#arthur kirkland fanfiction

[somehow-a-writer]

A Curious Flying Friend {England X Reader}

It was a cool autumn day, not too warm nor cool with a gentle breeze and few clouds scattered through the beautiful blue sky. (F/N) decided to take a walk through the woods behind your house, you had taken plenty of walks through there while exploring it and had found a waterfall that you loved to sit by to get away from everything and relax. Today was one of those days you decided to walk there and sit against the trunk of a large willow tree. Along the way, (F/N) made sure to be careful of the surroundings, not just your typical tree root but also anything of the supernatural variety, after all, you did not want to upset anything—especially any fae in the surrounding woods. Upon making it to the waterfall, you sigh contently while any tension in your shoulders slowly melted away, no matter how many times you visited it was always a breathtaking sight.

(F/N) walked to the giant willow tree, sitting down at the base of the trunk before pulling a thick book from your bag and opening it. With only the sounds of the waterfall, the surrounding nature, and your heartbeat. It was true bliss. A few fae appeared, coming out from the forest, from the other side of the lake, and began gathering different items. Upon noticing (F/N) they smiled and waved at the familiar human. Having looked up at the noise, you returned their smile, waving back at the few fae that you had grown used to seeing around this area of the forest. (F/N) was quite accustomed to anything to do with the mythological at quite a young age, that was after you had learned at least the basics of most creatures.

Before you could return to your book, you felt something land on your head. Well, more like it plopped down on your head. You glance up, trying to see what it could've been aside from hearing it trying to catch its breath, the poor thing sounded tired. From what you could tell it had long ears and was a mint color, your best guess was it was some type of mythological creature but couldn't place anything with just those two things. Setting your book to the side, you very carefully and gently picked the creature up and brought it down in front of you for a better look. As (F/N) brought it down, the creature perked up slightly, watching the female curiously the mint-colored animal tilted its head while its ears perked up. After looking over for a moment while taking in its looks,  your (e/c) eyes filled with genuine curiosity, you noted it looked like a typical bunny but it had mings and was completely colored like mint ice cream. You giggle softly as you set it on your lap, petting it lightly while watching it nuzzling into your touch. It warmed up to you surprisingly fast, (F/N) took notice and assumed it was somehow used to people, though you still had absolutely no idea what it could be. Well aside from being rather cute that is, that was definitely obvious.

(F/N) went back to the book that was temporarily forgotten about, still petting the flying bunny in your lap. A few minutes passed by before you could hear distant shouting, it was still too faint to make out so you continued on your book, making sure to keep to also pay attention to the yells for if they got closer. They did in fact after a little bit more, it sounded like a male's voice shouting a name. "-BUNNY!? WHERE DID YOU GET TO!?" 'Bunny? Could they potentially be looking for this cutie? Hmmm... It doesn't seem fazed, I'll wait a bit longer...' You thought to yourself, scratching under the mystical bunny's chin, which it replied happily to.

The voice eventually grew louder till before you knew it a figure was bursting from the forest, a few feet from where you were sitting. You look up towards the sound of the noise, not having much time to get up earlier due to getting slightly distracted with your book, you notice a male looking around. He had shaggy blonde hair, his clothes slightly messy and torn from running through the forest but nothing that couldn't be easily fixed. He sighs, scratching the back of his neck as he makes sure to slowly take in his surroundings, obviously looking for something or someone. "Flying Mint Bunny where could you have possibly gone this time?" Upon hearing the voice, the creature in your lap sits up, looking towards the male. "Oh? Do you know him, little one?" You look between the two, standing up while holding the fluffy winged bunny close to you, and began walking over to the mysterious male. 

"Excuse me, i-is this who you c-could be looking for, sir?" (F/N) asks, trying to hold back the nervous stutter which was difficult around new people. The male turned around studying you for a moment, a small blush growing as he started into your (e/c) orbs, (h/l) (h/c) blowing in the gentle breeze, almost forgetting to respond. "O-Oh, apologies for staring... To answer your question though, yes, that is precisely who I was looking for. She loves to fly off to distract me, essentially forcing me to take a break. Thank you for watching her. What is your name?" He states with a friendly smile, his English accent making you blush a little. "I-It was no problem... My n-name is (F/N) (L/N), may I ask yours as well?" You ask, sticking your hands out with Flying Mint Bunny in them towards the British male, who carefully takes her, scratching her head a little. "Oh my, excuse me how ungentlemanly of me, my apologies dear. I'm Arthur Kirkland, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." You shake your head, smiling at the two with a little chuckle, thinking about how cute they looked together. "It's fine, no need to worry. The pleasure is all mine Arthur.”

"If I may ask dear, you can see Flying Mint Bunny, can you do magic or see any other mythological things?" Arthur asks, tilting his head slightly. "I don't do magic but I can see mythological creatures and such, basically my whole life. What about you, Mr. Kirkland." You nod, despite Arthur looking around your age, it seemed right to use mister when referring to him. With a light chuckle upon hearing himself being called 'mister', he responds. "There's no need for formalities, please just call me Arthur, (F/N). Also, I can do magic as well as see different creatures. Most of my friends don't take me seriously about it... It's nice meeting someone else who can see, however. U-Um... I-If you're not busy, would you be i-interested in having some company?" A  blush quickly spread across his face, glancing away at the end. Arthur understood if you didn't but was honestly hoping you would, you had piqued his interest immediately and it only grew. "Hm? O-Oh yes, that's completely fine! I would actually enjoy that quite a bit, you seem like an interesting guy, Arthur." You replied, blushing as well with a small smile. Arthur nods, following you back to where you were sitting under the willow prior to his arrival.

The two of you talked for hours, continuing until you noticed it was starting to become nightfall, and agreed it was a good idea to start heading back. Arthur and (F/N) carefully walked together through the woods towards the town, continuing to chat along the way. As it grew darker through the walk in the forest, Arthur kept (F/N) close, making sure nothing happened to his new friend. After a bit, they made it out and to the other side of the forest. "Hey um... If you'd like, you can stay at my house for the night, we have a spare room you can use. O-Only if you want to though! J-Just thought I would o-offer because it's right over here and I wasn't sure how far your house was and-" Arthur cut off your rambles before you got the chance to panic anymore over a potential misunderstanding. "Thank you for the offer, dear, I would greatly appreciate it. That is, as long as it's no trouble to you or anyone else." "It's no problem! I share it with my friend, and we have an extra room. I'm not sure if it's occupied already or not, but we can always figure something out if that's the case." You explain, taking his hand in your own without thinking as you lead him towards your house. Arthur's face instantly flushed at the contact, thankful that the night and staying behind you could mostly hide this. 

After you both had entered the house, you took off your coat and shoes, setting them aside, Arthur did the same, following your lead. "Are you hungry? I think we have some leftovers or I can make something quick?" "N-Now that you mention it, I am hungry. I'm fine with whatever you choose, love." (F/N) nods, heading towards the kitchen as Arthur and Flying Mint Bunny follow, you open the fridge and scan its contents for something, anything. "How about some (f/f)?" Arthur nods, you take it out and put some on two plates, warming them up quickly before setting them on the nearby table. "Would you like anything to drink?" "Water is fine. Thank you for dinner, you're quite the sweetheart." Arthur compliments, taking a seat at the table while smiling at you. Now it was your turn to blush as a shy smile creeps its way to your lips while you get a couple of glasses of water. "Y-You're welcome a-and t-thank you as well. You're quite lovely yourself." You state, returning to the table and setting the drinks down before sitting. You ate in a comfortable silence and once you were finished, Arthur helped you wash up the few dishes you used.

"Would you like a shower or anything? I might have some clothes that my brother gave me that you could wear if you wanted. One moment while I check if the guest room is available." Arthur nods as you walk down the hall, left in the living room to consider your polite offers. You heard your friend talking to a couple of people in their room, stopping before the door you gave it a knock. "Come in, (nickname)!" You heard a voice shout from the other side, you open the door and peer in, noticing a couple of friends of your friend in there as well, meaning the guest room would most likely be unavailable. "Hey, just a quick question. Was anyone planning on using the guest room tonight?" "Yeah, these two were. Why, what's up?" "Oh nothing, I offered to let a friend stay over since it had gotten dark out when we returned and just trying to plan where they could stay. Thanks (friend's nickname), see y'all later then. Have a nice night!" You say before closing the door again and heading back towards Arthur, you had a gut feeling this would happen but had to check anyway.

