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koolkat9 · 1 year

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Waiting For You

Rating: T

Pairing: FrUk (+ Canada)

Word Count: 1126

Read on AO3

CW: Minor depiction of violence, temporary character death

Arthur wasn’t worried about him.

Why would he? Just because they were allies now didn’t mean centuries of bad blood were just suddenly gone. If Francis got hurt out of there, it wouldn’t weigh on his mind. Well, maybe a little bit. Regret for not being the one to do it of course. But nothing else.

“He’ll be fine,” Matthew muttered, “Not like we stay dead.”

“I know,” Arthur snapped, “You speak as though I’m concerned.”

“Your hands are shaking, and I rarely see you smoke that much in a matter of an hour.”

The cigarette slipped from between Arthur’s fingers. He stomped on it, perhaps a little too hard. “It’s just to pass the time.”

“Whatever you say…”

A shot rang out, and there was a thud, mere meters away from them. Matthew and Arthur exchanged looks before cautiously heading toward where the sound came from. It was a body, no doubt. But in the darkness, it was hard to tell if it was friend or foe.

Despite Matthew being almost double his size, old habits die hard, and Arthur stepped in front of his son defensively. The body lay lifeless in front of them, but there was no telling what could come next. Arthur surveyed the person in front of them, covered in mud and blood. So much so that he almost couldn’t make out the golden curls.

Arthur took in a sharp breath. “Francis.” He turned to Matthew. “Go get the first aid kit near my cot.”

“Dad–”

“ Now .”

Matthew scurried off, face pale.

Arthur turned back to Francis, taking them into his arms and surveying their injuries. Their whole lower back was bloody. “Frog. Listen. I need you to wake up.”

He lightly smacked Francis’s face, following with a light caress of his thumb. “You idiot,” Arthur hissed, voice shaking, “I know you never listen to me, but by God, just this once. Open your eyes.”

Francis’s eyes cracked open--just slightly. “Angleterre?” He rasped.

“Yes. Now shut up and let me work.”

Wriggling out of his jacket, Arthur pressed it against Francis’s wounds. Francis winced.

“Matthew is getting us proper bandages, then we’ll get you to the medics.”

A small smile spread across Francis’s face. “Arthur…I don’t know if I’ll–”

“Shut up.”

Francis chuckled. “Oh, Arthur…”

They didn’t stay dead. Yet, fear burned in Arthur’s throat. The agonizing pain of the body pushing itself beyond the limit. Cells sparking back to life, melting together. Heart aching as it puttered back up, stopping and starting over and over until it finally reached a steady rhythm once more. Muscles who had forgotten how to work, twitching once more, trying to remember how to move just a single finger let alone a whole body.

“Just…hold me…” Francis murmured, jaw tightening.

“I…Fine…”

Arthur didn’t know how long they sat there. But by the time Matthew returned, Francis was already gone.

Matthew broke down. For all the hatred he claimed to hold towards the first person who “raised” him, despite undergoing a transformation into a war machine since the war began, when he saw his Papa’s body, he was that same little boy Arthur had taken in all those years ago. Arthur reached out and ruffled his son’s hair, far more matted and coarse than the last time he did it when Matthew was still a child.

“We need to get them to a nurse or doctor,” Arthur said flatly. He took a shaky breath and scooped up his former enemy.

— — —

Francis started breathing again a couple of days later. But they still hadn’t woken up. It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when the war had finally reached its end that Francis started to stir.

When he came to, something or someone was buried against his side. He groaned slightly, wiggling his fingers and toes, trying to get his muscles going once more. Eyes cracking open, everything throbbing, Francis looked around. His throat was so dry, and yet, none of them mattered when he found none other than Arthur curled up beside him.

Francis smiled slightly. Arthur looked no different from when they were children laying under the shade of their oak tree amongst the wildflowers. He was so cute when he was fast asleep, his temper and daggard words hushed. Gritting their teeth, Francis reached out, muscles still locked. They pushed Arthur’s bangs out of his eyes.

Arthur’s nose scrunched up, eyes opening slowly. He cuddled closer. Still half asleep. Francis never kid himself by believing that Arthur’s true feelings would ever surface beyond drunk nights and sleepy mornings after a night of hateful passion.

The Brit suddenly jolted away, springing up. Francis winced.

For a moment, the two just stared at each other. Francis could see Arthur’s brain boot up, realizing what was happening. It was kind of cute.

Arthur shook his head slightly before scanning over Francis for any potential health concerns. Francis blushed slightly. They weren’t used to having someone fussing over them.

“How are you feeling?” Arthur finally asked. He hadn’t moved from the bed yet.

“I’ve…I’ve been better. Tired. Stiff. But hey! My heart is beating again.

Arthur rested a hand on Francis’s chest, right over his heart. Francis’s face flushed deep red, his breath catching in his throat.

“I missed you,” Arthur spoke in hushed words. So soft Francis wondered if even Arthur had trouble hearing it.

Francis smiled gently, though passion burned under their skin. “Careful Angleterre…Someone might find out your dirty secret.”

“And what might that be?” Arthur’s voice was drawled as he pressed himself against Francis’s side once more.

“That the Great Arthur Kirkland, representation of the British Empire, is oh so hopelessly in love with me.”

“Rubbish,” Arthur scoffed. He gave a lopsided grin before capturing Francis’s lips in a kiss.

He melted into the bed, letting Arthur do as he pleased. He knew Arthur loved him. He knew since almost the beginning when they were children. Even when Arthur was prickly, even when he was holding a sword to his throat. Arthur had always loved him. But he never acted on it beyond those few gentle mornings after hate sex. And yet…Here they were, Arthur’s lips rolling against his, unprompted. Not a hint of malice in it.

Gentleness.

Longing.

Love .

Loud, unapologetic love.

“You need your rest darling,” Arthur murmured against Francis’s lips before pulling away.

“Arthur…”

Arthur pressed a finger against Francis’s lip.

“Rest. We’ll…discuss this later…”

Arthur Kirkland, always weaseling his way out of conversations about feelings. But this time, Francis would allow him. Whatever they had right now was far too delicate, but far too good to disrupt.

“Okay…But only if you stay with me.”

“I assure you. I’m not going anywhere.”

#hetalia #fruk #ukfr #royal red bros #temporary character death #hws england #hws france #hws canada #fanfiction #hetalia fanfiction

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neufhistoires · 1 year

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Loveless Marriage (FrUK) Chapter 2

Loveless Marriage

Chapter 2

Word Count: 3,953

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Another month passed and Francis’s parents returned to France. The only difference was that this time he wasn’t returning with them. As much as he wanted to go home and resume his normal life, that was no longer an option. His parents were still struggling financially, essentially working for the Kirklands at the time being. Meanwhile, he was getting married whether he wanted to or not.

To make matters worse, the two of them were going house shopping. Yes, Arthur’s parents had encouraged, or rather, forced them to look for a new house to live in. They had insisted that it only made sense for a married couple to live in their own house. Surely it had something to do with the fact that Arthur was twenty-three and had never dated anyone, too. It was as if they were forcing him to grow up…

Taking someone else’s money and using it to buy a house of one’s choice didn’t sound so bad on the surface, but the reality of the matter was that Francis and Arthur couldn’t agree on a thing. All the traits that the Englishman was looking for in a house were the ones that the Frenchman despised, and vice-versa.

Arthur wanted to live in a rural area, similar to the kind of place his family’s home was in, but Francis wanted to live in the city, as his home in France was in Paris, so he was more accustomed to city life. Not to mention that if they lived somewhere rural, the two of them would be stuck together with no one else around all the time. At least in the city they could see other people and try to ignore each other.

Although he didn’t want to directly admit it, Arthur agreed with Francis’s sentiments about not wanting to be stuck alone with the other man in a rural area, so they were able to compromise there and sought out suburban houses. Eventually, they came across a house that had room for a garden like Arthur had wanted, but it was still close enough to get to the city within a half an hour.

“A half an hour isn’t so bad,” Arthur commented.

The two of them were upstairs in one of the bedrooms of the house they were touring, the realtor still downstairs. Francis paced around in the room, eventually stopping to stare out the window. It was still more rural than he had wanted.

“I don’t have a license in England,” Francis responded, seeming annoyed that he even had to bring that up.

In France, Francis could do whatever he wanted. It was easy to go places, easy to talk to people, he could see his family… but in England, he felt trapped. He didn’t have a license or a car, and there were some things that culturally he just didn’t understand.

“Well get one then,” Arthur said in a matter of fact tone. “If you’re going to live here, then why not get one?”

Francis rolled his eyes.

“But I don’t want to live here,” Francis replied with a huff.

“I don’t want you to either, but we don’t have a choice. Trust me, I tried begging them to change their minds several times, but eventually they said they would refuse to let me continue working at the company and that I wouldn’t get my inheritance,” Arthur replied with such a dejected look on his face that it made Francis laugh despite the bad mood he was in.

“You really want to get rid of me, don’t you?” Francis asked with a smirk.

“Well, yeah,” Arthur replied, but he let out a laugh that was more gentle than teasing.

It was simple interactions like that where the tension between them seemed to diminish completely. It was rare, very rare, but sometimes it felt like they really could talk normally to one another.

With that, the two of them went downstairs and told the realtor that they would go with that house. They were both making compromises by choosing that one, but at the end of the day, compromising was inevitable.

It didn’t take Francis long to pack his things, seeing as he had done it already when he came to England at the beginning of summer. Arthur, however, took a bit longer trying to decide what he should take with him and what he should leave at his house.

Naturally, Francis had voiced his opinion on what Arthur should and shouldn’t bring, which was essentially that he shouldn’t bring anything because he would help him find better clothes and decorations. That, of course, led to bickering and then the silent treatment on the way from Arthur’s parents’ house to their new home. He would’ve told Francis to get there himself, but unfortunately because of the whole no-license ordeal, he had to take him with him…

As soon as they got to the house, they were still tense, but at the same time a bit relieved to get out of the same car. They immediately parted ways and went to their respective bedrooms.

