#scotfra
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Headcanons
#my art#scotfra#francis bonnefoy#alasdair kirkland#hws scotland#hws france#aph france#aph scotland#hetalia france#hetalia scotland#hetalia scotfra#hetalia
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allegedly scotland already exists in hetalia world series and he's a brunette (??!??!) ....so we're just gonna ignore that. anyway anybody else here read Outlander
#I COULDN'T GET BODICE RIPPER SCOTSMAN COVERS OUT OF MY HEAD#i feel like all my hetalia requests are just someone throwing me a ship and me drawing my headcanon on it without doing any research#hetalia#hetalia world series#scotfra#hws scotland#hws france#eggface art
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Congrats on 1000 followers!! If you're still taking requests, I'd go absolutely feral for some of your scotfra! I love how you write modern nationverse with where characters reminisce or philosophise about the past <33
Phi I... I strayed. Okay, I strayed way off topic because this came to me so clearly that I couldn't not write it. I hope that you like it, even though there is no nationverse philosophying ;u;
Characters: Scotland, France (ScotFra)
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Starscape
Their home hits him with unexpected force as soon as he opens the door, the brass handle cool against bare palm. The smell of their lives together, clean linen and cedar aftershave. Walls cluttered with photos, Alisdair’s large leather armchair in the corner, Francis’ collection of Vogues tucked neatly besides Alisdair’s nature books into a handmade bookcase- collected fragments of two lives turned into one. A busy, friendly, assault of the senses.
Francis is in the kitchen, warm yellow lights and background radio above the metallic clatter of their cutlery drawer.
Alisdair sloughs his coat off, drapes it over the sofa, and walks in to join him.
‘Hello there.’
Alisdair can hear Francis’ smile through the words as he hugs him tightly from behind where he is at the counter, chin to shoulder. His arms go around him to their places automatically, right hand to Francis’ left hip.
Francis tilts his head back and up to try and meet his eye, ‘Good day?’
‘It’ll do.’
Francis snorts and cups his cheek lazily with one hand, reaching to place an empty pan on the stove, ‘Better than nothing.’
‘How was yours?’ Alisdair is loath to let him go but Francis wiggles free, gently nudging him back and away to let him get on with things. Alisdair retreats to the table in the middle of the room and watches.
‘Oh, you know. Same old same old.’
‘Tell me.’
Francis gifts him with a raised eyebrow. He fills up a pot with water and sets it salted to boil. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘Do you remember that new woman from a few weeks ago?’
Alisdair casts far back in time to find the name Francis might be referring to and finds too many to filter. ‘I remember you telling me about her.’
Francis raises an eyebrow, ‘Tina.’
‘Ah. Tina.’ He had forgotten Tina.
‘I cannot understand what is driving her to-‘ Francis sighs and clicks his tongue, ‘I don’t want to judge, but-‘
Alisdair smiles, ‘Yes, you do.’
Francis waves a hand. ‘Yes, fine. I do. But still, I am aware it’s not my place to say older people can’t randomly move jobs out of nowhere, and obviously they can learn how to do something new, but it’s...’
He stops, ties his hair up, and Alisdair's smiles widens. ‘Some people are slow, and I understand. It’s irritating to train them but I understand. Everyone has their own pace, and all that. Christ, I sound like Arthur when he’s being his most pretentious.’
Alisdair wants to call his brother then and has to swallow the feeling away, eyes fixed on Francis to keep him focused.
Butter to pan, salt to onions. The smell in the air is sweet. Condensation softens the windows, fogs the dark shadows of their garden beyond the glass. Francis moves whilst he talks, stepping lightly from one task to another.
‘But she’s not just slow to train. She’s someone who keeps questioning things, rather than just learning them. “Why do it this way, that way is much better.” Or, “In my last position, we did X Y Z blah blah blah”. Horrible. Aggravating.’ Francis tips mushrooms into the pan and shakes his head, ‘Anyway. Today I found out that she didn’t just move to join the analyst team because she wanted some sort of end of career change or have a last-minute depressing existential crisis. She was asked to move down. Because she was terrible at her job.’
