France x Reader (Fanservice)

You shift in the covers, snuggling your face close to Francis Bonnefoy's chest. His eyelashes flutter open, the long, curly blonde lashes framing his perfectly blue eyes. His lips brush the top of your head as he shifts around, the stubble of his chin brushing against your soft skin.

"Bonjour, belle," he whispers to me, his French accent thick. His voice is like a sweet tune of velvet to your ears, and you murmur out a good morning as you bring your body closer to the warmth of his. He chuckles softly, whispering, "Je t'aime, (name). Vous êtes la plus belle fille du monde."

You sit up with a yawn, loving the feeling you get around him, as if a butterfly farm is located inside your stomach. With Francis, the only thing you seem to feel is this infinite amount of bliss…

Well, sort of.

Your eyes open as you recall last night. Francis came late for the third time this week, claiming it had to do with his work. Of course, you couldn't help but notice the girls that clung to his arms as he arrived home last night. You pretended to be asleep so he wouldn't realize how upset and jealous you got.

He works at an expensive French restaurant, and, naturally, his natural charm and looks attracts all the ladies, even the ones that aren't single.

"Are you okay?" he asks, noticing the melancholy in your distant gaze.

"What?" you ask as your return your attention to the beautiful man next to you, and you give him a bright grin, leaning over to kiss him playfully. "Of course. I was just wondering what I'd do today. You spoil me so much."

And it's true. His job at the restaurant covers all the bills, and you both live in a very fancy townhouse near the centre of town, and you suppose it helps that his family is wealthy, and he sits atop a huge inheritance. He begs you not to lift a finger because he wants you to feel like absolute royalty, but all the spoils would have made you feel wonderful enough already. He showers you with love and attention and gifts…

He's perfect, really.

You can't even be a housewife to him, and that is already low in your list of jobs. There isn't anyone in the world who cooks better than he does, and he has all of his and your clothing cleaned properly at the dry cleaner's. He has a maid hired, and she comes in around noon and cleans the little there is to clean.

Your boyfriend has always been so perfect—wait, you should rephrase yourself. Your fiancée had always been so perfect, and the large diamond ring on your left finger proves that there is not a single thing he cannot give you when it comes to the luxuries of life.

"Are you bored of being home all day? Are your friends not free?"

"Many of them have to work," you answer him with a sheepish smile. You suddenly feel shy from having to admit that yeah, you're pretty lonely during the daytime.

Truth was, two years ago, you were just like them. You worked from eight to five, five days a week, and your hands were always full. Your job wasn't the best in the world, but it was agreeable, and you lived a pretty content life. You had everything you needed.

And then Francis strolled into your life, offering you so much more than you could ever want, and most importantly: his love.

You had heard what some of his friends and the girls who idolized him called you: gold digger. That isn't true, and it has never been, nor will it ever be. You've liked Francis from the start, since before you knew how rich he was. He's an absolute gentleman most of the time, and you found the bits of perverted statements he said to be hilarious. You have fun with Francis. He makes you feel whole.

So, not only do you feel jealous of all the girls he spends time with when working and to and from work, but you also worry all the time that he'll think you a gold digger and leave you.

"I can take a day off if that is your wish, mon amour," he whispers into your ear, and the sweet sensation sends tingles to your toes and back.

You giggle a bit, tangling your fingers into the soft tendrils of his blonde hair, and you bring his face to yours, your lips touching the tip of his nose. "I couldn't ask something like that from you. You already do so much for me." Your lips press against his gently, and you can feel the smile blossoming on his face. "Besides, Circe is my friend too. Since this place is always so clean, I spend my time with her. Don't worry about me." You lick his bottom lip. "Just make something delicious, okay?"

He then tackles you, having squeals abrupt from you as he attacks you with kisses. "Ne me séduire!" His pulls you into his arms, enveloping you with his whole being, and he murmurs, "Why are you so cute? It's really not fair. Why am I not as cute as you?"

