out when I initially pointed out you were sunburned.”
“I didn’t want to leave you on your own, though.”
“I would’ve been okay, Arthur. You look like a well cooked lobster, you’re gonna be in so much pain.”
“I’m already in pain. Just – give me the aloe vera, please? I can put it on myself.”
“You burned your back, too, you’re not gonna be able to do it all yourself. Besides, it’s at least partially my fault,” she said, squirting some gel onto her hand and massaging it onto his back.
“It really isn’t,” Arthur insisted, gasping with a little bit of pain and then sighing with relief when the gel hit his skin. “Oh, Christ. That feels amazing.”
“Yeah, I figured. You want me to get you some ice to cool your skin down, after this?”
“I’ll see how this sets in, thanks, but – you don’t have to take care of me, you know. I’m sure they’d appreciate your help with lunch.”
“Lunch is usually just sandwiches or something small, they don’t need my help.”
“Are you sure?”
“Just – shut up and let me help you, okay? It’s not gonna kill you.”
Tiny bit of scotfran femslash bc I wanted a short break from the usual ships. Marianne’s f!France. Jaime’s f!Scotland.
Pins out, Marianne’s hair unspools like ribbons from its chignon. It doesn’t tumble down so much as it slinks, all smooth slipperiness flowing down over her shoulders and upper back like silk - an effect Jaime couldn’t manage even if she used up a bloody store’s worth of hair products, some complicated illusion-work, and half a dozen boons owed her from the less tricksy Wee Folk that drink half her weekly supply of milk.
The zipper on the back of Marianne’s short blue dress can come down just as easily - but doesn’t, because Marianne likes other people to unzip it for her, all fluttering lashes back at Jaime over her shoulder, gathering her silky dark gold hair all to one side to bare her nape. “A little hand please, mon coeur?”
Helpless to do anything but oblige when Marianne requests things so prettily, Jaime does as asked, stepping close against the other woman’s back to take the ridiculously tiny zipper in much larger hand and gently - God, years of helping Marianne undress has taught Jaime gently is best when handling French fashion or some hideously expensive sneeze of material will tear in her hands - pull down. Zippers are better than laces. The years of women being laced in at the back had made Jaime want to cry on more than one occasion. Cry, and French outrage be damned, hack at tangled silken knots and unforgiving steel and whalebone with a claymore. (A woman like Marianne wearing fashionable clothing blessed with zippers - rather than some other torturously difficult and delicate closing device - could make a woman like Jaime rediscover religion again.)
Down goes the zipper, parting blue cloth with pale smooth skin. A night-time loch cut by moonlight, a cloud of dark lace Marianne’s bra. Black bra and matching knickers, because the sleeveless dress slides off down Marianne’s shoulder, over her breasts, hips, and in a puddle around her heels on Jaime’s bedroom floor, leaving a great deal on show that Jaime doesn’t do a very successful job of not looking at - mostly, in her defence, because Marianne does this effortless-looking little pivot. Thing. That would definitely have Jaime or any of her siblings tripping over themselves or their discarded clothing (definitely, because Jaime’s seen Elaine try it whilst rat-arsed in public and immediately face-plant into the flooring), and that just as definitely has Marianne stepping out of her clothes and up - very up - into Jaime’s space, so that looking down at the shorter woman gives Jaime an enviable view of Marianne’s special brand of connivingly seductive (or seductively conniving, it’s hard to tell) smile and cleavage.
Marianne wraps her arms around Jaime’s neck, enveloping Jaime in smile and skin and the musky notes of her perfume.
Jaime feels hot, and, still wearing her pants-suit from their dinner. Out. Together. Feels pretty overdressed.
Marianne must see something in Jaime’s face, because her smile hesitates slightly. “...Is this alright, mon coeur?”
This is-
Well, it’s.
“...You have matching underwear on,” says Jaime, and then immediately gives herself a good mental kick up the backside the moment the words leave her lips because fucking really.
“...Oui?” Marianne is giving her a careful look.
Careful looks can start wars. And dreaded shopping trips to Paris.