Francis grins at him, his smile sharp teethed and wicked, ‘No wonder she’s so picky with everything. I got the feeling that she thought that we and what we do were beneath her but now-‘
Alisdair cuts him off before he can finish. Away from the table before Francis can stop him, he presses his mouth to Francis’, then to his cheek. Cups the back of his head in his hand, kisses his neck and feels the beat of Francis’ heart jump his pulse strong against his lips.
‘Stop it.’ Francis swats at him but the gesture is half-hearted at best, ‘You’re going to make me burn dinner.’
Alisdair kisses him again, Francis’ long hair soft and undone in his hands. ‘I don’t care.’
‘I care.’
Francis never burns dinner. No matter how busy the day or how many tasks he’s doing at once, dinner is never something to be sacrificed as part of a greater good. No matter how hard Alisdair could have tried to force it, in their life burning dinner was not a thing that would ever have happened. Today is no different. Francis extracts himself just in time to save things and Alisdair lets him go, knowing he needs to in order for things to work as they should.
The taste, once Francis is done, is perfect- one of his best meals, in Alisdair’s opinion, a warm mushroom soup. Thick bread- not homemade, Francis laments, but good enough- lightly toasted and thickly buttered. Alisdair savours every bite, takes small spoonfuls to draw out the experience for as long as it can go.
After they’ve eaten, the cooking a perfect mixture of memory and longing, they retreat to the living room sofa to fall deadweight against the cushions.
‘That was too much food.’ Francis says where he sits against Alisdair’s chest, their legs together under blankets before them on the L-shaped bend. ‘We keep on eating portion sizes that are way more than we need.’
Alisdair disagrees entirely. He is slimmer now, of course, much slimmer, but Francis doesn’t seem to notice. He pats the meat of Francis’ thigh and then grips it tight, ‘We’re doing just fine.’
Francis rolls his eyes and tuts but Alisdair sees the smile in his eyes, ‘No, not that. I mean that it’s expensive.’
‘It’s doable.’
‘Not with the sheer amount of lamb that you’re eating.’
‘It’s my favourite.’
‘It’s the costliest of all of them.’ Francis smiles and reaches up an arm to play with the short hair at the nape of Alisdair’s neck, ‘This needs a cut.’
‘You said you wouldn’t cut my hair anymore.’ Alisdair reminds him. Francis’ hand is warm, so warm, and Alisdair closes his eyes. ‘You said I complain too much.’
‘You do.’
‘Only because you threatened to shave me.’
Francis laughs lightly, ‘It would suit you.’
‘Well. That's why I complained.’
Beep.
Alisdair opens his eyes.
‘Shall we watch something?’ Francis sits up for the remote on the coffee table.
‘Only if it’s not a period drama.’
Francis sighs, weary, ‘Emma is not just a period drama. I’m told it’s a brilliant film.’
Alisdair wrinkles his nose and then grins at the look Francis gives him, ‘I’m sure it is. But are you going to be able to sit there quietly and not bitch about the costume design?’
Francis blinks at him. ‘Yes,’ he says after a while, ‘Obviously.’
‘Fucking liar.’
‘I will! I won’t say anything.’
‘I’ll bet you a fucking tenner you won’t be able to stop yourself saying something.’
Francis glances at the TV, then back to him. ‘Fine,’ he says after a moment, ‘If it’s shit research, I won’t be able to help myself. But that doesn’t detract from it potentially being a very good film.’
‘Besides shit costuming.’
‘… So I’m told.’
‘But see, there you go.’ Alisdair leans forwards, ‘You’ll have a great time nonetheless but I won’t be able to focus on anything because-‘
Beep.
Alisdair wavers, ‘…because I’ll have you going off making comments all the time and I’ll forget what’s happening and-‘
Francis looks scandalised, ‘You don’t know the story anyway?’
‘Why the fuck would I know the story?’