Arthur looked up from Flying Mint Bunny quickly once you returned, cheeks tinted red. "I'm sorry to say that the guest room will be occupied soon tonight... You can sleep in my room or the couch if you prefer, I-I'm sure we can set something up quickly either way." "No worries love, it's quite alright." Before Arthur could continue, Flying Mint Bunny whispered something in his ear, causing his blush to turn a few shades darker. "What are you saying, I couldn't possibly ask something like that of her!" "Hmmm? What did she say?" You tilted your head, walking closer. Arthur shook his head, quite embarrassed, as he mumbled barely loud enough for you to hear. "She said I should ask to sleep in your room... I couldn't possibly, we just met and it doesn't seem very gentlemanly of me to bother you like that..." "Ooh. It's no trouble, really. As long as you're comfortable with it I don't mind. It's not like anything will really happen." You giggle a little, but your cheeks were tinted pink. Arthur hesitates for a moment before nodding. "It you say so, love. If you don't mind, I would like to take you up on the shower offer. I would hate to dirty your sheets, I was running through the forest after all..." Arthur chuckles slightly, rubbing the back of his neck as he stands. "Of course, let me grab some clothes for you and show you the way." Walking back down the hall you showed Arthur where the bathroom was before grabbing some towels as well as a change of clothes that you got from your older brother. (F/N) returned and passed Arthur the times before explaining where your room was and the door would be open for him when he was finished. Exchanging nods, you left for your room as Arthur closed the door and did what he need to.

After a bit, Arthur walks toward your room with the clothes he was wearing neatly folded in his hands. His hair was still pretty wet as the towel hung closely over his head while the shirt you gave him was in his other hand, he wasn't one to wear shirts to bed due to comfortability. As he walked in you glanced up, the heat rising to your face again quickly. You looked him over, noticing he was fairly in shape, not the type to have abs but the type to tell he did occasionally work out. 'Shit, he's quite the looker, isn't he. Fuck, look away, look away, don't let him catch you checking him out!' You scold yourself mentally almost immediately, glancing away as he sets his clothes on the floor. "Um here's the shirt you added, I can put it on if you want but I typically don't wear them to bed due to comfortability." Arthur explains, setting the shirt at the end of your bed before trying to dry his hair off as much as he could. 

You shake your head, picking up the shirt before getting up and putting it away. "It's o-okay, you don't have to especially if you're more comfortable like this. We don't have any air mattresses and the floor isn't terribly comfortable... My bed has enough room for two and some extra space as well, i-if you don't mind sharing for a night..." You say, growing quieter at the last sentence, a blush returning to both your faces. "I-I don't mind. A-And I promise, I-I wouldn't dream of doing anything to you, love!" Arthur says, nerves taking over a bit. You giggle a little as you turn out the lights and climb into bed. "It's alright, I didn't think you would. After all, you're quite the gentleman Arthur. Goodnight, I hope you rest well." You say sleepily, exhaustion suddenly hitting you as your head hit the pillow. Arthur smiles, climbing into bed and laying down beside you. "Thank you, love. You're quite wonderful. Goodnight and sweet dreams, (F/N)." You smile as sleep over takes you before you could respond. 'He really is a gentleman. I hope we can become better friends, maybe more one day. Maybe...' Was the last thing you remember thinking before being completely overtaken by sleep. Flying Mint Bunny curled up near some of the plushies on your bed, happy her friend seemed to have found someone he could connect with so quickly. Her curiosity finally about this person seemed to finally pay off with this meeting earlier that day. She was grateful to finally meet this curious (h/c) finally after seeing them pass through the forest so often.

Note: This was inspired by a friend's suggestion for the plot. They had no idea what fandom it was for, the only premise given was "cute fluffy shit" xD to which they responded with "a curious bunny." Which wasn't really mentioned till the end, slightly cause I forgot but oh well. It's in there and makes it seem like Flying Mind Bunny is some kind of adorable mastermind lmao

[ego-meliorem-esse]

July 13th, 1917

Be it from a sense of paternal concern or simply patriotic duty, Arthur made sure to leave his soldiers in the charge of an older Corporal and made his way to the quite pathetic excuse of a medical section where his son was left to rot.

Arthur had heard about the attack. He had been informed the day prior.

He had seen war and famine and sickness, but never like this. Arthur wasn't young, in any sense, and what wonders and strong political oppinions young men had, had left him a long time ago like a ship leaving the harbour in a hury to claim new land. This though, had left shock echoing within his tired, millenia old frame. He wasn't used to this.

Arthur made his way through the trenches with soldiers from every corner of the globe instantly stopping whatever they were doing prior and saluting him as if etiquette and rank mattered in hell. As if it was more importaint to greet the Higher ups than to survive long enough to even write a letter back to family. Arthur did understand that though. Routine and rules were the only thing keeping these poor and wretched souls from being consumed by thoughts of an imminent death.

The path to the section where Matthew was held was quite straightforward and quite familiar. He had marched to and from it hundreds of times and had a sort of automatic rithm in his step. Arthur made his way to the small and damp room with a fast pace indicative of familiarity, only to stop in his tracks in the shabbily built doorframe at the sight that awaited him in the corner.

Matthew sat in the corner of the sad makeshift medical section of the trenches, his back firm against the cold, damp wall.

His once-piercing blue-grey eyes were now clouded over with milky white cataracts, rendering him completely blind. The newly used gas had stolen his sight. His skin, once tanned and healthy, now bore the sickly pallor of a much older man who had endured unimaginable suffering.

Matthew's uniform, discarded in favour of his worn down undershirt, was now a tattered and stained relic of his time in the trenches. The not-white-anymore shirt clung to his emaciated frame as if decency still mattered in hell. The physical toll of the war was clear on his body. Not that Matthew would have to worry about seeing that any time soon. His hands, which had once held a rifle with resolve, now trembled even while resting on his thighs.

Despite his physical and emotional anguish, Matthew remained seated upright, his back pressed against the unforgiving, stained wall. A testament to his resilience if there was any left, a silent protest against the horrors that had taken his sight and left him broken in body and spirit.

As he sat there, his spirit reduced to a hollow shell, Matthew's face bore a mixed expression of utter defeat and complete indifference. His lips were drawn into a thin, lifeless line, and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight of his suffering. His blank, unseeing eyes stared into the abyss, as if waiting for answers and also hoping they'd never arrive.

In that moment, Matthew was not a representation of Canada; he was a young man who had been scarred and broken by the senseless brutality of war. The trenches around him buzzed with activity, but he remained isolated in his silent world of darkness and despair. The young medics job was done. He had patched Matthew up and left him to his own misery. Matthew was grateful.

Arthur stood there silently under the doorframe for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. A strange and unfamiliar twinge of emotion plucked and pulled on his conscience. He hadn't felt guilt in quite some time. This feeling was reserved for drunken nights spent in solitude with the doors to the room he resided in firmly locked so that his sliver of self-deprecating emotion wasn't witnessed by any but himself, while he drunk himself to unconsciousness.

He preferred the emotional solitude to this.

Arthur had believed himself to be capable of most things. Especially conversation and confrontation. He was quite good at those as centuries of existence had proved. He believed himself quite skilful with words. Most of the time he knew what to say and when to say it without it resulting in unwanted and unforeseen consequences, while still making sure his opinion was heard.

Arthur had no words forming as he stood in that doorframe. If Arthur was a good man, his reasoning would be that he felt such strong empathy and sadness that words wouldn't be enough to express the sorrow he felt at that moment. If Arthur was a good man he'd run to his son, assure him that this wouldn't happen ever again and that he was safe. If Arthur was a good man he would fall on his knees in front of his oldest son and beg for forgiveness.

Arthur wasn't a good man.

He could admit to his shortcomings, but to act on them was not in his nature.

So he stood there for another 5 or 6 minutes watching his son shallowly breathe in and out, hearing the boys lungs struggle to keep up with his muscles contraction and need for air.

He must have made a noise, as Matthew's head tilted slightly to the left, almost looking at Arthur but definitely not seeing him. Arthur looked back at him.

The room was quiet, save for the desperate plea of Matthews lungs to be put out of their misery.

Sensing nothing after a few moments, Matthew turned his head back towards the blank wall ahead.

Arthur silently turned his frame around and slowly started walking the path he had taken to get here. As he took a few steps, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

How he longed for that whiskey bottle and that dark room where he could lock himself in and slowly drift out of consciousness instead of facing his own mistakes.

Arthur definitely was not a good man.

[broomcolate]

I randomly wrote a fruk fic purely for the soul, read and don't sneeze

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56280922

[adelheidsideblog]

Allies version of this post since I’m two hours into a five hour drive and bored 😉

America:

- Alfred has a high libido himself so having a partner that could keep up is a must

- I think he can go a fairly long time but the amount of rounds he can go for varies. (Unless he’s really excited, and then might cum fast, but always makes up for it)

- Definitely down for quickies, and probably has them fairly often

- Very much into public sex, he’s had sex everywhere he’s thought he could get away with it.