Naturally there were two bedrooms, because despite the title of being engaged or married, they weren’t really a couple. They both would’ve gone crazy if they had to sleep in the same room as one another, let alone try to agree on how to decorate the room.

After unpacking for two or so hours, they both coincidentally got hungry at the same time and ended up seeing one another in the kitchen. That was when things really escalated.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Francis commented when he noticed Arthur taking out a pot and various different ingredients, finally breaking the silence that had lasted for hours.

“Well, I can, and if you’re nicer to me I might let you eat some,” Arthur replied, never looking up from the ingredients he was mixing.

They were living in the same house after all, so it would make sense if they shared meals sometimes, Arthur thought. However, just like every interaction the two of them had, Arthur’s tone had rubbed the Frencman the wrong way.

“Just because you can cook doesn’t mean it’s good. I’ll try it, but based on the way it smells, I have a feeling I already know it won’t be good…”

Arthur scoffed at Francis’s comment. Even when he tried it wasn’t good enough, so why bother?

“And here I was trying to be nice to you,” Arthur commented, putting the lid on the mysterious food he was cooking. It looked like some kind of stew.

“Non, you weren’t. You said you might let me eat some. That’s not being nice,” Francis replied, his voice calm despite the fact that they were obviously getting into another argument.

“Just leave me alone,” Arthur replied, trying to keep his eyes on the food so he didn’t have to look over at the Frenchman and lose his cool. However, he’d run out of things to do. It was just stew, after all, so he needed to let it cook for a while.

“I would, but I’m hungry and there’s only one kitchen,” Francis said, walking over to the fridge to look in it. Oh, right, they hadn’t gone to the store yet.

“I’m going to the store,” Francis eventually said, his stomach growling loud enough that even the Englishman could hear it.

“Okay–” Arthur stopped himself when he remembered the distance it would take to get to the city from where they were at. “You won’t be able to walk from here– it’s too far away.”

Francis seemed to ignore him as he pulled on his shoes and coat. Eventually, with a grin, he said, “It doesn’t matter if it takes me a few hours. I’ll come back with delicious food and won’t have to eat yours.”

With that, Francis left, leaving Arthur scowling at the closed door.

Out of curiosity, Arthur walked over to the kitchen window and watched Francis walk away, surprised that he was really going to walk that far. If only he’d been nicer to him and hadn’t complained about everything, he might’ve offered to drive the Frenchman into the city. But it was too far-fetched to think that they could stand each other for another car ride…

Meanwhile, Francis was feeling optimistic as he sought out the grocery store. He thought he could surprise the Englishman and be home within an hour, seeing as he’d pulled up a map on his phone that showed a store which was only a twenty minute walk away.

However, cell service wasn’t the best in rural areas, so he had lost it rather fast after he left the house. He wasn’t one to panic, but secretly, he was a bit worried after he had walked for fifteen minutes with no cell service in a different country and saw nothing… but eventually he came across the store.

Francis had been to England a few times before, but it was mostly for sightseeing and promoting his family’s wine, so he hadn’t really had much experience in small towns or rural areas like the one they were in. That was why upon entering the small shop, he felt a little confused.

The English supermarkets Francis had been to were filled with foods from various different countries, but this one only seemed to have English food. Probably because they were in the middle of nowhere.

The Frenchman had intended on buying groceries that would last for at least a week, but there was no delicious coffee, wine, or freshly baked bread in sight. He had no idea what he would have for breakfast in the morning, but surely it wasn’t eggs.

In an attempt to find what he was looking for, and talk to someone who wasn’t Arthur, Francis tried to talk to the only employee in the store, an oldman with a British accent heavier than Arthur’s.

Francis didn’t think he would face such a situation in a country he had visited so many times, but he struggled to understand the worker due to his thick British accent and the fact that the Frenchman was not a native english speaker. In fact, the interaction made the worker laugh and ask Francis if he could understand English.

The situation was frustrating and embarrassing for the Frenchman, so he left without purchasing anything. And Arthur was right, it was much too far of a walk to get to the city from where they lived. Not to mention that it would cost a fortune to get an Uber to drive him that far… So he had no choice but to walk back home without food. He would starve to death if it meant keeping his pride.

On the walk home, Francis felt miserable. He was hungry and exhausted from moving furniture around all day without food, and he knew that Arthur would have some kind of snide remark if he saw him come home without anything after he made the comment about cooking more delicious food than him…

Unfortunately for Francis, when he entered the house through the kitchen, it seemed that Arthur had just finished cooking his stew. He was standing there, attempting to carefully remove the lid without burning himself, but he almost dropped it out of shock when he realized the Frenchman had entered the room without a sound. Well, either that or he was just that zoned out while he was cooking.

Then Arthur seemed to look the Frenchman up and down in confusion, as if his eyes were scanning to see where he’d set the bags of groceries. Eventually he laughed and turned back to attend to the food.

“I told you it was too far of a walk. You gave up, didn’t you?”

Normally, Francis would’ve fought with Arthur, especially after a comment like that, but the stress of the day seemed to build up and he said nothing.

Arthur, a bit unsettled by the silence, turned around to find something even more surprising– the usually argumentative Frenchman standing there with teary eyes.

The Englishman froze, unsure of what to do or say, but Francis acted quickly when the other man locked eyes with him and shoved past him, rushing upstairs to his bedroom without removing his coat or shoes.

“Francis, wait–” Arthur called out, but it was a bit of a delayed reaction, and by the time he had followed the Frenchman up the stairs, his door was already closed.

The shorter blonde hesitated as he stood in front of the shut door, but eventually gave a small knock, softly calling out the other man’s name again.

“Francis, what’s the matter? I know you and I don’t get along very well, but you can still tell me,” Arthur started, flinching at his own words as he realized they didn’t come out the way he meant to. Yeah, that was probably why they fought so frequently…

After hearing nothing but silence in response, the Englishman grew impatient, his sympathy quickly turning to irritation.

“The least you could do is reply– I’m asking you why you’re so upset. I don’t–”

Arthur had pulled on the door knob without thinking, and for some reason, Francis really had let it unlocked.

It seemed that when he was out of Arthur’s sight, he let loose. There were salty, clear streams that could only be tears flowing down the Frenchman's cheeks and he looked utterly upset.

“Surely you’re not this upset because of the stew I made,” Arthur said after he stepped further into the room, assuming that cracking a joke would help lighten the mood.

Surprisingly, despite how awful he felt, the corners of Francis’s mouth did upturn some at the Englishman’s comment.

“Making that stew is easily one of the most offensive things you’ve done,” Francis teased him back, but it was different than usual, as his smile was more of a sad one and his voice was quiet.

Despite any kind of feud the two of them had going on between them, for the first time since they’d met, Arthur felt worried about Francis. That didn’t erase the awkwardness between them though as Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed beside Francis and lightly patted his back.

“Just try it– it’s not so bad,” Arthur said, standing up and extending a hand down to pull Francis up with him.

Big, blue orbs stared up at the Englishman as he seemed to contemplate whether or not he should take the other man’s hand. Fortunately, he didn’t make it too awkward though and simply let out a small laugh before taking his hand and standing up.

“Make sure to send my family condolences after this,” Francis said with a laugh, making Arthur narrow his eyes at him, although the exchange felt playful rather than vengeful.

The two men went back downstairs into the kitchen, only to find that Arthur had left the burner on too hot for too long, so the stew had started to burn at the bottom and boil up out of the top and pour over the sides.

In a panic, Francis turned off the stove and carefully wiped up the scalding hot liquid, but the smell of burnt soup had already filled the entire kitchen.

“I could’ve sworn I turned that off,” Arthur said sheepishly, using an oven mitt to lift the lid up and look inside.

It wasn’t completely charred, but basically the entire bottom was burnt to a crisp, which influenced the flavor of the rest of the stew.

Then embarrassingly, despite the awful smell of the stew, Francis’s stomach growled loudly again. He still hadn’t eaten anything yet, after all.

“It’s fine. Let’s just see if it’s edible,” Francis replied with a sigh as he got out bowls and let Arthur serve it.

Even the chef himself seemed to cringe as the thick stew got stuck to the spoon and eventually fell on the plate with a plop sound, but the two of them sat down at their small dining room table in silence and started to eat it anyway.

Francis flinched as he took a bite of the stew. It was terribly salty, like it was drying him out as they spoke.

“This might be more bearable with some wine at least,” Francis commented, but it was more of a wish than a suggestion, as he knew they didn’t bring any wine to the house with them.

“Well, why didn’t you grab any at the store, or wherever it is you went?” Arthur asked, genuinely curious as he took a sip of the glass of water in front of him.

Arthur did want to know what Francis was actually upset about, but if it wasn’t fighting, he was awkward and didn’t know what to say. Well, he didn’t know what to say without accidentally coming across as insensitive and hurting the other man even more.

Francis was quiet for a moment, pondering whether or not he should share the embarrassing thing that happened to him with someone he fought with so often.

“I couldn’t understand what the man was saying and he was very rude, so I left,” Francis said simply, pretending like it hadn’t bothered him as he took a sip of his water and beared through another bite of the Englishman’s homemade stew.

Arthur paused for a moment, too, before he returned to eating the stew. So that was what happened, he thought.

“Sometimes people in rural areas do speak different, you know, with different accents and such, so it’s not that strange that you couldn’t understand him,” Arthur eventually replied after contemplating what to say for longer than he had meant to.

However, Francis didn’t respond, so Arthur averted his gaze from his food to the other man, only to find the Frenchman gazing down at his own bowl with a dejected look on his face.

The night continued on like that, the two of them not saying another word to each other before they went to sleep and awoke the next morning.

Arthur woke up first, although it was secretly on purpose, as he had set an alarm. He would go out into the city early in the morning and bring back something for Francis so he could see it when he woke up, he thought.