‘Oh for the love of-‘ Beep. ‘We have to watch it. That’s it, I can’t have this.’ Francis clicks on the TV and scrolls to Netflix, ‘What on earth was your mother thinking. You’d think with the amount Arthur goes on-‘
‘Arthur was the weird one. I-‘
Beep.
Alisdair feels a tightness in his chest. He tries not to think of the cause.
Francis turns to him. ‘What?’
Alisdair’s tongue feels heavy, throat tight. ‘What.’
‘You were saying?’ Francis prompts. ‘Something about you and Arthur.’
His hair is tucked behind on ear but strands have fallen free. Alisdair wants to reach forward and brush them back but he can’t move. He feels hollow, belly empty.
He takes a deep, long breath in. His lungs fill, then release. Under his fingers, he feels the whorls of the sofa upholstery on the arm rest. Feels the warmth of Francis near his outstretched leg, face buttery yellow in the lamplight by the wall. It is all so real.
‘Right.’ He runs a hand over his face, ‘Arthur was the one who read all the books. I was a normal child and young man, and went outside. Made friends.’
‘I read those same books.’ Francis presses a hand to his chest, ‘And I feel I came out quite normal from the experience.’
‘I wouldn’t quite say that.’
Francis nods, sagely, and tilts his head to one side. ‘You’re not entirely wrong. I’m with you, after all.’
Alisdair nudges him with his foot, in the softness of his stomach, and Francis laughs.
Beep. Oxygen levels critically low. Warning.
Alisdair should have turned the alarms off.
Francis settles back against him and Alisdair leans back against the sofa, tucking them back in as he goes and wraps his arms around Francis, hold him tight. Here, like this, it would be so easy to forget. To think that this was happening, and was still something he could have and return to. Francis is so solid, so real.
Beep.
But Alisdair cannot forget. Thousands of miles above earth, his body free from gravity, he watched as without warning mushroom clouds peppered through the skies below him. Rushes of clouds shot across oceans to collide with another wave, and then another, until the planet fell still.
The silence was loud. Space pressed in against the glass, a thick, dark nothingness that stretched on and outwards around him. Endless stars dull when there is no one waiting to share them with, Alisdair has found.
He still has no idea what happened. Whether it was planned, who started it, who could be left. He waited weeks for something, endless days on a knife’s edge by the comms system, unable to leave in case something came through or his planned replacement arrive to relieve him. Sleep in broken chunks, too tired to stay away any longer.
He doesn’t know now how long it has been. He stopped checking the days. There was nothing that could be done for him, anyhow. What good is it to know details of his final days, when the grand fact was that no one was coming. He lived because he was too scared to die, and that was that.
And now, here it is.
Warning.
Alisdair had remembered to override the auto-safety control that diverted power to essential systems, at least. That was the important part.
Warning.
It could warn him all it wanted; he wasn’t going to change anything.
Oxygen levels critically low.
A few more days with the bare essentials to sustain life, or this. One last go at the hollo-systems, one last story to play.
Warning. Oxygen levels critically low.
Alisdair had been holding back on playing this one. Eking out the power left on his ship for as long as he could, everything non-essential closed off to- why? To live? To remember?
Just in case, maybe. Just in case.
In his arms, the programmed memory of Francis shifts under the blankets and sighs through his nose. The film has started, Alisdair hadn’t noticed. The colours and sounds all curl and bleed together, flashes of something distinct stand out before falling away like a motion blur. Francis breathes in Alisdair’s arms, his face calm and easy, and Alisdair watches.
Beep.
This is how he wants to go.
Beep.
To go home to a life that only he can remember. Kept safe here in memories and code, a final goodbye.
‘I love you,’ he says. His voice cracks, ‘So, so much.’
Francis turns his head. He reads something in Alisdair’s face; Alisdair sees the flicker in his expression as he notes that something is wrong. But memory and code can only go so far, the real Francis would never have seen him like this before. Alisdair doesn’t know how he would have reacted. Whatever his husband’s virtual echo sees in Alisdair’s drawn, wasted face, it is not something that he was designed to see.