Jaime is on delicate ground. She settles her hands somewhat cautiously on Marianne’s hips, a little overcome by the feeling of warm skin and lace underneath her palms and trying not to dig her nails into any of it. “...Is it true what they say, about women when they wear matching underwear?”
The careful look now has a finely-plucked arched eyebrow added to it. “...You have never worn matching underwear?”
...Jaime isn’t certain she even has any matching underwear. It’s hard enough matching her socks most days since both the washing machine and a kelpie that wanders through her garden on occasion likes to eat them. “Uh.”
Marianne seems to hear everything that Jaime doesn’t say with that uh loud and clear, because she sighs, a great heave of breath that raises and drops her shoulders - and her bosom with them, her breasts dropping heavily against Jaime’s front with a soft presence that makes Jaime’s mind get abruptly very, very distracted.
Jaime sways, realises she’s swaying into Marianne and. Well, doesn’t really stop, because she can smell Marianne’s perfume and whatever the stuff is Marianne used to make her hair so silky the closer she gets, and Marianne’s smile returns. Magnetic.
“Would you like to find out?” Marianne offers, suave enough for the both of them, and Jaime doesn’t have to have the slightest bit of eloquence to get across her enthusiasm for the proposal with a fervent aye.
If you are new to this story, read the prologue first.
I’m gonna keep the chapters short, so that I can fire them out quicker. I’m writing chapter 2 now!
Chapter One
Bad Kitty
It had been exactly one month since he moved in, and more often than not, he would become irritated at some point in the day. Francis had always been a complainer, but his lifestyle was becoming increasingly harder, now that he had a feline nemesis to tiptoe around. He became grouchy, and ended up ditching the facade after about a week and gave Alisdair an earful about how rude the cat was. In which, he responded: “It’s not that I don’t believe you it’s just… I don’t understand, she’s such a good girl, she would never do that to you!”
Screams ensued from Francis, and Alisdair slept on the couch that night. Much to Senga’s delight, as her bed was in the living room.
They make jokes about that first, pointless argument as a married couple. Francis still feels guilty for taking his anger out on the other, but Alisdair shrugs it off as ‘proof of their old age’. Still, he promised to try and solve the problem as best as he could.
“It’s so weird, I’ve never heard of her acting this way before,” he leaned back in his desk chair, pondering about his now-violent cat. He had sat down after separating the two, as Senga decided it would be funny to tug the Frenchman’s hair. He put her outside, believing it was a suitable enough punishment. Instead, this just gave her the opportunity to freely roam and hunt birds and mice to bring back for him. “I think she might be jealous.”
“No shit, that cat makes your brother look like he’s got manners.”
Somewhere, in a bar in London, a drunken man laughs as he cracks a demeaning joke about the old Spanish empire, to which his American drinking buddy rolls his eyes and proceeds to sip his Jack. Before the Englishman could ramble on, he chokes on his drink and frantically suffers a coughing fit.
“Jeeeesus shit, Artie, are you alright?!” He gasped, as he began slamming a strong hand on Arthur’s back.
“B-Bloody hell, Alfred!” He managed to wheeze out after being practically beaten on the back. After a moment of recollection, he let out a breath of relief.
“What was that all about?”
“I felt like I could sense some wanker talking about me,” he twitched in disgust, unaware that his superstitiousness was in fact spot on.
Alisdair burst out laughing, wholeheartedly agreeing on the fact that the statement was true. “Don’t compare my precious baby to that wanker, it’s offensive on her behalf.”
“Precious baby?” Francis mocked, as he let out a groan in annoyance. He scrunched up a sheet of paper into a ball and threw it at Alisdair. “If you love that cat so much, why didn’t you marry it instead?!”
Alisdair swung around in his chair, avoiding the oncoming ‘attack’. He chuckled as he stood up, swiftly rugby tackling his lover onto the couch, an act they would always partake in as a form of ‘bonding’. “Simple, It is because I’m gay. I don’t like pussy, that’s why I married you.”
“You have a joke for anything, don’t you?” He rolled his eyes at his shit joke, pouting up at the other as he pinned him down. There were no more words after that, as their lips were sealed with a kiss.