Despite any kind of rivalry they had before, upon further thought, Arthur realized that the two of them were in a similar state of misery together, but maybe Francis had it worse. After all, Arthur didn’t know any French past a few basic phrases, so he couldn’t imagine how Francis felt having to rely on a second language all the time. Not to mention that the Frenchman was so prideful that it genuinely concerned the Englishman when he was so visibly upset. He knew his terrible cooking skills weren’t helping the matter either…

Arthur quietly got dressed and left early in the morning, heading to London to pick up whatever fancy wine and French bread the other man might want. He didn’t know much about which kinds were good and which kinds were bad, but he had an idea of what Francis would like based on the kind that his family’s business had made, so he thought he would go based on that.

Admittedly, he felt a little embarrassed, like he was betraying his past self for being so concerned over a man he couldn’t stand, but there he was, trying his best to please his old rival…

Eventually, he had what he needed, and was even advised to put it in a nice woven basket by one of the employees at the wine shop. She insisted that his fiancé would love it, but his cheeks burned red at that comment because he obviously hadn’t explained the whole situation to her.

When Arthur returned home, he entered the house with caution. He was indecisive and had taken a bit longer than he had meant to, so he was sure Francis was up already. However, when he opened the door and glanced around, there was no sign that the Frenchman had been downstairs at all.

It was already past eleven in the morning, so once again, Arthur was a bit concerned and let out a heavy sigh as he realized he would have to go make sure the other man wasn’t dead or something.

Arthur brought the basket of wine, bread, and other treats upstairs with him, but then he hesitated to knock on the door. He was too embarrassed to just hand the man he had always hated an assortment of things to cheer him up… It felt too much like they were friends, or even worse, a real couple.

While Arthur was contemplating what he should do with the basket, Francis ended up opening the door right in front of him. It was a sort of jump scare for both of them, but honestly, more than anything, Arthur was surprised to see how disheveled the man in front of him looked.

It was almost noon, but the Frenchman looked like he still hadn’t brushed his blonde locks that meant so much to him, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he was basically naked except for the un-tied robe he was wearing, which, well, maybe wasn’t so strange for him, but basically he looked like a mess.

After the initial shock of seeing one another, Francis rubbed his eyes and let out a yawn, and Arthur awkwardly held the basket out for him. Francis looked down at it, and then back up at Arthur and blinked in confusion.

“This is for you,” the Englishman said awkwardly, his cheeks dusted pink as he averted his gaze away from the other man.

“Vraiment?”

Francis took the basket from Arthur and eyed the items in it, moving them around some to see what was in it, a small smile forming on his face as he did so.

“Ma mère told me that she sent me some packages, but I didn’t think they would arrive so soon,” Francis commented, a happy look on his face for the first time in a few days.

Oh, so he thought it was from his mother, Arthur thought. He would’ve corrected him, but he was already embarrassed giving it to him in the first place, so he would let it go.

“Yeah, well, you should like everything in it. It’s all French wines and pastries and such,” Arthur replied softly, feeling a bit relieved when Franics seemed to enjoy the basket so much.

“Hmph, you’re the one who should’ve received this basket,” Francis said, a smirk taking over his face. For some reason, Arthur’s face flushed at that comment.

“What do you mean by that?”

“You don’t know a thing about what tastes good. Tonight, we’ll have one of these with dinner, and I’ll cook so we don’t have to suffer through it again,” Francis said with a laugh.

If only he’d known that on the contrary, Arthur was the one who picked all of those things out. The only part he hadn’t thought of on his own was the basket…

It shouldn’t have bothered him so much, but for some reason that he couldn’t understand, instead of feeling angry or argumentative, he was hurt. He had spent all that time preparing things Francis would like, but that was how he repaid him? By insulting him?

Arthur knew that he only would’ve embarrassed himself further if he told Francis that the basket was from him. Besides, the basket served its purpose– Francis was happy now, so Arthur decided not to say anything.

They could go back to hating each other for all he cared.

#fruk #aph fruk #aph england #aph france #hws fruk #hws france #hws england #hetalia #hetalia angst #hetalia fluff #hetalia fruk #now we are getting into some angst #I have great ideas for the next chapter already #let me know what you think #if you have great ideas too pls tell me #i want more angst but in order to make angst i need fluff first

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ilearhmajeste · 1 month

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Some ways there's an , x ray. I turned a online off I'll turn the other if it's go hot.

#Youtube

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aux-armes-citoyens · 2 years

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#ooc #yes it is fruk hours #as it always is

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rebelsandtherest · 3 years

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Hey There, Stranger

A FrUK drabble Word count: 2020 (I swear to GOD I did not plan that) Summary: In some hopeful future, the pandemic wanes toward a final close, and an Englishman crosses the channel to visit a very old friend. Both are surprised by who they find waiting for them in Calais, but what is a thousand years of companionship, really, if you can't occasionally be strangers? Warnings: Strong language and a lot of Old Man Bilingual Bickering

As I told @draw-a-circle-thats-the-foxhole, this is the first time I’ve written anything even vaguely romance-adjacent in years. I hope it’s not too corny.

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The actual travel time between Folkstone and Calais was a scant half hour; the lines for customs were considerably longer. From his place in the queue, Arthur leaned out of his demarcated lane to see how much further he had yet to go; it was nearly as long as it had been when he checked fifteen minutes ago.

"Fucking Boris," He grumbled under his breath. An elderly flat-capped gent in front of him turned to glare at the same time as the young man next to him—grandson?—looked up from his iPhone to snort. As the old man diverted his glare towards his grandson, the teen met eyes with Arthur and tipped his head in camaraderie. Arthur shrugged back in a 'am I wrong?' gesture.

There had been a time when the name and unique crest on Arthur's passport would have waved him past customs entirely. It hadn't been a very long time, come to think of it, but Christ it had been a glorious few decades. Then again, there had been a time when things like plague had required four weeks of quarantine on a filthy boat anchored a league offshore, instead of something as simple as a covid pass and a face mask, so he supposed he really oughtn't to complain.

After some untold eternity, he was standing at the customs desk and gained immediate rapport with the French agent behind the plexiglass when he greeted him in fluent French and handed him all his papers without prompting. It was the last time Arthur planned on speaking French during his stay if he could possibly help it. He took his passport back and wove his way through the familiar maze of the terminal, now ridden with all manner of stickers on the floor, plexiglass dividers, and hand sanitizer dispensers.

For ten in the morning, the place was crowded; far more crowded than Arthur had expected. Then again, after years of closures, quarantines, and restrictions, once the French and British governments had—finally—blown open their borders once more, it only made sense that people would flock to visit friends and relatives once more.

It was what Arthur was doing, after all. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Wétu?

I'm in the terminal, Arthur typed back, standing obnoxiously in the middle of the walkway as people parted around him. Where are you?

Are you past the customs border?

Yes of course. It's much busier than I expected.

Je manque aux Anglais :)

You're a twat.

A man bumped into Arthur's shoulder and grumbled at him through a thick Scottish accent. Arthur frowned and readjusted the bag hanging from his shoulder, looking around and realizing there was no real place to stand without being in someone's way. He marched onward in the hopes of finding more space as the exodus from customs cleared.

Seriously, where are you? His thumbs clicked away angrily, I'm in the middle of the bloody path

Ah, already making a nuisance of yourself, it's almost like you never left

You ARE here, aren't you?

No response came, so Arthur shoved his phone into his pocket and found a rubbish bin to stand behind, hoping it would shield him from the flood of humans. He stood on tip toes and craned his neck, looking around every which way, but all he could see was facemasks and suitcases.

"If you're trying to throw yourself away," said a cheeky French accent behind him, and goddamnit Arthur would never admit it, but he'd missed what it sounded like in person, "I believe you qualify for l'recyclage, it's just around the corner."

"Nice of you to finally show-" No sooner did Arthur turn around than did the words die on his lips. Beneath his mask, his jaw was open. Loudly, obnoxiously, very Englishly amidst a sea of travelers, he said,

"What the fuck did you do to your hair?!"

People around them started out of surprise and there was one young lady who couldn't stifle her sudden laughter at the outburst. Francis Bonnefoy also laughed, but it had a self-conscious edge to it as he reached up a hand to tuck a strand of short—short—blond hair behind an ear, but it immediately fell back down again.

"What can I say?" the taller man shrugged. "We've all dealt with quarantaine in our own ways"

Arthur did not respond, and set his bag down so he could step forward to touch Francis' hair. Trimmed short in the back—Arthur's brain reeled to process the image of Francis wielding hair trimmers—and left longer in the front, the longest curls of Francis' pride and joy still only reached to the tips of his ears.

"I barely bloody recognize you," Arthur said, no real heat in his voice as he ran his fingers through the golden hair.

"What a very rude thing to say," Francis grumbled, even as he allowed his eyes to close for a moment at Arthur's touch. "As if I am still not the most fashionable person here, amongst all these morne Engl-"

"Wait a moment, wait a bloody moment," Arthur's fingers had trailed down the side of Francis' face, and he grabbed the Frenchman's chin and turned it to see his jaw. "Oh dear god," he pulled on the edge of Francis' facemask to see more of his cheek. "Are you—did you shave?!"

"I cannot keep a beard and wear a mask, it does no good to my skin, surely you—t'attends, quoi?!" It was Francis' turn to reach out his hand to Arthur's face, which was already conveniently turned for Francis to spy the skin between his mask and ear. His fingertips brushed over a dark shade of blond he hadn't seen in eons and yes, it prickled.

"Apparently you don't! Quelle merde, Angelterre?!"

"It's not my fault shaving is such a chore!" Arthur grumbled back, batting Francis' hand away. "No one sees it, anyway!"

"Non non non," Francis reached right back out to his face, "you do not get away with this so easily, I want to see-"

"Hands off, frog!"