You let out a small trail of laughs. "You are cute. In a manly way, but certainly cute." You find your fingers playing with his, and you stretch his hand out until both of you palms are openly touching each other. He laces his fingers with yours, smiling softly. "I love you so much."

"I know," he says, and he pecks your cheek. "I need to go. It's nearly noon. Jusqu'à ce soir."

"Yeah," you answer as you watch him get out of bed, your eyes following his every movement as he pulls on his clothing. The sound of the doorbell is downstairs, and you realize Circe, the maid, is here. You get out of bed, pulling a nightie over your body, and you rush downstairs, opening the door to the young lady. She's but a year younger than you, twenty-two, and she's absolutely pretty and sweet. You smile and say, "Come in~"

But your eyes travel outside where a few girls are already waiting to escort your fiancée to his job.

"I can see the jealousy in your eyes," Circe taunts you as she enters, "but don't worry. I can see the way Francis looks at you. Those girls don't even hold a candle to you."

You find yourself smiling at her words, and you suddenly remember why you're happy Francis hired a maid. She's the sweetest person alive.

***

You're curled up in bed, trying to fall asleep. It's well past midnight now, and he's not home yet. You play with the ring on your left hand, twisting it around your ring finger.

When he's here, you feel so happy…but when he's gone…it's so painful, inside your heart. Your head hurts from wondering what he's doing, why he's gone so long and who he's with. But you'd never tell him of these feelings, of how sometimes, you cry yourself to sleep. You hate the envy that surges through your body, thinking that someone else is enjoying their time with him, probably a pretty girl, prettier than you.

And maybe you wouldn't feel so desperate if he didn't decided it was totally okay to come in at such a late hour.

You hear the sound of loud laughter, and your head perks up. There is a familiar laugh, the one Francis makes, and you nearly break a leg trying to rush to the window.

He's there, entirely drunk on wine and stumbling against the hold of a girl. You let the silk curtain fall back into place and try to blink back the tears, but they don't stop.

You find your feet moving downstairs, though you're not consciously commanding them. You want to stop, want to pretend like you're sleeping, but you worry too much about your fiancée to physically stop yourself. You have the door open before they even make it into the front yard, and you catch the girl's lips briskly touching his temple before she pushes him forward, aware of your presence.

He can barely walk in a straight line, but he still finds it necessary to run into your arms, lips hitting yours.

You flinch away at the sudden pain and help him in, keeping your eyes on the girl.

"Thank you!" you call out to her, but she simple scoffs and walks away.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm late," he slurs into your ears.

"Don't worry about it," you murmur to him, though you're honestly hurt. You wish he didn't make it so difficult on you.

"Baby, I love you," he informs you. "I did nothing with her."

"I know, I know."

And you do know it. Your jealousy is just irrational. Francis would never cheat on you.

"I've missed you," he purrs as his lips brush against your collarbone.

The little gasp—a mixture between shock and pleasure—that passes through his lips encourages him to continue.

He then proceeds to show you exactly how much he missed you.

***

He's gone the next morning when you wake up, though it's very late in the morning, so it's not a surprise.

You sigh to yourself.

Your life is stuck on a wheel. Every night, he comes late, drunk. He then has sex with you, you both fall sleep, and after he leaves in the morning, you spend the time between his departure and his late arrival worrying that he'll meet someone better than you, someone who can satisfy him emotionally and mentally and physically.

Someone who doesn't get jealous easily.

But all he'll do is assure you that he's doing nothing and whisper, "You're so cute when you get jealous."

You lay back down, closing your eyes.

There isn't anything you can do about this. You don't want to leave his side, but you don't want to call him out on his behavior. In the end, you'll choose to trust his words.

In the end—if he's really not lying—he's all yours. That's something all those girls will never be able to say.

You manage to smile.

Soon enough, he'll be your husband. You know that when you guys finally exchange your "I do"s, there will be absolutely no need for jealousy.

Francis is all yours.