- I feel like he’s into edging/gooning, which draws out sessions

- Doesn’t have a lot of toys but very much willing to use them

Canada:

- Almost exactly the same as Alfred but… hornier, if possible

- If anything, you’ll be the one struggling to keep up with him

- Has to cum to go to sleep, and has to cum to start his day off

- He can get away with riskier public sex because he isn’t noticed as much

- Also really gets off to getting his partner off. There are some sessions where he uses his mouth or fingers to get his partner off multiple times but doesn’t cum himself

England:

- Doesn’t have the highest libido, but rarely turns down the offer for sex

- In his relationships he probably initiates 40% of the time, and his partner has to initiate the other 60%

- Now that he’s older I think the pace is slower, but he lasts long. I don’t think he can go for very many rounds though, 3 rounds on a good day.

- If he isn’t in the mood for fully penetrative sex he might have his partner put on a show for him (which ends in penetration 50% of the time)

- Unless he’s drunk he doesn’t like full public sex but is willing to use his hands on his partner in public

- Another one who likes to cum to help him sleep

France:

- Like England, he’s slowed down a little in his old age

- Higher libido but I think he probably has a hard time cumming, so he also lasts a while

- Medium paced. He can be rough or gentle, depending on what he thinks his partner would enjoy more.

- Lives for his partner’s orgasms. Won’t even think of cumming til he knows his partner is satisfied.

- Another munch (and is really good at it)

- I think he likes quickies but doesn’t prefer them. Especially in public.

- For the most part he’s great for a high libido partner! His love language is physical touch, so it makes him feel appreciated.

Russia:

- Unless he’s drunk, Ivan is almost always dtf

- I can see him being a pleasure dom, so he would strive to get his partner off as much as they needed

- You might be in over your head with this one. He’ll make you cum until you’re begging him to stop

- In modern days he lives alone, so he’s willing to get adventurous with where has sex inside his house but is iffy on sex anywhere else

- Has a lot of stamina, and can go for 1-4 rounds depending on what his partner needs

- Doesn’t really own or see the need for toys but if his partner really is desperate he might tie them up and leave them on a sybian til they scream

China:

- Gives you lots of grief about how he’s too old to keep up, but don’t be fooled

- Yao needs to feel needed, so having a high libido partner boosts his confidence

- Tends to go for one or two longer rounds

- I think he’s really into morning sex. It might even be his favorite.

- Another one that will make you cum til you beg him to stop

- Is really into hand stuff: if he’s in the mood he’s likely to slip his hands in your pants out of boredom

[thepinkdreamganjaqueen]

🫧 PINK DREAM GANJA QUEEN MASTERLIST 🫧

I will be linking all future works here. You can also find me on Ao3.

Be sure to check back, support, and above all, enjoy!! -Pinkxxx

🩷Arthur Fleck (Joker)

SUBWAY OBSESSIONS (ARTHURS POV)

〰️Chapter 1

〰️Chapter 2

〰️Chapter 3 NEW✨️

SUBWAY OBSESSIONS (FEM READERS POV)

〰️Chapter 1

〰️Chapter 2

〰️Chapter 3 NEW✨️

🩷Homelander (The Boys)

〰️Run Rabbit

🩷Randall Kirkland (From)

〰️Focus On Me

🩷Stiles Stilinski (Teen Wolf)

〰️The Problem With Portals

Hello, fellow fanfic lovers and writers!

I'm Pinkxxx!! Taurus. Artist. Writer. Stoner. PNW born and raised. Avid hiker. Carl Sagan is my dude! Love looking at the stars any chance I get. I love hello kitty and heavy metal. Helping people for a living during the day, probably writing smut at night.

🎀FAVORITE FANDOMS🎀

-The Boys

-Joker/Arthur Fleck

-From (MGM+)

-American Horror Story

-Teen Wolf (MTV)

-The Last Of Us

-Interview With The Vampire (AMC)

-Twilight

-Beetlejuice

-Scream

-Doctor Who

-The Originals

-House Of The Dragon

-The Vampire Diaries

-True Blood

I would love to do some kind of fic for each of these ideally. I am also interested in the more supernatural stuff like the Mothman, Skinwalkers, Slenderman, Ghosts, Cthulhu, and Aliens if that would interest anyone. I might just do it anyway, though tbh. 👀

-Venom

I am new to tumblr and new to fanfic, so if anyone wants to reach out with comments or tips or just to say hey! I'd love to hear it!

🎀Please be nice.🎀

[fizzycherrycola]

FrUK, July 1920

A lover's quarrel at the beach, under the bright summer sun.

Warnings: Alcohol, post-WWI thoughts, and France is 100% naked

Grey Seaside

Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920

The soft croon of the Atlantic blankets the senses; rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. Seagulls cry out, breaking the ocean's harmony with their noise. England stares, unfocused, at the cross-hatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.   

Sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.

Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirm England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?    

Ah, right, Bastille Day.

For a whole week, France pestered and nagged him about this little beach picnic to have as a private celebration. What resulted instead was an excursion of nothing but wine and sex. However, if the past months should offer any evidence, it was quite idiotic of England to assume otherwise.

England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. Lying on his belly, France is guzzling the prized alcohol. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow and his back arches upwards like a cat. Upon draining the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasising the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.   

“Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.   

France pauses, his lazy dark lashes blinking open slowly.  

“How can you already be in such a terrible mood?” he sighs. “We are on a private beach.”   

“Only because you insisted.”   

France raises one of his perfect brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being empty. He goes for another. “If you are bored, why not go swimming? The ocean is right there.”

“Not likely.”

“Have you still not learned how to swim?”  

“I know how to swim,” England lies. “...I just didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

An impish smirk splits France’s lips. “I do not see how that is a problem, when you can go in the nude.” 

England gags. “Absolutely not.”

“But you were naked just moments ago, weren’t you?”

“That's entirely different.”

“Free yourself from the chains of modesty and embrace the au naturel lifestyle.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Then, tell me. Why did you not bring your bathing suit?”  

“I didn’t pack one for a trip to Paris, funnily enough. And after we suddenly left for your estate in the countryside, I didn’t have a chance to buy one, did I? I had no idea you’d insist on visiting a beach.”

“Again, I did not insist. You came of your own accord.” 

“Bollocks.” 

France pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mon Dieu, either you can tell me what is upsetting you, or we can argue in circles for the rest of the day. What would you prefer, hmm?”   

England glares and they lock eyes with one another. His French opponent is perfectly unimpressed; deadpan on the edge of a blade. So still and sculpted that he could be mistaken for a Renaissance statue, if not for his wine-flushed cheeks and dramatic chest hair. The gaze is one that was perfected in the court of Versailles, which caused many proud courtiers to buckle and spill their deepest secrets.  

To England's credit, he is wholly capable of rebuffing that look for days (and has done so, on several past occasions). But perhaps it's the salty ocean air, the refreshing wind that has calmed to a whistling breeze, or the fruity buzz of alcohol. For whatever reason, he relents, tossing his hat away into the nearby clump of marram grass and scowling at the feathery clouds above. 

Admittedly, France did pick a nice spot: a beach that lies on the most Western part of his personal sprawling winery. With an expanse of bright sand and rustling grasses, it’s a gorgeous place to frivolously squander a few short hours, or in their case, a few perilously long months.

“You’re aware,” England states flatly, “that we’re shagging as a way of putting off issues back home.”   

The pause in the atmosphere is palpable.  

“...And?” France eventually asks.  

“And we shouldn’t still be here.”   

France laughs incredulously; a trill that rises in pitch to match the gulls around them. “Why not? Speak for yourself, Angleterre, but I believe that I deserve an extensive intermission from my government.”    

Setting his glass down, he stretches and enters England’s field of vision. Pockmarked skin spans the landscape of his body; fresh shrapnel divots and bullet craters, not yet a decade old, pepper across it. Somehow, by the grace of God, the Germans missed his precious face. “I am going to stay in this exquisite locale for as long as I wish. Then, when at last I’m satisfied, I will return to Paris, but not a moment sooner. Monsieur Deschanel can reign while I’m absent.”   

He crawls forward, his manhood dangling carelessly between his legs, and reaches for the wicker basket. After a moment of shuffling, he produces a chunk of Livarot cheese and a small paring knife. England gapes, his mouth watering almost immediately, and he pushes himself up with a start.    

“Hang on! You brought food?” he says.    