"Then stop pulling on my mask, you're going to break it," even as he spoke, Arthur's fingers, still hooked under the edge of Francis' mask, yanked the fabric down so the Frenchman's pointed nose popped out. "Lâche-moi!" But Arthur couldn't have cared less about mask policy, he was staring directly at Francis' upper lip.

"Dear god, you did shave, who are you?"

"As much as you complain about my mustache, I thought you'd be—" Francis cut off and made a spitting noise as his mask got caught up in his mouth, and he struggled to put it to rights with his one free hand. Arthur took the opportunity to tear the mask off completely. Francis looked down at him with annoyance and shock all over his naked face. Arthur took it in for a beat before dissolving in laughter. He reached his hand back out.

"Oh, look at you," He said through his masked smile.

"Oh don't look so smug, rosbif, I have half a mind to—" and so Francis tore off Arthur's mask in one downward yank, exposing the Englishman's smile and his disheveled, full beard. Francis' eyes went wide and, after a moment of shock, he burst out laughing. Both men stood there staring at each other, dissolving in laughter the longer they looked at each other.

"What have you allowed to grow on your face?" Francis managed through his laugh, reaching out to cup Arthur's face in both hands. Though he ought to be insulted, Arthur was still overtaken by chuckling, and he reached up to touch Francis' face in return.

"You look like a child," Arthur mocked, beaming.

"You look like un grand-père," Francis accused through his laughter..

"I haven't seen you with short hair since… Christ, since Napoleon, I think."

"The last time I saw you with a beard, you were wearing chainmail and trying to shoot me in the head."

"Did I succeed?"

"I can't remember," Francis said honestly. "But I've always wondered,"

"Wondered what?" Arthur asked as Francis tugged on his whiskered chin and pulled him into a kiss. As if on reflex, Arthur's eyes fell closed and his hand went up to curl around Francis' neck, fingers scratching at the unfamiliar short hairs there. An arm wrapped around his waist and Arthur would be lying if his heart wasn't soaring from the warmth of being so close after so long. His free hand coiled itself around the lapel of Francis' coat and held him there.

After Francis felt he'd sufficiently reacquainted himself with Arthur's mouth, he pulled away, but stayed close, ignoring the hustle and bustle of the travellers, the overhead announcements, the rumble of luggage, the grumbles of stressed parents and businessmen. Arthur's eyes had always been such an odd shade of green, and they sparked a thousand memories that made the Frenchman feel, for all their long and colorful history, like he was finally home.

"Hmm," he said eventually, tilting his head back enough to regard Arthur's entire face with a satisfied grin. "I guessed right."

"What?" The Brit asked, eyebrows coming down. Francis' insides went soft seeing how red Arthur's face had become.

"It's terribly scratchy," he pronounced, thumb scritching through the blond of Arthur's beard. Arthur scoffed and looked away. "And," the hand at Arthur's back reached around to pinch at his side, "you've gained weight." Arthur's eyebrows were darker than his beard, and they drew down even further and he dropped his hands from Francis entirely.

"You always did know how to make a bloke feel better about himself," he grumbled.

"You were always far too bony, mon cher," Francis chuckled, and pulled the sulking Brit back close to him, "it feels good on you." That made Arthur blush even harder, but he stubbornly refused to look at Francis or reciprocate the hug. Francis only chuckled and leaned in to kiss Arthur's cheek. "And I never said I didn't like scratchy."

"You're a twat," Slowly, as if he didn't think Francis would notice, Arthur brought his arms back up to wrap around the Frenchman's middle.

"So you've said," Francis hugged him properly. "I've missed you, mon coeur," he said earnestly in Arthur's ear. A few centimeters shorter than Francis, Arthur's mouth was always buried in Francis' shoulder unless he tilted up his chin. He made no such effort then, and grumbled something into Francis' shoulder that might have been 'I missed you too'. It made the Frenchman smile.

Eventually they pulled apart, Arthur still pleasantly pink and Francis smiling. "It's been a long time since I took a stranger home with me," Francis waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "What a thrill." Arthur rolled his eyes but smiled all the same.

"It's been a long time since I've had a stranger take me home, I guess you'll have to do." Arthur countered, shouldering his bag and taking Francis' hand in his without comment. "Now where on earth did my mask go?"

"I can't believe you wear those disposable monstrosities, they're hideous."

"They're comfortable."

"And not very environmentally friendly of you—what would Matheiu say?"

"Oh, don't give me that," Arthur dug a spare out of his bag.

"You brought more? Non, I will buy you new ones. Between the mask and the coat, it looks like I dug you out of a gutter."

"What's wrong with my coat?"

"It's from 1972, Arthur."

"You have plenty of things from the 70s."

"And all of them are, as the humans say, vintage. This looks like you dug it up from the darkest corner of a charity shop."

"You're unbelievable."

"And yet you love me."

"I didn't say that."

"But you do."

"Don't try to change the subject, I'll not be staying long if you spend the entire time complaining about my wardrobe."

"But I said I would help you fix it—"

"It doesn't need fixing, you idiot, that's just the point—"

The screech of trains and the rumble of the once-again busy station at Calais drowned out their bickering. They continued bickering even once inside their taxi, having never once let go of the others' hand.

#aph england #aph france #hetalia #fruk #hws england #hws france #francis bonnefoy #arthur kirkland #arthur #francis #my fanfic #my writing

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gwensparlour · 3 years

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Something sweet

Fandom: Hetalia Rating: General Ship: Fruk + FACE family Of the many traditions the Bonnefoy-Kirkland household has developed over their years of life together, Sunday afternoon snack - or five o'clock high tea as Arthur insist on calling it, is probably the most cherished.

"Kiku gave me the recipe last week," Francis says while placing a perfectly baked strawberry shortcake at the centre of the table. "I trust it'll be delicious," adds, modesty, both false and true, not part of his vocabulary.

" It looks great dad," Alfred perks up, his enormous blue eyes going even bigger.

"Not all that looks good is nice," Arthur reprimands from his corner, one eye to the stove, the other perusing the pantry and his vast tea collection to choose what would go best with a shortcake. Something delicate, surely, which rules out almost all of the black teas. Maybe an earl grey.

"Don't listen to him, dad," Alfred continues, leaning in it to steal one of the strawberries that decorate the cake. Francis slaps him on the hand with a wooden spoon, gently and playful.

"Not yet," he chides but with laughter in his voice, "not until I've cut it and those cups are filled."

"But dad is taking forever," Alfred whines, slugging back into his chair with his mouth slacking open in a very dramatic fashion. "Right, Matt?"

Sitting at the other side, Matthew nods with resignation, knowing too well by now it's easier to agree with his brother when he's like this.

"I'm taking the time needed. And sit properly or no cake for you," Arthur threatens. It's enough for Alfred to sit straight immediately like he had been pinched.

Arthur nods, then returns to the delicate matter of choosing the tea to match. "Has Kiku said what tea goes well with that?" he calls. He knows their neighbour has a fine knowledge of tea varieties.

"Yes. I knew you'd asked. White tea."

"White tea ..."

Arthur examines the pantry again. His stock of white teas is not as rich as it is for black teas, green and infusions. Nobody in the family really likes them. It doesn't mean he has none.

Meanwhile, the water in the kettle has reached the right temperature, just below the simmer point. Slowly, Arthur fills the teapot, takes the sugar bowl and the milk jug and puts them all on a trial.

"Finally," Alfred exclaims when Arthur puts it on the table, next to the cake. "I'm starving."

"I saw you eat three cookies half an hour ago," Matthew comments, with his little but clear voice.

"Precisely. It was half an hour ago," Alfred insists, going silent immediately when noticing the displeasure on both their parents face.

"What did we say about snacking between meals," Arthur chides, arms crossed over his chest

"Yes," Francs echoes, "If you are hungry they are healthier options."

"I know. But I was really hungry. Sorry," Alfred apologies. Arthur and Francis exchange a quick glance, silently deciding they can close an eye for once.

Francis cuts the shortcake into four slices, equal despite Alfred' protests he wants a bigger one - your eyes are always bigger than your stomach - while Arthur fixes four cups of tea. Not even the time to pass Alfred his one, the boy has already poured half the milk and dropped two enormous spoonfuls of sugar inside.

It happened enough times Arthur doesn't feel anymore like dying inside watching how his son treats his tea. Blame it on Francis that insists on giving the boys chocolate milk and ruin their palate.

"Matthieu, where are you going?" Francis calls instead, watching Matthew stands up to return to the kitchen. "Oh, I forgot the syrup," the boy answers as if it's something obvious. Immediately horror paints Francis' face. For a moment he had forgotten their eldest' a little obsessive habit of putting maple syrup everywhere. At the orphanage, the nurse said it was probably due to the taste being associated with the few years of when his biological mother was alive and it stuck subconsciously

This is why both Arthur and Francis always try their best to close an eye to what was possibly Matthew's only vice. There were exceptions though.

"You are not going to put maple syrup on my shortcake," Francis says, adamant.

"It's not your, dad. It's Matthie slice," Alfred jumps up to intervenes to defend his brother. For once, he has a point.

"Chantilly cream and strawberries do not mix well with syrup. You are not going to like it" Francis attempts a different approach, to gentle guide Matthew from the syrup instead of forbidding it altogether.

The boy looks with uncertain, not-at-all convinced eyes, his little lips pursued in a grimace. "But if I don't like it without?"

"That's impossible. It looks amazing," Alfred says. Matthew doesn't look any more convinced. Each Sunday, it's the same scene. One day he'll discover food can be good without syrup, but for now the sweet is as dear to him as the blanket is to Linus.

"What if I don't like it without?"

"Then you will add the syrup and forget the bad taste," Arthur states. "But your father worked hard for that cake and it is not polite to add syrup without having tried at least a bite. You know the rules dear."