So, he smiles. Sees him as whole. ‘I love you too.’
The living room darkens, shadows fill the edges. Alisdair closes his eyes and buries his face in Francis’ shoulder. ‘I’ll be home soon.’
Francis turns slightly and wraps and arm around and under Alisdair’s back, ‘I’ll be waiting.’
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His Flower and Thistles.
#i can't see him as brunette lads ill give him auburn hair instead#aph france#aph scotland#francis bonefoy#FraScot#ScotFra#hws france#hws scotland#kopifuran#hws#hetalia
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Let me preface with this: "cher" alone doesn't mean anything. At all. "Cher [name]" exists but it's just to open letters.
"Mon cher" is "my dear" but in the sense of "oh my dear Mr Smith fancy running into you at this barber shop"
You wanna be fancy-old-timey-loving, at least go with "très cher" ("dearest", lit. "very dear"). It's still stilted but at least it's personal.
You wanna get really personal, with a phrase that's still actually used this century, the word you're looking for is "chéri" ("darling" but a bit more relaxed, lit. "cherished", "beloved"). Potentially "mon chéri", which is the exact equivalent of "my darling".
Also this is mostly about FrUK but if speaking to a woman you go "ma chère", "très chère", "chérie" and "ma chérie" because this language is so gendered help us we're dying au masculin neutre.
Merci very much.
#and then of course there's the others. Béb��. Chaton. Minou. Doudou. Pupuce. Mamour. But I agree with the fandom that Fran is a ''chéri'' gu#gonna pin this for what it's worth#biggest pet peeve on the English side of the fandom#haven't been to the French side in a while but for some reason they didn't translate ''awesome''??? Memo to write a call out post about tha#HWS France#FrUK#ScotFra#GerFra#RusFra#FraNada#whatever other ships include him
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Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: England/Portugal (Hetalia), Wales/Portugal (Hetalia), France/Scotland (Hetalia), England & France (Hetalia)
Characters: England (Hetalia), Portugal (Hetalia), Wales (Hetalia), Scotland (Hetalia), France (Hetalia), Female Ireland (Hetalia), Northern Ireland (Hetalia)
Additional Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Modern Era, Miscommunication, Personal Growth, Adulting is hard, Romantic Comedy, (maybe not much of a comedy)
Summary:
Arthur didn’t need dates, or boyfriends, or long-term stable relationships. He didn’t need a handsome bloke on his arm to take to meet his siblings, and he absolutely didn’t envy his brother and sister for having that. No, in fact not only did he not need a boyfriend, he didn’t even want one. His life was perfectly fine as it was.
#engport#portwales#scotfra#hws england#hws portugal#hws wales#hws scotland#hws france#hws ireland#hws northern ireland#hetalia#a wild fic appears#fake dating#miscommunication#all the fun things!#finally dusting off some wips#can I finish this one? maaaaaaybe
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Idc what anyone says but in terms of historical ships in Europe ScotFra and PortEng are like >>>>>
#UNLESS you present me with other historical ships#please present me with other historical ships#i need it#hetalia#scotfra#porteng#engport#frascot#aph france#aph england#aph portugal#aph scotland
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scotfra dood
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Mugshots for ScotFra? And Wales/Prussia?