“Of course. I said this was a picnic, no?”    

“We’ve had nothing but wine all day! Why didn’t you take it out sooner? What else have you got?”   

France slices off a sliver of the creamy cheese and eats it right off the knife. “Mmm. A bit of pain de campagne and some grapes that my vintner decided are not good for making wine. They are probably too sweet.”   

“Well, pass the basket here,” England demands. 

“...Typically, everyone who attends a piquenique is required to bring at least one dish.”  

“No, it’s called a picnic, and we’re on your estate. You’re the host.”

“I think your favourite ‘Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Politeness’ says otherwise. You should have brought food to share.”  

“The customs of last century no longer apply.” England juts out his open hand. “Give it here.”  

France snorts. “Ask politely and I will consider it.”    

England glowers. 

His lover plops himself cross-legged right in front of the lunch basket and slices yet another piece of cheese. And this one, France eats slowly. His lips part, revealing a glimpse of teeth and tongue that delicately pull the morsel from the silvery blade. Deep indigo eyes goad England, flickering with a fervid intensity that borders on seductive. England’s stomach rumbles and the thrum of his pulse quickens, wavering on what, exactly, he may be hungry for.   

It's the food, of course. Just the food. 

His muscles and nerves are alert. The basket is barely beyond his reach. He glances at the paring knife and hesitates. Despite his shared tumultuous history with France, his likelihood of being stabbed should be on the lower end these days, given the Entente and recent wartime cooperation. Not to mention the rekindling of a perpetually unnamed, possibly mutual, bone-deep sentimentality, as of late. 

...Should be safe enough, then.  

He darts for the basket. The knife hits the picnic quilt. A palm comes up to squash England’s nose, and an arm wraps around his torso. Drunkenly fumbling, he stretches his hand out as far as it will go. Fingertips brush the basket’s rough wicker wood. Then blunt force hits his knee, throws his balance, and France wrenches him back. Sand flies as they grapple. Elbows jab into joints and feet scramble for purchase. Until France manages to lock England in an awkward hold. 

“I think,” France grunts, “that I am still more accustomed to wine than you are.” 

The world wobbles. Tasting sweat, England grits his teeth and twists. But the move is counterproductive, and he finds his head mashed into France’s inner thigh. 

“Get off,” he groans.  

France chokes out a laugh. “Aren’t you more comfortable in this position?”  

A colourful kaleidoscope of profanities launch out of England. His cheek is flattened against France’s pliant skin and he can practically taste the olive oil from earlier; a staple lubricant that the frog always has on hand. The grassy vegetable scent fills his sinuses, swirling through his nostrils and burrowing into the back of his skull. Beneath it, lingers the salty aroma of sex, pungent and merciless as it settles low in his belly. France coos at him. “Why don’t you tell me what is wrong, hmm? If it is something physical, I can help you make it better.”   

England does not shiver. Instead, he clamps down on his treacherous libido and wriggles free with a quick twist, straining his core muscles. Away from that maddening odour, he gasps and glares. 

“Just tell me when you’re headed back.”

France blinks, raising both of his brows. “I haven’t decided.”

“You honestly have no plans for when you want to return?”   

“No, I do not. Do you wish to leave?”   

“Did I say that?”

The basket is close. England snatches a thick slice of pain-de-wotsit, shoves the fluffy bread in his mouth, then flops back onto his side of the blanket. A wisp of grey cloud blocks out the sun and England recalls all the wretched things that await him in London: from paperwork on the national debt, to rising unemployment, to an ongoing rebellion. No, he absolutely does not wish to return any time soon. Who in their right mind would?

“Is that what you were worried about?” France tuts, shaking out his wrists. “That our excursion might be ending soon?” 

“Worried?” England mutters around a mouthful of crunchy crust. “Why would I–? No. Any half-responsible nation with a taxpaying public should know what day their pornographic sabbatical ends.”

“Tu cherches la petite bête….”

“Ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”

“Then, why did you not even ask?”

“...Just leave it.”

France exhales through his nose and stands. “Very well!”

“Where are you going?”

“You have drained every last drop of my patience, so I am leaving you here to rot.” Wobbling slightly, France stretches both arms to the sky. “I am going to go swimming!” 

England sits up. “You can’t go swimming, you’re still sloshed.”

France stumbles, splaying his arms for balance. “My vacation will not be ruined by a petulant Englishman. I am going to enjoy myself and neither you nor a Cabernet Sauvignon will stop me. And keep the basket; you may have as much of my homemade bread as you wish!” He lurches away, keeping his gaze locked on his feet as though each step he takes requires deliberate concentration.

“Oi!”

“Au revoir, Angleterre! I will find a fish, or a scallop, and it will be better company than you.”

With France meandering, he begins to slowly shrink into the distance. His details fade, starting with the stray glimpses of hazel in his blonde curls, and continuing to the moles on his hip bones, the dips in his backside, and the jagged pale scars splitting his tanned skin. He wanders naked across the shimmering sands, alone, and England’s stomach twists. A mouthful of bread sits on his tongue, thick and buttery.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. His conscience worms its way around his neck, weighing down his shoulders and chest as though they were made of wrought iron. What is he to do, though? How is he meant to act when months, not hours or days, but months are squandered in a bizarre, French caricature of Eden. And all that time has been spent… cohabiting. Cohabiting in secret, like a pair of newlyweds that elope in the scandalous climax of a Jane Austen novel.

It was that damn war — the conflict that upended everything. By the time it ended, France had become forlorn, silent, and despondent. England visited him, frequently finding excuses to travel to Paris. He would nag France about his wretched health, and then tidy up the Baroque flat, all under the pretence of: “If you look miserable in front of our peers, then it’s a hassle for me as well.” But there were no pretences when they kissed at France’s bedside and spent the rest of the afternoon under his duvet, nor when England followed him to Bordeaux. 

Even now, the surprise on France’s face at the train station is still crystal clear: his coral flushed cheeks framing wide eyes. There was a handkerchief in his hand and tears were staining his lashes; he’d been crying.

Groaning, England presses his hands to his temples. What is he doing? Why would anyone have a fit in his situation? Sipping wine, lazing on a beach, the blue midsummer sky rising over the horizon…. He must be insane. He must be a twat who cannot enjoy any good thing without a heaping dose of self-sabotage.

He swallows the bread, and forces just a smidge of his pride down with it. “Come back here!” England barks. There’s still a frown anchoring his features, but can’t seem to be rid of it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he tries again. “France!”

France is halfway to the ocean when he stops and whips around. His glare is… not deadly. Though his head is tilted low, like a wild ram before charging, and his lips are pressed wire-thin, he’s still significantly less ferocious than he was after Trafalgar. England’s mind races through twelve different options, before choosing pragmatism. “If you swim right now,” he says, “you’ll just drown. The current will pull you out and you’ll be too drunk to know which way the shore is. It’s the Atlantic, not a lake.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” France mocks, his distant voice ringing above the ocean surf. “Is my English gentleman concerned for me?” Heat rises to England’s face, but France forges ahead before he can consider a response. “I have been drunk before! I know these waters, and unlike some,” he stabs a finger at England, “I know how to swim.”

“That– That doesn’t matter!” England retorts. “You’ll still get tossed about by the waves, and then I’ll have to find a bloody boat, and drag you back here, if you’re not dead. And if you are, you’ll wash ashore someplace a hundred miles down the coast, and frighten the living Christ out of an entire nunnery when you return to life!”

A pause, filled only by the obnoxious squawking of seagulls.

“Why a nunnery?!” France cries.

“...It was the first thing I thought of.” The warmth in England’s cheeks has spread to his ears. He averts his gaze. “Look, just get back here!”

“Non.”

“Wh–!”

“I told you that I am going to swim!”

Nose in the air, France performs an about-face and continues his graceless march towards the water.

Grumbling, England snatches his skimmer hat and staggers to his feet. “Stubborn wine bastard…. Why even bother trying to be reasonable with the French?” He takes off after his stupid companion, jogging and keeping a tight grip of the hat so it won’t blow away in the wind. His feet mash into the ruthless sand, sapping what little speed and balance his drunken limbs can manage.

France glances over his shoulder, and for a half second, they make eye contact. Then, he breaks into a clumsy sprint. England gapes. “Oh, for the love of–!”

He gives chase, his legs pumping in a disjointed rhythm and flinging sand in their wake. His body is listing this way and that. Closing in on France’s blurry form, both arms reach out. Then, he makes contact, right at the shore and his arms snap shut tightly around France’s torso.

