Nyo!FrancexPansexualReader (Arms)

OI!! So, this is a story that revolves around Female France and a girl who is pansexual. It means, yes, that they are in a relationship. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do me a favour and just don't read this. I really don't want arguments or anything.

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       She lay in bed, her arms wrapped around the waist of a sleeping blonde. Their breathing mixed in the otherwise silent room. She knew that she should try and get some sleep in the few, precious hours of darkness they had left until dawn came and she’d lose this warm, sleeping body beside her. While her love often preferred to partake in some earlier morning cuddling, they typically had to sacrifice it so that the bakery downstairs could be stocked and opened for the bustling New York crowds that craved fresh crêpes and muffins of every colour and variety. She liked holidays when the bakery would be closed and they could sleep in until noon.

       “Mon cher, what’s wrong?” She looked up at the bleary voice, almost purring at how cute her lover was with drowsy blue eyes. She reached up to stroke back wavy, blonde hair. Almost instantly, she felt a pang of guilt, ashamed that she had woken her love as well, but Francine looked like she didn’t mind in the slightest that they were both awake. In fact, she only pulled (Y/n)’s head down to rest on her bosom, stroking her hair and humming softly. “Did you have another bad dream?”

       More shame. Part of her wanted to lie and say that the vicious memories from her previous job had left her and no longer plagued her with nightmares, but they both knew she was a horrible liar. So, without saying a word, she could only nod slightly and throw an arm around the body beside her in an attempt to get closer. Francine chuckled softly, pulling her closer as well and then sighing softly. A gentle heartbeat drummed against her ear, easing her heart to follow its slow pattern. She pulled back long enough to press a kiss to the tattoo and then went back to her earlier position so that they could try and get sleep.

       Very quietly, Francine whispered, “We could still report them. Arthur would help us.” She stroked the mussed (h/c) locks that she could reach, waiting for an answer. “I know you’re scared, but I can’t stand seeing you hurt so much. I wish that I was a fighter sometimes, so that I could take down your enemies instead of watching them toss you to the ground.” She let out a shaky breath. “I have to say, fleur, that I’d never been so scared in my life when I saw you run in the bakery, covered in all those bruises.” The Frenchwoman’s thumb brushed against her temple, and a small sigh escaped her.

       “I know,” she murmured, remembering the blanched expression of her love as she’d taken inventory on her girlfriend. “I’m sorry.”

       She felt the body under her tense. “Non, you have nothing to apologise for, my dear. It’s those-those brutes who have a price to pay. How dare they beat up a sweet, beautiful girl like you? If only Arthur or someone had been there, we might’ve caught them.”

       (Y/n) frowned, not liking where this conversation was going again. “Arthur had his job to think about. Technically, beating up pansexuals isn’t a crime.”

       “Assault is most certainly a crime, mon cher! It’s low and awful, and I pity them if someone like Alfred got a hold of them.” She let out a gentle shush, and both their bodies relaxed. “Do you want me to sing for you? I know that it calms you down.”

       Looking up, she saw mischief in those blue eyes, and she smiled. Leaning up, she got a kiss on those soft lips. Francine immediately deepened the kiss, a hand coming up to cup her cheek. (Y/n) had to brace herself on her forearms to avoid squishing her love, knowing that she was no longer around a hundred pounds anymore like when she’d first kissed the beautiful blonde. Francine’s other hand came up to her waist, gently easing the lower half of her body onto her own. Unlike the only other woman she’d every kissed, the blonde was a professional when it came to romance. No matter what gesture it was- singing, kissing, dancing- her lover had no problem showing her expertise. She claimed it came naturally as a French native, but Arthur, a close friend of the couple, had admitted that she had dated both men and women aplenty before finding (Y/n).

       Though many people were sure that sexuality came in two flavours, homo- and heterosexuality, both the girl were proud pansexuals, something that many people had never heard of. Neither had a preference, tending to stick with people that made them happy and respected them. When (Y/n) had met her current partner at a party in college, she had been slightly sloshed and was searching for Alfred, he childhood friend. She’d stumbled up Francine in an upstairs bedroom, the blonde sipping from a wineglass as she stared at the moon from the window. They’d instantly clicked, and the (h/c) had barely believed her luck when the other woman asked her to dance with her. The loud, overenthusiastic female singer that was playing through the speakers on the floor below had been turned up loud enough to be heard all over the house and the neighbouring country. Thankfully, the blonde had opted to pull her into a slow, almost waltz-like dance, refusing to grind against her. While Francine could hardly be described without the word “flirty,” both of them had been too nervous to move too fast for fear of scaring the other off.

       That dance had led to an invitation to coffee, which led to a relationship that was already three years long. Both of them had graduated college, and Francine had opened a bakery in the Big Apple in hopes of sharing her lovely confections with the world. For all the promises from others that she had a snowball’s on the sun, the business was doing well enough that the girls weren’t hugely affected by the dip in the bank when (Y/n) quit from her job the month prior.

       An involuntary shudder ran through her, something that her lover followed immediately with a gentle hand. While she had managed to get through her high school years, as well as college, without having to face any scorn for her sexuality, her previous job had taught her how cruel life could be. She’d enjoyed the fact that both sets of her parents had taken the news with nothing more than a shrug and a smile, and she had lived in a town diverse enough that no one batted an eye when two girls kissed or boys held hands. However, in her small job at hotel nearby, she had been blindsided by the hate that had erupted when two of her co-workers found the photo of her and Francine in her wallet.

