#scotfran

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'

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?”

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.

//forever makes francis’ waist too small

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.

Day 5: Refreshment

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

  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?”

Pairing(s): ScotFra, slight USUK.

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.”