The sound that escapes France is akin to that of a startled rooster being tossed across a circus tent by an acrobat. A flurry of French expletives follows and he kicks out his legs in a naked whirlwind. England braces his feet in the wet sand. They struggle and spin, water swirling at their ankles, dangerously teetering in every direction at once. 

An elbow smashes into England’s liver, sending a burst of pain through his side. One more strong jerk and his balance is gone. In a spiral of vertigo, the coastline topples over. 

His back hits the sea. Warm salt water floods his nostrils. Immediately, he releases his grip on the frog and pushes himself out, gagging. He is drenched. The muggy sand squishes between his toes in a lovely impression of a mediaeval latrine. Cursing, he spits the Atlantic out of his mouth and crawls backwards out of the surf.

France coughs and groans somewhere nearby. And then he’s in England’s lap, aggressively. Soaking wet and heavy, France straddles him and yanks a string of foamy seaweed from his bangs. “What are you doing, Angleterre?” 

England snorts, then chokes when the action drags more water into his lungs.

“I am preventing an international incident,” he wheezes, squinting against the salt stinging his tear ducts. “Or maybe I’m stopping you from committing self-murder by drowning, whichever you’d like.”

France gives him a look, his sapphire irises sharpening into little daggers, still capable of reading minds even behind the sluggishness of alcohol. An intrusive thought pops into England’s head: of splashing him with a wad of salty beach muck, however at this point, that action may trigger an armed conflict and they are both trying to cut back. After a moment, France clicks his tongue and seems to make a decision.

“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, shuffling his hips to sit more comfortably in England’s lap. “And then, if you are still being unreasonable, you may spend tonight in the stables. I do not care.”

“...Sorry, what?”

“Pay attention. I remember.… On my last day in Paris before I decided to come to Bordeaux, I received a letter.”

England feels a dull weight settle into every muscle of his body. “Oh, come on.”

“It was on a Sunday, I think. Or was it Monday…? No, it was Sunday. I thought it was strange, because how often does mail arrive on a Sunday?” 

“Is this another of your philosophical sermons?” 

France flicks England’s forearm. “No, now listen to me.” 

“Fine.” England crosses his arms and does his best to ignore the sogginess of his union suit.

“This envelope was pale with sharp corners, as if it was delivered by hand. Also, it was sealed with the Grand Sceau. So, tell me. Can you guess who sent it?” England knits his brows with the utmost patience. The question hangs in the air before France answers it himself. “The letter came from my president… and he was suggesting that I join the army occupying the Rhineland.” 

England blinks. “What?”

France nods. “Mmm. Well, it was not truly a suggestion; those things never are. But as soon as I read that letter, I knew I needed time away.”

“The Rhineland?”

“Oui.”

“...Was that why you wanted to leave Paris in such a hurry?”

He, too, recalls that morning, when he awoke in France's flat to the smell of smoke. Jumping out of bed, he ran downstairs only to find that there was a letter burning in the oven. And a moment later, France was pushing past him, with fury and heartbreak on his face as he tossed clothing into his trunk. It was bewildering at the time, and they’d nearly had a row over it, but now like a puzzle, it all clicks together.

“Our politicians will have us back eventually, but there is no need for us to rush. We owe them absolutely nothing.” France’s eyes are nearly vacant, as they were in 1918, when he was a husk devoid of his familiar pride and wit. “In a handful of years, we gave enough blood to turn my lovely farmland, my pastures, into swamps. So, they may wait patiently, while we enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”

England can’t help the response that flies past his lips. “Well, you’ve certainly been doing that.”

A wide smile cracks France’s frozen features and redraws warmth into his being. “Naturally. And perhaps, by the grace of a god I no longer believe in, there is a chance that I can rediscover some of the happiness I lost.”

No words come to England immediately. He turns over this shard of new information in his mind, scrutinising how it slots into the ever-changing mosaic of his companion’s soul.

France raises his arms to rest them on England’s shoulders. “There you go. That is why I am here, and why I will not be leaving anytime soon. Now, how about you, hm?” 

“What?”

“Do you have anything to say?” His dangling hands are tracing circles on England’s spine. “An explanation, or perhaps, an admission you would like to make?”

England squints. “...Nothing comes to mind.”

“Are you sure?” France prods, shifting his hips closer, leaning in, water glistening off his skin, in the curve of his smile. “Then, maybe, I will make a suggestion? Is there anything else you are here for… other than a rendezvous?”

England scoffs. Suddenly, France is much too close and his playful grin is bordering on mischievous. 

“I ought to toss you back in the ocean.”

France responds by brushing his nose along England’s cheek. “Indulge me.” 

The hairs on the back of England’s neck stand at attention. Retreating to the picnic quilts would be an uncomplicated solution, if not for the very naked man straddling his lap and nuzzling his face, his ear, his throat. So, finding his trusted skimmer hat, England lies back, and plops it over his eyes. It’s riddled with droplets of beach muck. 

“You've indulged plenty.”

“...You are not going to sleep.”

“I am.”

France lets out a quick, birdlike chirp. “In the wet sand?”

“I slept in the trenches; I can manage this easily.”

“You– You are absurd. No. You are being sincere. You– How?” France releases a series of half-sentences, like a combustion engine failing to start, before breaking down into a fit of hysteric giggles. Something hard presses into England’s chest, likely France’s forehead, and the laughter goes on for far longer than it has any right to, becoming almost melodic as it peters out. Dragging his hands across England’s front, he draws messy shapes in the cotton union suit. “The most stubborn, unfashionable fool in the world….”

“Come off it.” 

“You cannot blame me for being curious,” France sings, “Perhaps one day, you will indulge me. Don’t you think that would be nice?” He punctuates the question with his fingertips, peppering pinpricks of warmth over England’s chest.

Because responding only encourages more teasing, more laughter, and more cumbersome fondling, England bites back the urge to say ‘never’. He is rewarded when silence mercifully falls on their conversation, which is not disappointing. It is, in fact, good. He does not need France’s musical glee nor any further exposure. 

Their simple back and forth relations throughout history are sufficient, swinging with time’s pendulum and the whims of their people. After centuries of constant presence, familiarity is expected, but too much openness is risky. Pleasure and leisure can be fine, in controlled doses, and far within whatever standardised, unspoken framework they have concocted along the plunging annals of immortality. But, a line has to be drawn. As it is now, they are playing with fire, tiptoeing around the edges of a wide pit filled with something unmarked and… intimidating.

A shift, and suddenly, sunlight pierces England’s eyes. The hat is snatched away. He opens his mouth to complain, but France captures it, swallowing any protests through a pair of firm, ardent lips.

Old instinct snaps at England to catch those lips between his teeth, so he does, nipping hard enough to signal offence, while a newer instinct holds his strength in check. Damp champagne hair dances across his cheekbones, France’s beard scratches his chin; it is dizzying how quickly his focus converges on those sensations, how his breath steadies beneath them, slowly melting both objections and barricades. Already drunk, and a bottle of gin is gushing down his throat.

Slipping a clever tongue inside, France thoroughly explores England’s mouth as if it is a novel experience, as if they have not done this a hundred thousand times. The tang of red wine mingles with the savoury, earthiness of Livarot. Below all of it though, tucked away under the many aromas and elements of France’s being, lies unmistakably a floral incense – some quiet bouquet found along the river Lys.

Eyelids weakening, one of England’s arms hesitates midair, a last ditch effort made by either reasoning or dignity, before it falls between France’s shoulder blades and drags him down, crushing their chests together. The wind is sucked from England’s lungs, his union sticks to his skin and crumples, bound by their bodies.

A pair of knuckles touch his temple, then curl to thumb his jaw; so gentle, it borders on frightening. Gradually, France’s tongue slows. Unhurried and tender, taking his time, as if to extract every inch of pleasure, every grain of want.  

Warm water crashes at their feet, and the kiss finally breaks. England sucks in a gasp of air, heart thrumming behind his ribs. 

“There is some oil still left,” France murmurs.

A matchstick strikes in England’s belly. He groans, his toes curling.   

“Again?”

France’s teeth graze the shell of his ear. “You don’t want to?”

“We’re soaked to the bone.” 

“The towels are just there,” France breathes. “We can dry off.”

He pours a river of kisses along England’s skin, anything bare he can reach, and England turns to him, meeting dark, hungry eyes. They promise carnal ecstasy and pain, should things continue to his liking. Like a creature of greed, he licks a hot, wet trail along England’s clavicle and bites his jugular, pressing his tongue to England’s rising pulse. And a thrill of anticipation shoots down the curve of his spine, arching his back. 