You know the rules dear

"I guess a bite can't hurt," Matthew admits, taking his fork and cutting into the cake. He tries it slowly. First, he takes the strawberry, fresh and juicy, then just a bite of cake; which he tastes as carefully as if he's sure it's going to sting his tongue.

For the second bite, he doesn't make such a fuss. "I think I can go without syrup," he announces, with a solemnity that elicits laughter in all the presents. "But I'd still like to try it with syrup."

"He has a point," Alfred adds, who meanwhile has already devoured his slice. "I think I'll try it too," he says.

For Francis' despair, he likes to experiment with the strangest combinations.

Francis makes to protest the future torture of his beautiful cake, but Arthur stops him gently placing a hand on his arm. "You know how it is," he says neutral from above his fuming cup.

"They'll grow with no sense of taste and it'll be your fault," Francis pouts. He'd continue his rant if he didn't notice his husband's plate, empty and clean of even the crumbles.

"And you," he teases, "what was that story that not all that looks good is nice?"

"It impolite to waste food," Arthur replies, stiffy as if he weren't cutting himself a second, abundant slice just then. Both the boys laughed.

"Al, dear, it's your third," Francis says when presented again by the boy's empty and demanding plate. "It was a small slice, dad! And I want to try it with syrup," Alfred insists, adamant in his logic that every food combination must be tried at least once.

"And I think you had enough sugar," Arthur snatches the plate from him. Alfred is already a hyperactive kid without giving him more energies. "And drink your tea," he orders. The boy huffs, dangling his legs under the table.

"Matt!" he calls, "can you eat a little faster?"

Quiet, unassuming, Matthew doesn't even lift his head from the slice he's still eating. At the last bite left on the plate, he watches his parents with pleading eyes.

"Alright. I think a bite can't hurt. For both of you," Francis concedes, anticipating Arthur's protests with Alfred a bite can hurt and will. Immediately Alfred jumps from his seat to rush to the kitchen; Matthew follows swiftly, always quick when his dear syrup is involved.

Watching the kids experimenting in the kitchen, while a constant cause of heartache for Francis, is also incredibly fascinating. Alfred cut two little pieces of cake and Matthew carefully pours a little dose of syrup on both.

"And go!" Alfred announces before shoving the bite in his mouth. Matthew, as always, is slower, chewing with great concentration.

"I like it. But I think it's better without syrup," it's his final verdict, for Francis delight.

"What the hell are you saying? This is great!" Alfred yells, about to pour another dose of syrup. Arthur, however, is quick to take the bottle. "We said one. And watch your language."

Alfred rolls his eyes with another long sigh. Then, he shrugs it off, jumps off his seat and grabs his brother by the arm.

"Where do you think you are going?" Arthur calls back, sternly.

"To play!"

"Not before you put your plates and your cups in the sink. You know the rules. Go on."

The boys nod, obediently. They are enthusiastic but polite kids and they know better than contradict their father. In minutes they have clean their portion of the table, asked and given permission to go playing in the garden.

As soon as they run away, Francis stretches over the table. "Finally alone," he purrs, to Arthur's irritation.

"The kids are just there," he points, exaggerated exasperation in his voice. He still can't hide a half-smile when Francis leans forward to give him a kiss. And though he huffs, he doesn't fight too much when his husband drags him to sit in his lap, in a beautiful aftenoon day.

#hetalia #hws FACE #hws america #hws france #hws england #hws canada #hws fruk

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maryeve-the-bitch · 3 years

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Un jour de février

Fruk week 2021

Day 4: winter / spring

Words: 2,565

Summary: Domestic fruk. Old married couple vibe. The couple is visiting Matthew in Quebec city during the cold month of february.

Warning: French, so much french (Translations are at the end), and mention of sex. Not really explicit though.

Francis couldn’t wait to visit his son in february. However, he was dreading the cold and the weather he would face when they’d arrive in the city. He wasn’t used to that kind of cold anymore ergo he knew how much he would suffer through it. At least, he would be in good company and his boyfriend Arthur was coming as well.

As soon as Francis and Arthur landed in Quebec city, they traveled straight to their hotel since Mathieu would only be coming the next day and his meeting in the capital got delayed. Hopefully, Francis would enjoy a nice evening with his dear Arthur. The hotel room they picked had a cozy fireplace with a plaid fluffy blanket laid on the king bed. The decor of the room reminded Francis of a lumberjack’s cabin with deer antlers hanging down from the wall and the wood-like walls. While it wasn’t the usual style Francis would like, he did appreciate the coziness of it. He reminded himself not to let Arthur choose a hotel for them by himself again. At least, the bathroom was huge compared to what he is used to and in the middle of it, there was a bath that could easily fit 3 people in it. At the sight of the bath, Francis gave Arthur a teasing smirk as he tucked a lock of his blond hair behind his hair. Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Sure, love. Later.” Arthur agreed to his boyfriend’s silent plea.

Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur’s from behind.

“Je te promets qu’on passera un bon moment.¹” Francis whispered to his ear as he delicately bit it.

“I promise I’ll kick you in the arse if you don’t stop teasing.” Arthur said with his jaw clenched and a blush on his cheeks.

The comment made Francis chuckle and hugged his boyfriend closer.

“C’est trop facile de te taquiner."² Francis kissed Arthur’s cheek and let go of him.

Since they were both exhausted from the flight and the jetlag, they decided to go to bed early after they took a shower.

In the morning, they decided to wait for Mathieu to tell them when and where they would meet in their room after they got back from eating breakfast on the first floor. Francis looked outside the windows, contemplating the landscape from the city under the snow, as Arthur finished getting dressed and buttoned his shirt up.

“On n’a plus d’hiver comme ça par chez nous, hein?”³ Francis sighed.

“You never had winters like this before. Unless you count the ice age.” Arthur commented.

“Ouais. Du coup, c’est ben mieux que ta pluie 10 mois par année.”⁴ Francis retorted, looking back at his boyfriend.

Arthur glanced at Francis before taking his jacket from the bed and put it on.

“Tu sais que la reine vient pas aujourd’hui, hein?”⁵

“Shut your bloody mouth and get dressed, Francis.” Arthur sighed.

Francis let out a dramatic sigh as he let himself fall on the bed face first and grumbled Arthur’s name on the pillow. Arthur just rolled his eyes, ignoring his melodramatic scene as he was well too familiar with it. Francis turned around and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Peux-tu m’aider, mon amour?”⁶

“What? Help you get dressed? You’re not a child anymore.” As Arthur spoke, he received a notification from his phone that was placed on the desk and charging. He picked it up to see what it was.

“It’s Matthew. He wants to meet at the castle at noon.” Arthur paused to look at the time. “You’ve got one hour to get ready.”

“Quoi? Une heure?” Francis whined. "Ça nous donne même pas le temps de faire l'amour."⁷

"We would if you hurry the fuck up and stop whining."

Francis finally got up from the bed, not without whining even more. At the end, he did get ready in under an hour. When Francis got out of the bathroom, he paraded in front of Arthur who was sitting on the chair in front of the desk. Francis wore an open blue see-through shirt with some kind of green flower pattern on it. As for the bottom part, he wrote black trousers with the same flowery pattern.

"We're not going to a gay pub or a fashion show."

"Ah mais il faut que je sois à la hauteur de moi-même quand je sors. Je ne peux pas sortir comme si je serais un pauvre paysan. Pour qui tu me prends, putain?"⁸

"What the hell does that mean?" Arthur sighed. "You're going to wear a warm coat at least?"

Francis walked over to his suitcase and pulled out a navy blue double button wool coat and put it on.

"C'est sublime, non?”⁹ Francis turned around to show all angles of his outfit, feeling proud of it.

“Yes. You’re looking very handsome. You’re going to be cold though. Have you not brought something warmer?” Arthur put his hands on his waist.

“J’ai une écharpe qui ira bien avec. De toute façon, on restera pas trop longtemps dehors. Qui serait assez fou pour aller dehors en un temps pareil?”¹⁰ Francis replied.

“Right. Don’t say I haven’t warned you, frog face.”

Francis would probably die of humiliation if he had to wear something ugly so he’d rather die of hypothermia and being pretty than be seen wearing something hideous. The couple left their hotel room and took a cab to get to their destination. They were still a few minutes late, but nothing Arthur would mind and Mathieu was already waiting for them in front of the castle as agreed.

Upon meeting, Francis hugged Mathieu tightly since he hadn't seen him for months. Arthur greeted him politely under his giant coat that he brought to make sure he didn’t freeze to death. He wore both a winter hat and the hood of his coat with a scarf and at least 2 pairs of gloves. Since Mathieu knew both Arthur and Francis, he didn’t make a comment on how they were dressed. In his opinion, one was overdoing it and the other thought fashion was more important than warmth.

Since Mathieu was getting hungry, they went and looked for a restaurant. While Francis wasn’t hungry, he was gladly welcoming the idea of getting inside. He’s only been 2 minutes out and thought his nipples were already frozen. On their way to the restaurant, Francis tried to warm himself with his hands in his coat pockets and holding his arms close to his body, without much success.

After going down some stairs, at Francis’ displeasure, they walked down a small street that led to the restaurant. Francis remembered that street, he visited it during summer a long time ago. It changed a bit but not enough to not recognise it. He would admire the scenery if he wasn’t so goddamn cold. He just couldn't wait to get to the restaurant at last. Mathieu was explaining to Arthur the historic facts of some buildings even though Arthur already knew those facts; he just forgot. Their chatter sounded mostly background noises to Francis as his focus was mostly on his movements.

Finally, they reached the restaurant. They got seated and offered the menu to order.

“You’re awfully quiet, frog.” Arthur commented as he opened the menu. “Not complaining. That’s just unusual for you.”

Francis glared at his boyfriend. They both knew why he was quiet.

“Can you two stay civil please?” Mathieu asked. He knew his dads and their tendency to fight or argue way too well.