They asked first and changed the rules but however, they're cute~
FrUk's Barbie meme
EngPort Barbie meme
UkSpa Barbie meme
UkArg Barbie meme
Furbytalia Barbie meme
#hetalia#scotfra#aph scotland#aph france#hws france#we need a lot more about this ship#until Himaruya do it#axis powers ヘタリア#axis powers hetalia#hetalia axis powers#axispowershetalia#hws scotland#lgbtq#lgbtpeople#lgbtq positivity#lgbt representation#lgbtqiia+#barbie meme#barbie movie
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I love some angsty, bitterly-unrequited-but-eventually-accepted-because-there’s-no-other-choice-love satelliting around my OTPs. It’s so cruel but so, so good (Ｔ▽Ｔ)
Gimme Scotland still carrying a torch for sophisticated, sensual, sexy France hundreds of years after the Auld Alliance ends. Gimme modern day Portugal unable to forget and still longing for his days of swashbuckling alongside wanton, wild, wicked England
Gimme both of them watching first in confident disbelief, then in confused bewilderment, then in heart stung denial, then in anger and despair, as the respective objects of the affection shock the world by doing the unthinkable and falling for each other. Going from bitterest enemies, to heated rivals, to mutual grudging respect, to hesitant friends, to passionate lovers over the course of a few hundred years. Extra points if neither France or England ever truly understood just how bad Scot and Portugal had it for them. If they just saw it as something ordinary, not meant to last: fun, fleeting, and easily forgotten
Scotland loved France, Portugal loved England, both so much it hurt. But France and England’s eyes were always drawn away: across the Dover Strait to each other. No matter how Scotland and Portugal fought for their attention, tried to turn their gazes back to themselves, nothing worked. They couldn’t stand against the tide, swept away in true love’s wake. How to come to terms with the fact their best could never be good enough, simply by virtue of being themselves?
#hetalia#fruk#scotfra#porteng#hws england#hws france#hws scotland#hws portugal#aph england#aph france#aph scotland#aph portugal#my posts#i love the pain#the heartbreak overshadowed by love#mmmmm gimme 😍❤️❤️
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no inbox request other than one to myself, because i needed to write someone different and have a break, and maiva gave me an idea (nothing new there though!) so, here's to fran and ali('s taste in christmas jumpers...) 🎄
Style
Francis glances at the grandfather clock over his shoulder to check the time, before he hurries back to his reflection in the hallway mirror and continues to try and fix that one little chunk of hair that’s more stubborn than his Parisian uncle.
He has just a few minutes before, really, they ought to make a move. Being fashionably late is acceptable, but being late late would be a disgrace that Francis would prefer to not make a habit of committing—especially not in front of the in-laws!
“Come on,” he calls vaguely in the direction of the stairs, as he picks up the perfume he’s brought down with him and sprays himself for the fourth time that afternoon. “We are going to be late, ma moitié! And everyone is going to think it is because of me!”
“Hang on!” his husband calls back, however.
Francis can hear him overhead, rushing from one room to another, before his steps head along the corridor and, at last, begin to clomp down the stairs; glad he’s coming, Francis gives himself a final check in the mirror.
“Sorry,” Alasdair says. “Couldn’t find the other sock, could I!”
Francis gives a soft snort of laughter—how very typical of him—he always tells him, make sure to pair them before you put them away!—and he turns to Alasdair to—
“O-Oh my…”
His face has fallen, and no matter how hard he tries to, he can’t seem to pick it back up. His eyes are fixed on what his dear, sweet, charming husband has decided to wear to the family get-together. In one word: a travesty!
“What?” Alasdair asks him, his hands going straight to the offending item of clothing, which he grabs with both hands and stretches to look at him himself, as if he can’t remember what he’s wearing. His face scrunches up in bewilderment, and he looks back up at Francis, brows still furrowed and lips slightly pursed. “What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong, my love, is that that,” Francis says, trying not laugh as his arms fold across his chest and a hand attempts to mask his amusement, “is the ugliest jumper I’ve ever seen.”
“What, ever?”
“Ever,” he confirms with a solemn nod.
The jumper in question looks like it must be some vintage number—the sort you buy from a charity shop as a joke for a work Christmas party, not a dress-up dinner! It’s this shade of brown that perhaps once upon a time was rich like chocolate, but that now looks like rotting wood, and right in the middle, big and bold, is an appliqué tree being decorated by one adorable teddy bear, while another is sitting by some lonely presents. Little golden stars have been patched on haphazardly, and the sleeve cuffs—oh!—are adorned with gold embroidered bows and holly wreaths.