This is where it always goes. A knot of irritation tangles itself in the back of England’s sex-drunk head at how pathetically easy this is. How his body (and heart) fucking yearns for it. Since arriving at the winery, they’ve gone at it every single day, wrenching their perverse fantasies into the light of dawn. By now, France has become a drug, in his veins more than the alcohol, or the laudanum he abuses when the shell shock tremors won’t cease. 

Those talented hands wander everywhere, leaving behind trails of fire. They run through England’s hair, across his ribs, and then those fingers slip through the first two buttons of his union and England’s self-restraint fizzles out. The world is warm and pleasant. What was it that France said earlier? That they could ‘regain some of the happiness they had lost.’

Wrapping a hand behind his lover’s neck, England pulls that sinful mouth impossibly closer. “You’re insatiable.”

He can feel France smiling on his skin, and cannot bring himself to mind at all.

  —

For some reason, the picnic quilt feels softer, like lying on a bed of clouds. 

Wind dances across the beach, rustling its tall grasses in the silence left behind by the gulls, long since vanished. England relishes the ache in his bones, deeply satiated as he drinks in the raw afterglow and the weight of France’s head on his chest. His quiet breath comes in steady puffs, tickling England’s sternum, and his body is a cool shield from the sun, still balmy as it hints orange and signals the end of the afternoon. 

This place is cathartic, and England tries to allow the seaside to permeate him, while it can. He follows the rolling waves in his ears, the salty ocean spray in his lungs. It’s a pleasant escape, maybe even a beautiful one. Such a shame that it will not last. 

As in the paraphrased scribblings of Geoffrey Chaucer, all good things must come to an end. Sun-swept beaches, lush vineyards, and France’s laughter will soon evaporate into the suffocating cough that is London’s grey smog. Normality calls, incessantly, with government paperwork and ink-stained sleeves. The only company it offers are the cold walls of Parliament and fluttering phantasms of a war past.

Before his departure, far too long ago, he left his brothers to manage things and when he returns, they will demand answers. If he’s lucky, he’ll get an earful from Scot. Some nonsense about responsibility from a brother who reaps all the benefits of an empire with less than a quarter of the work. However, if England is unlucky, Scot’s tongue-lashing will be far outmatched by the disappointment and distance in Wales’ eyes. One bitter look, and all the hurled verbal abuse becomes devastatingly correct.

An angelic sigh cuts through the fog. “I cannot rest with you like this.” France stirs, glancing up at England, causing his contemplations to crumble.

“What?”

“Your thoughts are too loud.”

England pauses. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You do not need to.” France shifts to face him. His eyes are calm.

In the space of a few heartbeats, England sighs. Words stick to his throat as he tries to say something, anything, and doesn’t. Then, working his jaw, he tries again.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he manages. “I’m simply not looking forward to the wretched tedium when I return home.” It is an understatement, helped along by the alcohol, but it’s the best he can do.

“Then, do not go there yet.” France cups England’s face in both hands. “Why think about this today? We still have time, no? Then, you should stay. Let yourself rest and be present. Not in the past or future, but here, in this moment.”

Rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. France’s golden hair haloes as it catches the sunlight and England, mesmerised, laces his sunburnt fingers within it. His lover’s skin is full and healthy, filling up the once prominent hollows that lingered after the war. Stray patches of stubble sprout from his cheeks; the aftermath of an uneven shave this morning. England devours the view, burning the image into his retinas before it vanishes in smoke, because no peace between them has ever lasted. What will happen when his tryst ends? Which of them will tear up the Entende first? “Stay,” France repeats, softer.

England’s throat is as dry as kindling. The familiar hands framing his face, their texture echoes a millennia of life, and his chest tightens. As if they are reaching across the Channel and back through time, diving under to grasp his soul. He can feel himself – toes scraping the edge of the pit, pebbles tumbling in – on the precipice of a thousand dangerous feelings, bubbling up from his core in a thick slurry. Too much, and he falters, fingertips trembling. Taking France’s warm palm, he presses his lips to it, and maybe the gesture will say whatever he cannot.

A thumb brushes his cheekbone.

“Stop it,” England whispers. “You’re being too bloody emotional.”

The trace of a smile appears on France’s lovely face and he draws closer, eyelids fluttering. “Oh, I am being emotional?”

England breathes his answer on France’s lips. “Yes.”

They lock together in a kiss, another one of the thousands that came before it. An ocean cascade, surging overhead, drowning him in selfish contentment and bottomless indulgence. All concerns and burdens and regrets wash away, leaving only this. Paradise. 

It’s everything he needs.