“Of course, lad.” Arthur replied. “I’d offer you my coat for a while, at least until you warm up, but I know too well you won’t accept it.” He continued.

“J’ai pas besoin de ta pitié. Je vais juste commander un bon café chaud et ça ira.¹¹ Francis replied.

“If you say so, love. I hope they offer good tea here.” Arthur said, dismissing Francis’s passive aggressivity.

The waitress came soon after and they all ordered their food and drinks. She took back the menus and left for the kitchen.

“You two are so different. I sometimes wonder how you are still together.” Mathieu commented.

Both Francis and Arthur looked at each other, Francis smiling lovingly.

“Cause we have great sex. That’s why.” Arthur answered Mathieu’s wonderment. He soon received a kick under the table from his partner.

“C’est vrai.”¹² Francis added.

“Please stop. I don’t want to know.” Mathieu interrupted Francis before he would add anything too explicit for him. The Frenchman chuckled while Arthur smiled. Well, at least, Mathieu succeeded to ease the situation between the two.

While they waited for their order, Francis grabbed Arthur’s hand under the table.

“Fucking hell, Francis!” Arthur exclaimed when he felt his boyfriend’s cold hand on his.

“Ah. Je suis désolé, mon amour.”¹³ Francis apologised, looking dejected.

“It’s fine. You surprised me, that’s all.” Arthur said softly as he took Francis’s hand in his.

Thankful, Francis smiled and let Arthur warm his hand. Usually, Arthur hated public displays of affection even as small as hand holding, so it overjoyed him that he accepted to do so.

They talked about Alfred the rest of the time they waited for the order. The American was quite busy at the time so he couldn't make it, but Matthew was grateful he couldn’t because he could easily bring all the attention to him. He appreciated the rare times he got alone with either of his parents. Even when Alfred wasn’t here, he got all the attention, but that was fine with Mathieu. He’d prefer that over Alfred present and talking loudly and interrupting him.

After lunch, Francis felt warmer and happier from the cup of coffee he drank and the small affection he received. His joy wouldn’t last long when Mathieu offered to walk alongside the river and the old port since they were close by. Arthur agreed to it too quickly, Francis thought.

“Et si on allait faire du shopping? Ça serait pas mal, non? Tu m’avais pas parlé d’un centre commercial avec un mini parc d'attractions à l’intérieur?”¹⁴ Francis suggested.

“Well, Matthew and I never liked shopping much and I don’t especially like theme parks either.” Arthur protested as he put his coat back on.

“Besides, there are probably too many people there already.” Mathieu added.

Francis pouted and followed the other two outside. They walked a few minutes until they reached a pedestrian path near the river. Arthur narrated the scenery with tales of the past, including Mathieu in it. Francis would normally enjoy joining in and teasing his partner, but he had troubles following them up even though they walked at a relatively normal pace. The Frenchman wished he was anywhere else other than outside in the cold. He thought of leaving them, calling a taxi and going back to the hotel on his own, but his fingers were already frozen again and he would have to look for the taxi’s number. Arthur probably had the phone number since he called one earlier. However, Francis was too prideful to ask him the number.

They walked and walked until they reached a small park in front of the train station. By that time, Francis thought his fingers were so frozen that he might lose some of them. His feet weren’t any better. Arthur and Mathieu spotted a bench and sat on it to take a break while Francis stood in front of them. At this point, Francis had his hands inside his coat pockets and the bottom half of his head hiding behind the scarf. Some of his hair locks were frozen too for some unknown reason and his cheeks and ears were red, almost turning to purple. When Mathieu sat down, he noticed how cold Francis looked.

“Es-tu correct, papa?”¹⁵ Mathieu asked him with concern.

“Ouais”¹⁶ was all Francis could be able to say through his shivering.

“Would you like to go back to the hotel, Francis?” Arthur sighed.

Francis nodded.

“You could have said so before, you dumb bitch.” Arthur added as he took his phone out to call a taxi.

The Frenchman didn’t have the energy to insult him back. Mathieu stood up and removed his jacket and offered it to his papa. He wouldn’t have taken it if he wasn’t so desperately cold and if he didn’t appreciate and enjoy gifts he received from his kids. The inside of Mathieu’s jacket was really fluffy and warm, like wearing a cloud.

When Arthur was done telling the taxi operator their current location, he hung up the phone and noticed Mathieu gave his jacket to Francis and only wore a red t-shirt.

“Aren’t you cold, Matthew?” He asked his son.

“Nah. It’s only -10°c anyway.” Mathieu shrugged.

Arthur almost choked himself with his saliva at this comment.

“What do you mean, ONLY -10°c? That’s too bloody cold, lad.” Arthur replied, making the taller blond boy laugh. “Even I want to go back inside and get warm. Perhaps get a cup of tea or something.”

“We can wait for your taxi inside the train station if you want.” Mathieu suggested.

The other two didn’t even have to say anything; they both agreed and followed Mathieu inside the train station.

Back at the hotel room, after Arthur took out his own coat, gloves and hat, he helped Francis get undressed and wrapped him around in the fluffy tartan blanket from the bed.

“Sit down on the chair and I’ll light up the fireplace for you.” Arthur requested him.

Francis smiled softly as he sat down in one of the two sofa chairs in front of the fireplace. It didn’t take long for him to sit with his bare feet on the chair, holding his legs close to his body. Arthur took a match out of the matchbox sitting on the top of the fireplace and lit it up. He quickly threw the match inside the fireplace and closed the glass door.

“Right. I’ll get some water boiling for tea. Would you like a cup?” Arthur asked.

“Oui, s’il te plaît.” ¹⁷

Arthur kissed his boyfriend’s red cold cheek and left to the small kitchen to boil some water with the kettle. Francis laid on the side of his head on the chair and watched him, smiling. While Arthur rarely said he loved him or complimented him much, he did care a lot when it mattered. He was there for him if he needed him and of course, Francis would do exactly the same.

Arthur came back with two cups of boiling hot water and put it down on the side table between the two sofa chairs and sat down next to Francis. The Frenchman noticed his boyfriend brought his own tea bags and even thought of bringing Francis’ favourite kind of tea even though he preferred coffee over tea. He watched as Arthur soaked the tea into the cup.

“Are you feeling better, love?”

“Oui. Merci.”

“You’re welcome”

Francis got up from his chair and went to sit on Arthur’s lap.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Francis wrapped his arms around his partner’s neck and kissed him tenderly.

“I love you.” Francis whispered after he was done kissing. Arthur blushed and pulled Francis closer.

“Je t’aime aussi.”¹⁸ Arthur whispered back.

Translation:

¹ “I promise you a great time.”

² “It’s too easy to tease you”

³ “We don’t have winter like this back home, do we?”

⁴ “Yeah. At least, it’s better than your rain for 10 months a year.”

⁵ “You know the Queen isn’t coming today, right?”

⁶ “Can you help me, my love?”

⁷"What? One hour? We won't even have time to have sex."

⁸ "I must be at the top of myself. I can't go out like a poor peasant. Who do you think I am?"

⁹ “It’s gorgeous, right?”

¹⁰ “I have a scarf that would look good with it. Anyway, we won’t stay long outside. Who in their right mind would stay outside in that kind of weather?”

¹¹ “I don’t need your pity. I’ll order a nice hot coffee and I’ll be fine.”

¹² “It’s true

¹³ “Ah. I’m sorry, my love.”

¹⁴ “What about going shopping? Wouldn’t it be nice, would it? You told me about a shopping mall with a mini theme park inside, didn’t you?”

¹⁵ “Are you ok, dad?”

¹⁶“Yeah”

¹⁷ “Yes please.”

¹⁸ “I love you too.”

#frukweek #frukweek2021 #aph fruk #hws fruk #fruk #ukfr #aph ukfr #hws ukfr #aph england #hws england #aph france #hws france #THIS TOOK ME TOO LONG #i do love fluffy old married couple trope #no beta read #we post the first draft like the finnish in russia #i legit thought we were during winter at the end like bruh we're only in August. its hot out

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oldfritz · 2 years

Note

for the ship bingo: pruhun, fruk, and frederick the great/his own wife

ok first off, dear anon, thank you for including three ships i have Thoughts about. blowing you a little kiss. my thoughts are under the cut to be respectful of everyone else's time

PruHun

this is my crack, this is my heroin, it's the air i breathe. gun to my head, if you asked me to pick my one supreme OTP it's them. i don't even care about the historical grasping of straws you gotta do to "justify" it - though that is fun! - they're just...so compatible. i could wax poetic on gil + erzsi for hours on end, but i try to let my fanfics do the talking on them and, brothers, their ao3 tag alone proves how much i have to say on them. the worst part about my love of them though and going back so hard into my own fanfic-verse is that...well, i'm picky now. there's a specific version of pruhun i'm looking for and there's been one or two other authors on ao3 (in english!) i found who even came close but my favorite of which deactivated (cuneifire, whoever you were, i miss you </3). thankfully, there are quite a few fanartists here with the same vision but nothing compares to the written word. i'm trying to keep this reasonable since there's three other ships to talk about, but you get the idea. you ever need someone to fangirl over gil and erzsi, i'm your girl

FrUK

as i've said before, it took me a hot minute to get into them because i was such a USUK fan. but...i'm english, i am a casual enjoyer of english history. shipping them was bound to happen, though it did take me becoming closer to adulthood and engaging with more books, film, and tv with some fucked up psychological themes to 'get it.' i don't like when it's all cute and fluffy for them, i just can't buy into that. you're telling me that these two ancient entities and former superpowers who got into wars against each other on virtually every fucking continent are now, what? snuggling up together in front of the telly while francis reads and arthur knits? what's next, ivan and alfred making sweet tender love in the ISS? ('yes,' i hear you guys say, 'that's what exactly what we're saying you curmudgeon'). keep the frog and the limey's love affair toxic!!

