Strong fingers crumpled precisely pressed lapels and wrinkled a delicate silk blouse. But Frances’s ire at the damage to her clothing, which was not that formidable to begin with, was definitely eased in favor of the far too appealing expression on England’s face. The other nation’s cheeks were faintly flushed, not the crimson of anger or embarrassment or drunkenness, but a delicate hue, like the first flush of color on a spring rose, like the pale color of the silk Alana now crumpled so carelessly in her rough fingers.
How… humorous that those dark and marring arches hold such intriguing possibilities. France was willing to bet money that should those eyes open, the green would be swallowed by the blackness of dilated pupils. On a whim, she softly exhaled upon the damp skin and was rewarded by a slight shudder as a breath cooled sensitized skin. Something like a far too appealing mixture of a moan and a sigh fluttered from Alana’s parted lips and the rough fingers (so rough from gardening and needlepoint and fencing, deceptively ladylike pursuits) curled further into France’s expensive blouse, remarkably close to her breasts.
Frances considered the picture before her and saved it for posterity, though every sensual, sensuous instinct inside her urged her forwards and offered many dark and lovely pleasures. She did not know why, only that she found herself reluctantly pulling her hand from the other nation’s face. On another whim (rather mischievous this time), she leaned in to kiss right above the recently treated skin. England sighed in something like vague pleasure before her eyes shot open. Immediately, she shoved blue-eyed woman away and danced backwards, the so very pleasing flush to her cheeks now reddening garishly.
“A kiss to make it better,” winked Frances, always quick on the draw.
Alana sputtered, too flabbergasted to even curse. “Get out!” she bellowed, seizing a nearby plate and brandishing it like an Olympic discus.
With a peal of laughter, France made a judicious retreat, wiping her sticky fingers carelessly on the beautiful antique needlework picture of a unicorn by the front door as she left.
I still enjoy their banters, even when gender-switched. ^^ I like it how France doesn't actually know what touching those brows really does to England, just something subtle... =D Or maybe France DID know... But yea, anon love this!
I kept getting requests to write fem!France, because I've made reference to her in other fics with Alana. Unfortunately, fem!France is a bitch and refused to let herself be written, until this prompt. The two of them are even bitchier to each other when gender switched, frankly.
Actually, France knows quite well what touching the brows does to England at this point. She now has blackmail material. And oh dear god will that not bode well for fem!England...
Re: Tending [4/4]
anonymous
July 17 2009, 11:18:32 UTC
Oh dear. Coherent language fails me, but this was absolutely wonderful. There's not enough fem!France on this meme, and the unicorn picture is just... something England WOULD have, oh ♥
How… humorous that those dark and marring arches hold such intriguing possibilities. France was willing to bet money that should those eyes open, the green would be swallowed by the blackness of dilated pupils. On a whim, she softly exhaled upon the damp skin and was rewarded by a slight shudder as a breath cooled sensitized skin. Something like a far too appealing mixture of a moan and a sigh fluttered from Alana’s parted lips and the rough fingers (so rough from gardening and needlepoint and fencing, deceptively ladylike pursuits) curled further into France’s expensive blouse, remarkably close to her breasts.
Frances considered the picture before her and saved it for posterity, though every sensual, sensuous instinct inside her urged her forwards and offered many dark and lovely pleasures. She did not know why, only that she found herself reluctantly pulling her hand from the other nation’s face. On another whim (rather mischievous this time), she leaned in to kiss right above the recently treated skin. England sighed in something like vague pleasure before her eyes shot open. Immediately, she shoved blue-eyed woman away and danced backwards, the so very pleasing flush to her cheeks now reddening garishly.
“A kiss to make it better,” winked Frances, always quick on the draw.
Alana sputtered, too flabbergasted to even curse. “Get out!” she bellowed, seizing a nearby plate and brandishing it like an Olympic discus.
With a peal of laughter, France made a judicious retreat, wiping her sticky fingers carelessly on the beautiful antique needlework picture of a unicorn by the front door as she left.
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I still enjoy their banters, even when gender-switched. ^^ I like it how France doesn't actually know what touching those brows really does to England, just something subtle... =D Or maybe France DID know... But yea, anon love this!
-Is so not OP-
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Actually, France knows quite well what touching the brows does to England at this point. She now has blackmail material. And oh dear god will that not bode well for fem!England...
I'm glad you liked it.
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I take it you're a fan of Alana?
^_^ I'm very glad you enjoyed it.
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England made the unicorn picture herself, by the way. ;D
Thank you!
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