End / Fin  

~~~

Author’s Notes  

Union vests were typical undergarments popular in the 1920s. Around then, the new “sleeveless, short leg” style was made to allow men to stay cool in the summer.  

Monsieur Deschanel served briefly as the President of France from 18 February – 21 September 1920.  

There is absolutely no estate in the Bordeaux wine region that is large enough to reach the Atlantic Ocean. I made that up for the story. Please kindly overlook my poor geography.  

The etiquette guide’s full title is: ‘The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness’. It was printed in 1860. The book is still in circulation, and you can find copies of it online.  

Pain de campagne is a type of French sourdough bread.

Trafalgar was a naval battle in the Napoleonic wars, with the British on one side, and France and Spain on the other. It was a decisive British victory, with the allies losing 22 warships and the British losing none.

The Rhineland is a loosely defined area in Western Germany which was occupied by Allied forces following WWI. The purpose of this was for security against a renewed German attack, and to serve as a guarantee for war reparations.

Laudanum was a ten percent solution of opium powder in ethanol, and was historically used to treat a variety of medical issues. Today, it is recognised as an addictive substance and is heavily regulated throughout the world.

[headingalaxys-spicy]

"Become my Doll" Yandere! England X Reader Oneshot drabble.

Not incredibly explicit. But mentions alcohol and kidnapping so like not for all readers.

Synopsis: Drunk in a bar, lost in a haze, vulnerable to manipulation of the magic British man. He’s had a long-standing obsession with you, and now he’s going to capture you. 

Yet another lonely night where you had no desire to go home. You wanted to do nothing but forget your difficult day: rude people, too many food orders at once, and a plethora of stupid comments and questions that came your way. 

You wanted to scream, you wanted to yell, you wanted to wring someone out for lacking empathy for you as you struggled throughout your day. Being in the serving industry was a pain. 

All you had was your papers, pens, & penicillin drink that was halfway finished due to the alcohol sweetly numbing your nerves. You could forget about the troubles plaguing your life. You were blissfully unaware of the emerald eyes that had attached themselves to you. They surveyed your every labored move that was coated with sadness. Every minute that passed by as you were mindlessly scrolling your social media or looking through the 30K+ photos saved to your phone that you could use for your next art piece. You’d get sucked in by one of the colorful pictures of your past, wondering how you’d gotten from there to here. 

The rabbit hole you’d fallen into had just begun. One of your favorite songs started to play before the chaos of the world pervaded your life in every way. 

As you decided to dive into your interests when you were younger and happier. Old cartoons were the first thing that appeared in your mind's eye. All the early morning weekend days that held all the nostalgic imported works mainly from Japan, maybe one or two from Italy and France. The bright colors that had attached themselves to each outfit. Your mind wandered off to episodes that you liked the most. You picked up your pencil & pulled your your reference board on Pinterest. You got to work. Music from the show of the past filled your ears for the majority of the night. 

Blissfully unaware of the danger you were in. You were in treacherous waters. The alcohol in your system only made you more susceptible to the risks on the horizon. 

Eyes that were only a few tables off. 

Said eyes that were attached had summoned a cute magical being. Its mint wings fluttered and flicked. The tail and fuzzy ears perked up to meet his master's command. He snapped his fingers. The flying bunny immediately knew it was time to carry out his task. The creature perched himself on your shoulder. Of course, you were oblivious to the magical being since you lacked the gift to see it at all. 

The British Gentleman in his pressed black suit had the clear advantage. Arthur enjoyed taking in your beautiful face, just like the gin that was intoxicating him. 

He let his eyes wander back to the ancient spell, which he reread a few more times. He even used his pointer finger to underline the words. Arthur wanted to perform this spell with precision and perfection. He silently whispered the words. 

The papers below his finger began to glow faintly. The crimson light brimmed over with how intense his emotions were for you. However, he had to continue to keep it under wraps, or he risked botching the spell. 

You’d just completed your sketch & you were ready to set down your pen lines. You had noticed that your left shoulder felt somewhat heavy. It was time to get up and refresh your body as you downed the rest of your cocktail in two gulps. Your eyes wandered around the bar, and you stretched your stiff limbs out. When they landed on a figure of a British man that you were sure you’d seen before. 

However, your memories of meeting him before were covered in a thick brain fog. You didn’t flinch like you would have before. You were at most only 1% sure you’d met him before. Even still, your heart still trembled a bit. 

‘No, no I’ve had a couple of drinks….I’m overthinking it.’ You reassure yourself. You catch the bartender's attention to get a glass of sparkling water. You wandered over to the large open windows that let in the late evening air. You allowed the crisp night air to fill your lungs. The atmosphere began to feel a little suffocating. Black spots occasionally dotted your vision. You swore you’d felt an invisible hand playfully draw a line down your back. 

When you whipped your head around to see how that happened, there was no patron nearby. 

Your left shoulder felt like it had a heavy weight on it. The eyes that were on you felt as though they were devouring the sight of you greedily. You dared not to turn your head back to look at the British Man who continued to read silently. Even though his back was to you, it felt like he had eyes in the back of his head. 

‘It’s okay Y/N. Breathe. Breathe.’ You reassure yourself. You slow down your breathing by taking in deep five-second inhales & five-second exhales. Booze, cologne & the smell of aged oakwood filled your nostrils. All these scents combined were familiar and comforting. 

Your senses were put into a higher state of alertness when a waft of ‘Penhaligon’s The Tragedy of Lord George.’ Plugged your nose. You recognized this aroma. It made the hairs on your neck stand on high. Your nervous system was set on red alert. 

“AY YO! Y/N ! Y/N! WE’RE TAKING A SHOT!” Your bartender friend snapped you out of your traverse to the subconscious truth that you were having a difficult time gaining access to. It just quite couldn’t break through the surface as you walk back to your seat at the edge of the bar. You noticed that the British man had now occupied the seat that was right next to yours. He was admiring your sketch work. 

“What’s the occasion?” You ask curiously. “I got you a shot, love. Cheers to you & your talents.” He had a smooth, buttery British accent that transformed people into steamy vapors. It disarmed your nervous system to a degree, but not entirely. You were still on alert. 

Your face became thoroughly flushed at the sweet compliment & gesture. Your bartender friend slid you (insert favorite spirit here). The bartender, along with the handsome British man, raised their shot glasses & you followed suit. 

“Cheers!” The glasses clink together & you toss it back in one swift gulp. You could have sworn there was an obscure and peculiar aftertaste in your drink. But you’d ignored it for now. Maybe it was due to the last drink you had. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, love. My name is Arthur, and as I came to order my next cocktail, I couldn’t help but notice your lovely sketches.” You couldn’t quite place why it felt as though you were a moth being drawn to a flame, but you sat down next to Arthur anyway. 

“Thanks, I’m self-taught. I enjoy drawing when I’m stressed out or need an escape.” He chuckles and gives you a sly smile. You could have sworn you’d seen a mischievous glint within the pool of his verdant eyes. You know you’ve seen that before, haven’t you? Your mind was still clogged with a thick foggy smoke. Unable to remember why you were uncomfortable…..no somewhat terrified to be near the man sitting right next to you. 

Yet the energy in the air & the alcohol in your system numbs your mind. You were at ease amid the brewing storm. The stiffness you began to feel was back, but it was starting to affect your feet and shins first. The memories that sought to keep you safe couldn’t be assessed due to his flying furry friend keeping your mind in a thick haze, and he began to devour them. 

“You must have been working on it for a long time for it to look this good. Quite exquisite.” As you’d come to sit down, he’d somehow captured your right hand and bestowed a kiss on it. 

Shockwaves of bright electricity swept through you, followed by an instant stiffness that began to take it over. 

‘What’s this feeling that's beginning to take me over?’ It was rather exciting to have the attention of the man with stunning, magical green glowing eyes. Was that hunger you saw within the depths of his orbs? 

“Thank you. Hahaha, it’s not much, but it’s honest work.” You say sheepishly with an attempt at faking confidence with a comedic punch. You noticed a swampy, thick tenseness creeping into the air. You couldn’t help but wonder if you drank over your limit somehow. It felt as though you were now unable to move your shins and feet, and that feeling was beginning to spread more. But since you were relatively inebriated and enjoying your high, you didn’t want to consider it too much. You were out of your depth, and the incoming storm began devouring you like a hungry beast. 

All your mind could really think about was that you still had to line your sketch, think about possible color palettes….. And why did he seem so familiar? Why couldn’t you place your finger on it? 

As the night dragged on, you passively entertained the strangely familiar British man as he droned on about whatever it was. Your body continued to get stiffer progressively. It’s a if you were turning into a doll. You were unable to move your legs at this point and you failed to the glow that was emanating from his book and how it seemed to grow more powerful thought the night. 

Or was that just the alcohol in your system talking?

The familiar calming lull and dizziness of the booze that had engulfed your system. It wasn’t just that it was the powerful magic that was also taking you over. 

It had been a while since you’d spoken to the curious British man….but why had the motion of your Micron stopped moving? You try to move it again, but it’s as if your bones were made of plastic, wood, or stone….. Regardless of how hard you tried, you were unable to move any of your muscles anymore. It was like being in sleep paralysis but much worse. 

“Arthur.” Now that the name has some time to sink in, some of the smog in your brain has been swept away. Important fragments of memories shot up to your consciousness. That was until the mint rabbit grabbed and devoured them. 

It didn’t matter much anyway; much of your mind couldn’t comprehend. 

Your body had been turned into stone. It could only move at the command of the psycho British man. Who now had complete control. 

You’d been turned into a doll against your will now; you could be molded into anything he pleased. 

At the night's end, all your stuff had been abandoned in your favorite bar. You’d been taken deep into the abyss of the night. No one would be able to find you. Not at all. 

You’d been turned into England’s doll that would obey his every whim. Long gone where the days of freedom. You were meant to serve him.

[fireandiceland]

🇫🇷🇬🇧 FrUk fic recommendation 🇬🇧🇫🇷

If you like some classical fruk/ukfr (😉) and face family with funny, cute, and sexy moments, please consider checking it out! And don’t forget to leave kudos and a comment 💖

Title: Sora wa takaku, kaze wa utau by Kammyh on AO3

Relationships: England/France (romantic), Face Family Warnings & additional tags: Forest and Camping, Historical References, smut in later chapters. Mind the tags, you know the drill.