It is… a sight.
It isn’t that Francis is worried about embarrassment as such… He just realises that they don’t match in the slightest! There he is in a slim knit cream top and long jacket, pinned with a poinsettia and a red ribbon tying back half of his hair, while Alasdair… well, he’s Francis’ scruffy lover-boy husband, a charmer, rough around the edges yet so… soft and gooey in the middle…
Francis reminds himself right then that it is that quirkiness—that difference—that he adores about the other…
…but he still has to ask:
“Do you have a different jumper you can wear…?”
“‘Fraid not,” Alasdair smiles confidently. He comes all the way down the stairs and wanders over the side table to join Francis, where he pinches a spritz of his perfume (cheeky!) and slips him a quick disarming kiss on the cheek. “Ready to go?”
“Yes, of co— Ah, no! I need to grab the wine!” he realises, tutting at himself and hurrying off in the direction of the kitchen.
“And you thought I was gonna make us late!”
“Shut up!”
Francis can hear the other’s faint laughter as he arrives at the small utility room off the kitchen and finds the bottle of red wine he has been saving for this dinner. He has also made sure to take some chocolates, which are already in the car along with all of the presents they need to take.
He just hopes it all goes down well. He hopes everyone is happy. He hopes that they all have a lovely evening, and that it’s… special. A year to remem—
“Not sneakin’ a bit, are ya?”
He nearly jumps right out of his skin, and the bottle is clutched tight against his chest. It takes a second for Francis to recover—a moment during which Alasdair apologises, and asks if he’s okay.
“I’m fine,” Francis assures him, giving him a smile. “Just thinking.”
“Ahh, dangerous stuff, that,” the other muses. And then he asks: “Is it the jumper?”
Francis once more finds himself having to contain a laugh of incredulity, and does his best to not stare at those dreaded teddy bears. “N-No, no,” he says. “The— The jumper is fine.”
“Really?”
He instantly breaks. “Mmh, well—”
Alasdair, in turn, gasps dramatically. “You said it was fine!”
“You can wear it, I don’t mind! It is fine!” Francis reassures him, hands (and wine) raised.
“And you mean that?” Alasdair presses, hands on hips as he pulls off the best impression of Francis that he’s ever seen, quite frankly. It’s almost scary!
Yet, he smiles all the same, and lifts himself up on his toes to give the other a kiss—a promise. “You make it look like Dior,” he replies, as he feels the other’s arms fall around him and they both settle into an embrace.
“That, chridhe,” Alasdair says, sitting his head on top of Francis’, “means a l—”
“Besides,” Francis adds, making the most of feeling the other’s warmth while he can, “I’m sure Arthur will have found something infinitely worse to wear this year, so not all hope is lost for you yet.”
Alasdair laughs his hearty laugh, his head thrown back, and Francis looks up at him.
He loves this man. He will always love this man. And even if, he reaffirms, his taste in jumpers is truly awful.
His big teddy bear heart makes up for it all.
[ full ficlet collection on ao3! ]
#helia writes#hetalia#hws france#hws scotland#scotfra#starting the year off right >:)#i think it's criminal i haven't written them for a while they're so cute together like how dare i
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hello scotfra nation, i missed you
#I just thought I’d see what he Scot looked like with brown hair in my style…#im not mad tbh#my art#scotfra#francis bonnefoy#alasdair kirkland#hws france#hws scotland#aph france#aph scotland#hetalia scotfra#hetalia france#hetalia scotland#hetalia
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S. Italy: Why do you keep stealing things from the British Isles?
France, wearing Englands t-shirt, Scotlands flannel, Wales pants, Ireland's hair-tie, and drinking out of N. Irelands favorite mug: I have no clue what you're talking about.
#france just stealing stuff from them#cause he wants to#aph s. italy#hws s. italy#aph romano#hws romano#aph france#hws france#hetalia#hetalia incorrect quotes#fruk#scotfra#irefra#do france x Wales have a ship name
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Post in question: ×××××
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