Fritz and....Elisabeth Christine

kinda have to put my historian hat on for this, but i can't ship this. i know too much. you have to be either homophobic or incredibly ignorant on european monarchy in the 18c. to look at these two and think 'wow! such love and tenderness here!' he was repulsed by her before he even met her. upon seeing her for the first time after the seven year's war, he told her she'd gotten fat. one member of elisabeth christine's staff, who really admired fritz, resented how terribly he treated her! modern historians (myself included) are flummoxed at why even after his death she retained any loyalty to him. as i circled above, it's so bad and atrocious that it becomes almost comical. i wish FW1 had allowed fritz to marry his cousin, not for any 'rule britannia' reasons, but because i wish elisabeth christine had had a chance to marry someone who would've at least tolerated her and not torn her down in every conceivable way with his equally bitchy sister!! modern AU where she divorces him and she works as a translator without having to be chained to shitty men like frederick (and so he can just marry katte, fredersdorf, or some man. some poor man take one for the team. be a feminist)

#asks #anonymous #thank you this was very very fun!#especially for including gil and erzsi. i figured no one would ever ask me about them because its so obvious but really. warmed my heart #hws fruk #hws pruhun #old fritz #elisabeth christine

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wiltingofthewhitelily · 3 years

Text

{Hetalia Family Week 2021} Day 3: Roadtrip - FACES Family

A/N: Submission #3 for @hetafamilyweek!

Sooo yup, the FACES Family is next, a classic! Love this family dynamic even though I hardly talk about them lol.

I kinda accidentally made this story more FrUk than anything else, sorry 'bout that XD though it does show them being a family too so yeah- I'm actually pretty pleased with how this turned out though, regardless?? Especially since this was one of the ones I was struggling for motivation for at first.

And yes, Michelle in this is Seychelles.

»»————-　➴　————-««

"Aaaand that's it!" Francis declared as he strapped his small daughter, Michelle, to her car seat. "We're ready to go!" And they were: all three kids were in the car (finally), all well as all of their luggage and a few snacks.

"Bloody hell, finally," Arthur muttered, panting a bit heavily. He'd been in charge of getting their oldest son, Alfred, situated, which was not an easy task—both parents could admit that, since Alfred was their most hyper, defiant child.

Francis turned to his husband and cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sure you want to drive the first half, cher?"

"I'm sure," Arthur replied immediately, firmly.

"Okay, okay."

And with that, the duo hopped into their respective seats, and Arthur started up the car. They were going on a road trip to see Arthur's older brother, who lived sixteen hours away—so, to say the least, they had a long trip ahead of them.

Not even a half-hour on the road and the couple were already bickering about something rather petty. Arthur wanted to play rock and punk music while on the road, while Francis wanted to listen to his typical classical. "I'm the one who's driving; I should decide what music we should play," Arthur said stubbornly, switching the radio back to the rock station.

Francis made a tsk-tsk noise. "Oh, c'mon—no one here besides you likes that heavy rock garbage."

Arthur scowled, his hands gripping the steering wheel even tighter as he tried to keep his focus on the road. "First of all," he began, "it's not garbage. Second, the kids enjoy it."

Francis, skeptical, turned his head to see just how true this was. Matthew, for one, was fast asleep already, his head dangling out of his car seat; Michelle had her head bent down and her hands cupped over her ears. Alfred seemed to be the only one 'enjoying' the music; he was bobbing his head up and down lightly to the beat.

"Arthur, two out of the three of our kids seem to hate it," Francis said, turning back to his husband.

Arthur grunted. "Well, I don't know what to say then," he answered, a bit quietly.

Francis paused for a few minutes. "Well," he finally said, "how about we just turn the radio to a station neither of us listens to." He leaned his hand forward and did so, landing on a country music station.

Francis actually found the song playing quite good and catchy, and began to hum and snap along to the lyrics. Arthur stayed stoic, just focusing on his driving. Francis eventually started singing along to the cheesy lyrics about girls and red trucks and farms and bumped Arthur's shoulder as he danced along, trying to get the Brit to join in, or at least smile.

Arthur glanced at his husband out of the corner of his eye and, sure enough, Francis saw a small grin and eventually a chuckle crack through.

"Dance with me, cher, dance!" Francis urged.

Arthur continued to chuckle, and finally he relented, shaking his hips a little as he drove off an exit.

"Hey!" Francis exclaimed excitedly, laughing and patting Arthur's shoulder.

"This song is quite catchy," the green-eyed man admitted.

"Nice dancing music, oui?" Francis added.

"I love you, frog," Arthur said then, a bit suddenly.

Francis perked up at that, his eyes growing a bit softer. "I love you too, cher." He leaned forward to kiss the man, who gladly accepted.

In the back seat, little Alfred and Michelle (and Matthew, who was just waking up, rubbing at his small eyes) watched this interaction between their parents with wide-eyed curiosity. Their dads were definitely a unique couple, that was for sure. "Um," Alfred started, not knowing exactly how to get their attention, but willing to try, "Daddy?"

No response—the two men just continued to sing and giggle together.

Alfred tried again. "Daddy? Papa?"

"What is it, Alfred?" Arthur finally responded, almost robotically.

"Can we get McDonald's?"

"No—Wendy's," Alfred heard Matthew grumble from the opposite end of the backseat. Even in his half-asleep state, he was still willing to argue with his older brother.

Another minute of giddy giggling. "Sure, sure Alfred," Arthur replied nonchalantly and almost subconsciously.

Alfred gasped in both surprise and delight, grinning from ear to ear. If his parents acting like this was enough to get him McDonald's, then they should definitely be like this more often.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that the country station cut to advertisements and Arthur had realized what he'd actually told his son; though, he couldn't back out at that point, so he, rather unwillingly, drove to a McDonald's.

There was at least one very happy camper on the way there.

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neuvillette · 3 years

Text

Paperwork - FrUK Fic (18+ish)

During the industrial boom in England, someone in particular has been working himself to the bone.

Fuck... There it was again, that near-painful pang in his ribs from thinking about that bastard. That arrogant prick had whispered to him so closely that day so long ago that the memory of the hot breath from his lips still seemed to be lingering on his ears-- or was that just his own fiery blush? Either way, it wasn't going anywhere. Whenever he was alone his thoughts would instantly crack back to that insufferable shit. How his lips were so plush and too naturally red to be decent... How those blue eyes drifted lazily along wherever they pleased, often up and down his body. How he hoped that they one day would look back at him so pleadingly, begging for something almost too shameful to fulfill. He knew approximately how the man looked under his clothes, since he was prone to low cut shirts, high hems, translucent fabric. He had a tight waist and broad shoulders, he had hips that almost could be considered too wide, ones that would probably be good to hold onto tightly and grip red marks into. His chest, like much of his body, was soft, not flabby exactly, but plush enough to squeeze and nibble at. Fuck, FUCK, that pang came again, searing through his chest as he battled to think of something else. He had work to get done, and a lot of it. These kinds of thoughts were not only immoral but incredibly inconvenient, and the toll they took on his body meant he had to go through an arduous process to relieve himself, if only for a little while. His teeth all pressed down together as his jaw clenched, he could feel the pressure all throughout his face as he tried to just get on with it. There wasn't that much paperwork left, right? Just a bit more. A small distraction would do him some good. He only realised he was tapping his mostly-dry dip pen against his desk when he noticed how the rhythm was starting to seep elsewhere into his mind; tap tap tap, thrusts against a document, against something soft, warm, moans echoing in arches over the staccato beat, and--- He dropped the pen unceremoniously onto his desk, caked-on ink splattering down as he pressed his forehead into his hand. He had been slipping too hard recently. His bosses hadn’t been pleased with his work as of late; though he had been toiling during similar hours and put in the same effort he always had, they said he needed to rise up to meet changing standards. He used to do work with his hands, but that wasn’t needed anymore. He used to be their guard dog, or at least their work horse. For everything it was, at least the action of his youth was invigorating. At least he wasn’t monitored, and had time to do things for himself, instead of being their tool all hours of the day. He had time to work with his hands, his hands. To create things that were valuable, that were helpful to the, to his, people around him. Now he was… well. He was expendable. But not so expendable that they would waste his capacity to do paperwork. Industry was booming, one couldn’t just expect to stand by with what had been accepted in the past. Labour was becoming more standardised, more efficient, more impersonal… Not that he had ever been the most personable chap. While he enjoyed working with his hands, making things one by one, the gritty way, the difficult way, he made efforts to internalise what they had said to him. They needed his mind, his edge, to work on this stuff. That’s what he was for, after all; not forging swords, not stringing bows, not tilling soil or growing things; but intellectual, gentlemanly, removed work. Detached, necessary, proper. It suited him, he tried to tell himself. He wasn’t one easily inclined to the personable, nor to saccharine slop… Not when communicating with others, anyhow. Buried and smeared while being hidden amongst mounds of paperwork were brief scribbles of poetry, of sketches of mistily reimagined silhouettes, flowing romantic prose incapable of coming out through his own halting speech, of faintly grasped memories of torrid expressions he needed to recall through flowing strokes of a figure, but those all were secrets even he wasn’t meant to have access to. Shameful, that’s what it was. Inefficient, ineffective, and shameful. An outlet for his needs to make something, perhaps, but… Certainly they sated other desires as well.