After a lot of thinking and several inconclusive hours on the phone with each member of his family, France came to the following conclusion: they were all in dire need of a holiday. Little he knew that the impromptu camping in Ohio would have given them the chance to grab a hold of the most important treasure of all.

Chapter 1: Desperate Times, desperate Measures

It had been a hard week for everyone in the family, so hard that eventually France decided that doing something to cheer everyone up couldn’t wait anymore. He had his own quite substantial problems, but even those couldn’t make him stand seeing his family like that.

Next to him, England was turning gloomier each day more, as the risks his economy was facing seemed to become worse with every choice his government made. On the other side of the ocean, in the meantime, America was so nervous about the upcoming mid-term elections that he had already packed on several pounds, and even the level-headed Canada was about to have a mental breakdown after the meteorological devastation that had hit his lands.

After a lot of thinking and several inconclusive hours on the phone with each member of his family, France came to the following conclusion: they were all in dire need of a holiday.

He crossed the Channel back to England, then, scooped up his husband and dragged him screaming and kicking on the first plane to Canada. During the flight, France successfully managed to bring England back to an acceptable mood - at the cost of traumatising all the other passengers, who weren’t ready to assist live at the French art of making their husband feel better.

After landing in Canada, they fished their son out of the tears of despair and reserved a coach on the first train to Washington, deciding to use the time to dry him up and comfort him properly before having another son to care for.

Continue reading on AO3

[lilac-amethyst-skies]

Being in a relationship with England would include...

Face caressing

Forehead kisses

Comfortable silence matched with intellectual conversation

Considerate gestures

Arthur opening the door for you

Him giving you his coat when it’s much too cold outside

Sharing an umbrella

Drinking tea together (and him still loving you, even if he finds that you don’t like tea)

Arthur giving you his hand to help you stand

You looking at the historical pieces that Arthur keeps in his home

One being that of the beloved sword that accompanied him during his time sailing the seven seas (He then proceeds to tell you stories, some of which you can hardly believe!)

You scolding him about his self-deprecating humor

Him showing off his most impressive magic spells

Listening to him grumble and gripe about people

You attempting to show him that things really aren’t that bad

Rainy, but comfortable days spent inside

Reading books together

Intimate slow dancing with one another, even if there isn’t any music playing in the room

You doing the cooking

Arthur teaching you how to cross-stitch

Him getting rather red and flustered when you share your first kiss, despite his confident front

You doubling over in laughter at his sharp-tongued wit that most people don’t seem to understand

You being so thankful of how well Arthur handles pressure and difficult situations

You seeing how much Arthur truly cares about the people around him, even if he doesn’t express it very well (This also includes you watching in amusement at how much he and France bicker because you know that they would be absolutely devastated if anything were to happen to the other…)

[desuke13]

Hello, everyone! Reminder, the Interest Check Form of SURVIVE still opened until August 31st, 2024. Thank you so much for everyone who has filled in! Here's a sneak peek of fanarts that will be in the book!

Pre-Order link will come around September. While we're getting there, please help me fill out this Interest Check Form to prepare what's coming: https://forms.gle/bfGbN1vhFmxE95JAA

Chapter 1-5 available at AO3 >> https://archiveofourown.org/.../55361791/chapters/140457472

For further questions, feel free to contact me directly! Thank you so much for your anticipation and support! Any kind of shares are appreciated~

[gaspanicwrites]

‘Just another no account fatality’ by gaspanic on ao3

Pairing: Travis Bickle/Arthur Kirkland

Fandom(s): Taxi Driver (1976), …And Justice for All (1979)

Rating: Explicit

Words: 6.1K

Summary:

In the aftermath of the Fleming trial, Arthur Kirkland is suspended from the practice of law and bumps into a former client.

Happy June 29th!

Got hooked onto 70s Al Pacino and Robert De Niro and it led to this… Might be a crack pairing but the fic ain’t so give it a go if you’re interested!

girlies pls understand 70s al pacino has got me by the metaphorical balls im in so deep this is a whole PHASE

[lemonerix]

Day 4: Reverse Tropes // Nyotalia

@usukweek

No art for day four. Wrote something instead.

[ego-meliorem-esse]

Stormy Eyes

The 7-year-old looking boy with boundless energy, stood atop the hill, looking down at the small church where a somber funeral was taking place. In his small hand, Alfred clutched a single flower, a blue daisy. The daisy, a simple tribute to his best friend, Davie. Alfred had returned from London with excitement, eager to share his discoveries and stories, only to discover the devastating news of Davie's passing. His young heart ached, and the weight of grief hung heavily upon him.

Throughout his short life, Alfred had always been a whirlwind of activity, his mind racing from one thought to another, his body in constant motion. His father, Arthur, had observed these tendencies with a watchful eye, understanding that his son's boundless enthusiasm often came with moments of restlessness and broken vases.

As Arthur approached his young son, he saw the boy's restless fidgeting, his hands twisting the flower stem, and his gaze darting in all directions. He knew with how much enthusiasm and excitement Alfred carried and took care of the flower on his long journey to Boston. So, having Alfred bend and break the stem was a certain cause for concern. He recognized his boys fidgeting and what it stood for. An understanding that had developed over years of being Alfred's father and mentor.

"Alfred," Arthur said sternly, yet without a hint of annoyance. His voice carrying the weight of centuries of history and responsibility. Arthur looked down from the hill to the quaint church where a crowd of silhouettes gathered, and with an almost inaudible "Ah." understood the weight of the situation. He looked down at his son, his eyes softened with concern. "I'm sorry lad."

Alfred's response was not in words but in frantic fidgeting. His young mind was trapped in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, rendering him staring down at the destroyed flower stem he seemed to cherish only a few hours before.

Seeing his son's distress, Arthur's concern deepened. He slowly kneeled down, reached out and gently held Alfred's face in his hands, physically anchoring the restless child and forcing their eyes to meet.

"Alfred," Arthur said firmly once again, his voice breaking through the chaos in Alfred's mind. "Focus, my son. You must."

Alfred's tear-filled eyes finally met his father's, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Arthur could see his son's eyes trying to suppress more tears from welling up. The effort was unsuccessful, because as soon as Alfred took a breath, all the supressed tears fell all at once. Through all that his boy didn't make a single sound.

Arthur's words continued, his voice carrying the weight of wistom obtained by blood and violence. "My boy, your life will be a lonely but fulfilling one. You will meet many people, nations, enemies and friends along the way. Each one will leave a mark on your heart, just as your friend here did." Arthur didn't dare look away at the funeral for the friend he just mentioned in fear of loosing Alfred to his own mind once again.

Arthur's voice almost quivered as he spoke of Alfred's lost friend. "Remember them, Alfred. Remember them all, and carry their memories with you. Your existence, my dear boy, is both a solitary journey and a shared one. You are not alone in this world of nations."

He paused, his grip on Alfred's face unwavering. "Your restless spirit is a part of who you are, Alfred, and it's a gift. Use it to carry the torch for those who have gone before us and for those who will come after. You have the strength within you to focus when it truly matters. Because, my son, when you do, miracles will happen."

He released his son and instead of going back to fidget with the plant, Alfred stood still and kept looking at his father.

As the funeral procession continued below, father and son remained standing on that grassy hill. Arthur's words seemed to echo back and forth in the young boys mind, his ocean eyes finally resembling calm waters. In that moment Arthur was reminded of stormy nights at sea and the calm morning that followed.

He was always good at sailing through the storm.

[kakashi-fangirl-ita-blog]

Capitolo un po' particolare, ma a cui mi sento abbastanza legata per alcune cose che ho scritto. Lo dedico in particolare a mio nonno e a mia mamma <3

Una parte del capitolo è inoltre ispirato a questa canzone https://youtu.be/8wvwBsVY6f8?si=c7TwHUdfb0o5C8kK (una versione rivisitata con testo de Sul Bel Danubio Blu di Johann Strauss)

"La Bottega Onirica dei sogni perduti"

- C’è nessuno? - domandò Arthur un po’ intimorito. Fece un giro tra gli scaffali, ma non trovò nessuno. Forse era chiusa e avevano lasciato la porta aperta per errore? Ma poi venne attirato da un ritratto appeso al muro sopra un piccolo scrittoio di legno: un giovane uomo dai lunghi capelli biondi che gli ricadevano dolcemente sulle spalle guardava lo spettatore con i suoi intensi e sognanti occhi blu. Sembrava una creatura fantastica più che un umano. Abbassò lo sguardo su un avviso appoggiato sullo scrittoio: “FATE UN’OFFERTA E PRENDETE TUTTO CIÒ DI CUI AVETE BISOGNO PER CREARE I VOSTRI SOGNI”.

Chapters: 24/31 "Fantasy" Fandom: Hetalia (Anime & Manga) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: England/France (Hetalia) Characters: France (Hetalia), England (Hetalia) Additional Tags: One Shot Collection, One Shot, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Romance, I've never participated to these kinds of challenges before help, I love FrUk Summary:

Una raccolta di one-shot scritte per l'evento FrUK-tober2024 organizzato da @imgigglesita su Tumblr (https://www.tumblr.com/imgigglesita) incentrate esclusivamente sulla coppia FrUK! A ogni giorno di ottobre il suo capitolo corrispondente. Non è necessario leggerli in ordine, trovate i titoli dei capitoli nell'elenco per leggere quelli che vi interessano di più. [Coppia principale: FrUK. Altre coppie che potrebbero comparire nei prossimi capitoli: Spamano, Gerita, USUK, altre] !!! Maybe I'll translate these one-shots in English but I still don't know !!!

Efp Fanfiction:

[hetaliafucker]

You Either Die A Hero Update

UsUk/UkUs - Hero x Villain AU. Hero Arthur, Villain Alfred. Enemies to lovers, slowburn, with a pinch of coffee shop AU. Served with a side of PruCan.

[engportevents]

Another year, another EngPort week

And we are back and ready for this year’s event!

This is our 3rd year anniversary, so I decided to do a little something special: there will be a Giveaway!

We will place all participants’ names in a hat and draw a name at random. The winner will receive a gift in the mail from this blog and their winning post will be pinned until next year!

The contest starts the 8th of May, the first day of ENGPORTWEEK. Any form of art posted before that date will not partake in the contest, however, we will still share it on the blog. It ends on the 15th, not a day later, and the winner will be called within the next week.

Thank you all so very much for your patience and participation, and hope to see you very soon!

Here’s the information and, yes, all the new prompts are written! Read the rules, if you haven’t, and share it to your fellow EngPort lover friends!

Art by @chiring-art

The prompts:

Day 1 (May 8th) ~ Surprise/Gift (opening day)

Day 2 (May 9th) ~ 1386

Day 3 (May 10th) ~ Rebuild

Day 4 (May 11th) ~ Home

Day 5 (May 12th) ~ How to lose

Day 6 (May 13th) ~ Endlessly

Day 7 (May 14th) ~ You made it possible

Extra day (May 15th) ~ NOT MANDATORY/Free (closing day)