Mary's in the kitchen when he walks through the front door, two large things of pancake mix in his hands. The windows are open, their white chiffon drapes are dancing in the gentle wind. It's slightly warm -they are in their vacation home in France, after all. France is warmer than Scotland- but there's a nip in the air that is strangely pleasant to notice. Mary enjoys airing the house out whenever there's an opportunity to, and she's not as sensitive to the cold as he is. She puts it down to decades of the frigid coldness of Scotland, while he enjoyed the warmth of France and Italy in his youth.
Francis curses lightly as he sees her figure in the open kitchen, of course she'd choose to wear the shortest pair of shorts she owns today. His jaw clenches when he notices the curve of her waist and hips through the jumper she wears over it. He can barely see the ripped denim over the jumper, and upon closer observation, he realises that she's wearing his jumper, the well made off white thing covering her body from his eyes. He hates it for that, but he's pleased that it shows off her shapely legs. Francis shakes his head to try and extinguish those kinds of thoughts. Her hair is long and loose over her shoulders and torso, the thick raven sea shimmering in the late winter-early spring sunlight. Her pale skin wears no makeup -something Francis prefers- and she wears only fuzzy socks on her feet. To her husband, she's never appeared more beautiful.
"I've got the mix!" he says, shaking himself away from the thoughts once more, kicking the white door closed behind him. Mary's been looking at the cast iron stove, and when she turns to him as he sets down the powder on the countertop. He wrings out his slightly numb wrists (flour is heavy) and flushes when she beams at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She leans up on her top toes, kissing him quickly.
"Have I told you how much I love you today?" she whispers to her husband. He chuckles to himself, kissing the top of her nose making her squeal. He chuckles at her again, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
"You're beautiful." he tells her. Mary blushes and hides her face in his chest. He snickers again, wrapping her up in his arms to pull her away, looking her in the eye. "Right, let's make these pancakes, shall we?" he asks her. Mary smiles again, pulling him from the countertop to get all the things they need for pancakes.
She's not entirely sure the reasoning behind the whole pancake craze on a certain day in February, it's all over the shops in January time anyway, Tesco and Asda selling flour and lemons and pans. But, it's a fun thing to do for an hour and pancakes are amazing, so she goes with the flow of it all, going so far as to make her husband to go the farmer's market when she forgot what the day was.
Mary gets to work, grabbing the weighing scales and a mixing bowl while Francis gets to work with grabbing eggs, milk and butter for the recipe. She grabs a measuring jug, before opening a cabinate, retrieving Granny Margret's recipe book that her grandmother left for her, flicking through the pages until she found her famous pancake recipe.
"You're using too much flour," Mary comments, nodding at the book when Francis sets the bowl onto the scales and begins to sift some of the mix into the bowl. "It'll be too dry if you use that much."
Francis knows she's only messing with him, they always do it to each other. Francis bites his cheek as he thinks of a way to respond, before the answer hits him like a lightbulb on top of his head. He grins as Mary opens her mouth to say something else, when he takes the spoon in his hand and launches a spoonful of flour right at his wife.
Mary squeaks in surprise.
"There." he grins, proud and playful as Mary gets to work on cleaning his jumper, scoffing in mock anger.
"Francis!" she shrieks, frantically brushing at her chest to get the flour not to stick. She laughs in shock, unable to believe that he just threw flour at her.
"What?" he laughs. "You said I had too much, I had to get rid of it." he smirks, shrugging. His eyes shine with mischief, as Mary scoffs in irritation, but her mind begins to think of a way to get him back, and she figures out just the way.
"And this was just an accident, hmm?" she giggles, reaching into the flour bag and tossing a small handful into his face. Francis coughs as she flower pales his skin and gets into his hair. By the time he's recovered, Mary's laughing at him. He scowls.
"That's it!" he exclaims, exhileracience pushing out of his chest as they're transported to children, when she was taller than him and they could keep pace when they ran around the fields together. They smile the same way, and Mary begins the game -albeit unknowingly- by attempting to rush into the living room. But,, in this new, adult body, Francis is quicker. He wraps an arm around her waist and with one movement, she's squealing in surprise as her feet leave the floor. He laughs merrily, spinning them around and letting her down, but the two of them dive towards the two piles of flour
Francis throws a mound of flower into her stomach and abdomen, but the cascade covers her thighs in the gentle dust. It's not like either of them take a moment to notice the attack, since Mary gets another good shot at his throat and neck, trying to shield herself by crouching behind the island as the two giggle like little schoolchildren.
It turns into a full blown flour war in the matter of seconds. Flour that was originally for the pancakes quickly decorated the floor and their bodies. At one point in the attack, Mary has been wrestled and pinned to the wall as he attempted to get flour down her back, underneath the sweatshirt. It turns into him tickling her quickly, and she squeals in horror as he continues to make her body convulse and jerk. She's trying to twist her body to defend her sides, but it's impossible with his body pressing her in the middle of himself and the wall.
"Stop-stop!" her laughter is heavier, the Scottish accent she'd spent years trying to hide whenever she was in France or Italy coming on thick and strong now. She writhes stubbornly, trying to grab his wrists or run her cold, floury hands over his sides underneath the shirt he wears.
He grows tired of this game, and instead grabs her own wrists and pins them above her head. The game changes, she can see it in his eyes, and knows full well he can see it in hers when her arms are stretched above her. He's closer to her now, she can smell his cologne and his soap. The joy of a child begins to mix with the desires of a woman, the latter beginning to win out when he leans down. Her heart leaps in her chest.
"Do you give up?" it's a whisper just as much as it is a dare, and by the way his eyes darken when he says it, it brings a shiver to her spine, her heart beginning to hammer in her chest at his proximity and the change in the atmosphere.
"Never." she whispers upon his lips. A moment, until their lips are completley crashing against each others. He transixes her just as much as she entrances him. She arches into him almost immediately, his tounge pushing into her mouth as she moans, the despire beginning to form a pit in her stomach. She aches for him in record time, their hands tightening around each others', above both of their heads as the two of them continue to kiss. She boldly wraps a leg around his waist, and he can't handle it anymore.
He pulls away, grabbing her waist.
"Come on." he whispers, pulling her towards the stairs.
YOU ARE READING
You Are My Light Part II
Historical Fiction-Reign Oneshots/Taking Requests- The world can be dark, Mary, and uncertain and cruel. The only thing that matters is that we face it together. No matter what happens, you are my light. Part 2! -Read TEML first!-