       “Who’s this?” the one man had jeered at her, his face twisted in mock sickness. “Are you a fucking queer or something?”

       “What are you talking about, Chris?” A bellhop walked over, someone (Y/n) didn’t know well enough to remember his name. He looked at the photo, a small 3x5 of a mock wedding Alfred and Arthur had thrown for them one day. While it had been a joke, to the men looking at a picture she was desperately trying to get back, it looked one-hundred-percent real. She watched in horror as Chris ripped it in half and then in half again, tossing it half.

       They’d advanced towards her, spewing awful, vulgar insults at her. They called her everything and then some. She’d backed up until her back had hit the glass of the hotel’s front door, and the bellhop, a man who had recently been hired, grabbed her by her hair. (Y/n) had tried to struggle free and called for help, but it was nearing midnight, and all people with sense were asleep. She’d tried to scratch one of them.

       All hell had broken then. She remembered being thrown to the ground. She’d been aware of hands slapping, fists punching, a foot that slammed into her side. She’d managed to kick Chris where he probably soon wished he’d guarded and then had punched the bellhop hard enough to send his head smacking against the glass door. While they were trying to deal with their injuries, she’d taken off, ignoring the aching bones and burning in her cheeks as she raced down the streets of New York City.

       Francine, who had been making fresh whipped cream and some things that would need to sit overnight, had been downstairs in time to see her burst through the door. Since they hadn’t broken anything and she didn’t want to leave the house, (Y/n) had refused to go to the hospital. Francine, exasperated but terrified, had put her foot down and insisted that she at least let their neighbour, a Chinese man named Yao, look at her. While he was a great chef, he had served in the military as a doctor. Most of her wounds had been nothing more than bruises and superficial cuts, but he’d been quick to get her a steak from the fridge for her black eye.

       Due to the threats that she still got, she turned down every plea of Francine’s to go to the police or even Arthur, who was a detective. The experience had rattled her severely, and she didn’t want to cause trouble. Her lover, of course, still begged her at every opportunity to tell someone, anyone, who could put the awful men behind bars, but she was wary. Often, people turned a blind eye towards violence against people who dated anyone but the opposite gender, and (Y/n) was scared that they would go after Francine, too, if given half the chance.

       While she’d told the blonde that her nightmares revolved around them finding her again and doing worse than before to her, she’d only been telling half the truth. Many of her nightmares followed Francine walking home from the store, the post office, or even her cousin’s house. She’d seen the swaying hips, the beautiful pale face, and the scene would darken. The dream she’d woken from that night, she’d seen those blue eyes, so full of joy… until a shadow had stepped in front her. The picture had gone black, but she’d gotten an earful of her lover’s screams and pleas for help.

       Sucking in a breath to stop herself from crying again, she nuzzled Francine’s stomach, reminding herself that the blonde was healthy and whole, right here in her arms and not being beaten senseless for something that they couldn’t control. As a child, her father had told her that men don’t beat up women, that it was something immoral. He’d even been relieved that she’d told him she was pansexual, saying jokingly that her chances of ending up with some asshole had decreased dramatically. In a desperate attempt to convince her partner to go the police, Francine had called the former soldier the week before, asking him to talk some sense into her, and (Y/n) had been forced to talk him down from loading his shotgun and hunting the men down.

       A soft sigh escaped her, and she silently wondered if she could talk to someone who would promise her peace of mind. Though she bulked at calling the cops, she could always get a restraining order. It would be harder to get the bellhop to leave her alone, not knowing his name and all, but Chris would be no difficult task. She forced her heart to calm and took Francine’s hand in hers and combing her fingers through the blonde’s. She heard a small, agreeing hum.

       In a whisper, so that she didn’t break the spell, she quietly asked, “Does Arthur work in restraining orders?”

       The chest she used a pillow drew swelled with a sharp intake of air. Francine gently tilted her head up so that (e/c) met blue. Her thumb stroked the curve of (Y/n)’s mouth, her brows knitted together as she looked down at her. In a murmur, she replied, “Yes, if that is what you want.” She fixed the (h/c) strands that had slipped over on the other side of the girl’s part, smiling sweetly. “I’m proud of you, mon cher. If you would prefer going with a restraining order, then I doubt that Arthur would deny you.” She chuckled a bit. “I think he is still a bit miffed you refused to let him go ahead to report them, but I only press because I worry for you.” Her blue eyes grew sad. “I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone before, but I hate anyone who hurts you.”

       “I love you,” (Y/n) whispered, using the hand that wasn’t holding hers to stroke the petal soft cheek of the beautiful woman who made her life worth it. “I love you more than anything.”

       “Je t’aime aussi.” She smiled, the room brightening as soon as she did. No one in the world could rival Francine in looks, in (Y/n)’s opinion. “How about I sing to you a small lullaby my maman sang to me as a child?” she offered, stroking the girl’s hair. “Lie down again, mon cher. Rest your head over my heart and promise me that you will never let anyone make you think that this is wrong.”

       So, she did as she was told, and Francine began to quietly sing some lines in French, her voice filling the room in a smooth, velvet peace. They were warm, and sleep pulled at their eyelids. Heartbeats kept in time with the words, and not even the building shifting disturbed the quiet. A small, slender hand stroked her hair, and the other arm wrapped around her back. Both of (Y/n)’s arms were wrapped around the slender waist beside her, and their legs tangled under the blankets.

       As she slowly drifted off, she was reminded how much she truly loved this woman, and she told herself that she would never allow anyone to make her ashamed of moments like this. After all, while they went home to their lovers, she was wrapped up in the arms of hers.