The distance between them should have helped; should have given him time to correct and corral his feelings, mold them back into form briskly, scaldingly, sharply--as one does when shaping copper. Instead he had gone too soft, too half-hearted, and his self-inflicted blows to his psyche had been too gentle. The metal of his desire had set and crisped up before he could steer himself back on track, and now he had to re-anneal, to subject himself back to fiery disavowal and guilt before the exacting measures of self-restraint would be effective. Yes, he quite liked that idea. He couldn’t have his metallurgy back but he could certainly think of his rehabilitation as such. He had forged many a sword, an arrow tip, an axe, before. His personality would be the same. Scalded and quenched and hammered into shape. And with his skill he could tap incessantly, exactingly, forcefully thrusting against the teasingly giving metal and-- blast it, again! It was achingly difficult to ignore. The distance only seemed to make his delinquent misgivings have more courage to rise up again out of turn. When he was face to face with those capricious blue eyes long enough to remember the wretched personality that tagged along with them it was easier to keep his goal in mind, but the longer he went without a glimpse of the sour man himself, the more alluring the rest of it seemed. Had they even written letters? Well, he hadn’t sent any. He had received a fair handful until they had run dry. He had almost convinced himself that he was glad of it. A few lines in the others flowery script were too laden with implications to be safe; he had already resigned himself to the idea of his correspondence being read at his supervisor’s discretion, so it was best if the letters wasted away entirely rather than risk the uncovery by his betters of whatever hintingly depraved thing would find itself penned inside a perfumed envelope. Near the end of their dispatchment, the notes had gotten quite irritated it seemed, demanding reply. His excuse for his silence was that he simply didn’t have time to dally on such things, but in truth he wanted to show himself that he could deny the temptation. It was easy to tell himself that he had enough to worry about with dozens of signatures to scrawl, appeals and drafts to write, documents and proposals to uncritically approve. With considerable effort, he plucked the intricately carved ivory dip pen off of the desk before blotting it back into his blue-glass inkwell. Just a few more of these documents and he’d be able to wallow in his own home instead of his suffocating office. The half-hearted, half-present signatures left a streaky trail of black as his newly inkstained hand trailed across the page, though the final few letters were jaggedly interrupted with a rapping at the office door.

“Yes, sir, I’ve already said I would finish them by today,” his calling tone was harsh but clearly deferent; he was a lively one, but part of being a man was knowing his duty and thusly his place. Even so, he didn’t bother glancing up from his efforts to correct the broken signing at the tail end of the page as the door slowly opened, creaking unceremoniously.

“If it’s really necessary I can work past my contractual hour, though I must note that your well-intentioned checkings-in aren’t conducive to getting any actual work done.” This comment was much more pointed, though not so much so as to be crossing a line. Still, the silent presence above his desk, looming, made him rethink his words for a slight moment before he got the better of himself. No need to look up as if they can dole out some sort of punishment! To you, of all people! No, you’re working together under the same sense of duty… Right? Keep your head down and show them your dedication and vigour. If they’ve got a problem they can bloody well deal with it, that’s not something that’s important enough to interrupt this work.

« Ah. Scribbling pen names has stopped you from writing back ? You are a much more petulant boy than before, their puppy-dog training is not working on you. » The two sentences were connected not in theme but in the rolling, keen tone they were carried by. The former was a lazy observation and the latter was crafted solely to rile him up. The door quietly shut behind, and there was a graceful and soundless moment afterwards. In a second of skillful self-control, he did not drop the pen but instead cooly placed its nib back into its proper receptacle, as much as he was inclined to throw it at his guest. For a flitting pause, a scorching rage surged through him. What about no reply hadn’t gotten through that dense skull, and what made him think, after it all, that he could flicker back in, no doubt impermanently, just to ruin all his progress, and--

God he needed to see him.

He would not ever, never, let him know that.

“As spineless and will-less as ever, then, Bonnefoy. Resolute enough to travel across the channel to be a nuisance but not enough to do any work or get any admirable aims in life.” Fuck, that hadn’t enough venom, it was transparent and flimsy. Traceable. He made sure his glower was deep enough to offset what he was certain was too-soft a rebuttal. It hadn’t done enough, though.

« So you have missed me ! Yes, you know, I do enjoy to come here and to anger you. » A quick beat passed.

« You know I had to come and-- mmm… scorn you for ungentlemanly not replying to my letters. » Well, it seemed he was being equally as transparent. He almost shivered. It was one thing to have his feelings discovered, but if they both were in agreement over what was happening, it was much more difficult to steer away from what was coming.

“Scold. You mean scold.” He added curtly, taking his pen back up as he glanced back down at his paperwork. He had been staring at his face up until then, he just realised. Blue eyes as infuriating as ever, that new obnoxious french hairstyle, the unneeded tightness in the waist and legs of the waistcoat and trousers, the volatile expression of something genuine.

“Your english still hasn’t improved.” He continued with a comment he knew would be ignored, but he needed to get it out there. Keep up the guise of nagging conversation.

« Your office is so away from the rest in here. Isolated like always. And no windows, a prison ! Poor little sad Englishman, and of course no time to write letters, not one bit. » They were talking by, not to, each other, though they were saying the same things. He had decided to sit upon the edge of the bureau, clearly an excuse to stir up some fabricated bile for their equally as convincing argument.

“I’m working upon this desk, thank you! And I’ve been working for months now. You were not invited and are not wanted; you’ve found your way in and can find your way out. Good day, Bonnefoy.” His pulse was hammering now, if only he could direct it at that copper-- beat his will into place, keep it straight and unmarred, stay determined. The Frenchman was simply smiling away with that look of acute, cutting, though well-intended observation. He was not going to leave on his own. With a return of the pen to its place, he stood, making an attempt to usher his unwelcome guest out. Francis rose as well, and as he did so the Englishman made no further attempt to get to his office door. Instead they stood together, steadfast.

« Say hello to me. It’s been so long, and I want to hear it and you want to say it. Just hello. » It was a tender plea as much as it was a command. The fool really thought he was entitled to it, but only in the way two who have known each other a long time are entitled to hear the news of someone’s workday or what dreams filled their last night’s sleep. They weren’t touching, but they could. His own face was beet red as he decided whether or not he should deny the request, angry and upset at more than the situation and himself. It was boiling over, the tapping beats in his chest and throat weren’t subsiding. He had to do something. He wished he had a bloody window so he could toss the intruder out of it, grasp him by his ruffled collar and throw him out the door, or against a wall, or over his desk, or--

“You-- I can’t believe you--” He was cut off by a look, and maybe Francis had moved forward slightly with his deep gaze, bridged the gap a little to make it easier, but maybe he hadn’t, and maybe he had grabbed at the nicely pressed wool jacket of his own accord, pulled at the stupidly styled french coif to reach for a kiss, to stumble into the wall behind them all on his own. He certainly was the one pressing them together, at least preliminarily. Bonnefoy, having planned something along these lines, was quick to fill in the needed friction after a blink.

« That’s-- hmm… one way to say hello. » The teasing tone was almost enough to make him stop entirely and snap him out of it, possibly stear himself back onto a more proper path, but Francis was smiling again and it was just too earnest as he craned his neck back in anticipation to be kissed there. They both knew this was the only hello he’d be able to manage. Any further acknowledgement of a budding warmth between them beyond the physical was more than he could honestly bear. For now, the more openly flagrant refusal of the two to meet gentlemanly expectations would have to be their letters that were few and far between, punctuated by occasional tysts like this, though the sentiment always lingered, and he was afraid it was growing. He had a period in his youth, with no supervision on open seas, when he didn’t hold himself to such a high standard in these matters. It had taken a fair amount of diligence to push himself back on track, but now--... Well, he could feel himself slipping again, but this time he knew better. Somehow the refutation of his desires of it all made it all the more difficult to deny. But Francis wasn’t giving him much pause to think more deeply about these things, and the wretched glint in his eye made it seem like he knew just what was on his mind. Why did he always know!? It hurt, to be so well understood in a shame the other refused to acknowledge. When had Francis ever been shameful of anything? He pretended to be, but only to be irritating. Every so often when they’d do this, he’d resort to saying such horrible things about how he relished his sanctity being soiled when they both knew perfectly well that no such thing was ever there in the first place. Francis made no signs to do so tonight, not as impatient hands were fiddling with buttons and edging him over to sit back on top of the desk. That pansy French fashion was great for enticing the eye but by god, the buttons! Warm, manicured hands met his and Bonneyfoy grinned.

« You do not need to open my shirt. » What a stupid assumption.

“Just because I don’t-- stop that! I can do it on my own, you’re not making it any easier. I could just rip the damn thing if you prefer-- I don’t have to but. Well, I get to,” His huff was met with an expression that looked sickeningly soft. Was this not injustice enough? To acquiesce to desire, but now his carnal lusts were being interpreted as tenderness! Maybe it was a bit of that, but blast it, Francis could at least pretend he didn’t know. It wasn’t like this was something special for him, anyway. That fop was getting it on with anything that moved and looked his way, and now Francis was lording it over him that he liked him! He was probably smug, pleased that he had ordained to come down and give him the pleasure of a single, solitary fuck while he was off cavorting with--

« Please, let me. You’re tense, I can help. » There he went with that tenderness again, too visceral to be faked. The beat in time of the two sharing a glance was raw and it shut him up quite well. Francis kept chatting as he placed the Englishman’s hands under his shirt as he nimbly undid his own buttons. The other was content to grab about underneath as he waited.

« You need to learn to say no to them. Get more time away. They make you feel worse inside, and that is not very handsome at all. » And there he went with the sap. It was easy to slide his hands around to the small of Francis’s back and hold him steady as he kissed him to shut the man up. Surprisingly, Francis pushed him away to finish opening his buttons. The Englishman did not appreciate that.

« Despair is becoming on you, but even you need to be patient. I’m not going anywhere. » They both knew that wasn’t true, but he wasn’t complaining when Francis plucked his own cold hands out of the back of the Frenchman’s trousers and placed them on the man's freshly revealed chest. He could feel Francis shiver under him, his own hands were much colder than the other’s hot skin. A moment of impulse made him squeeze possibly a bit more roughly than he should have, and Francis did that little gasping moan of his he always did. It had been so long that he hardly remembered it anymore, but it was quite the experience to hear it again. The more he groped the chest, the tighter the legs around his waist would get. Oh, his poor paperwork, it was only slightly out of the way of being crushed and pushed about… Maybe he could move it before they got on with it all, it would only take a--

That familiar warm hand grabbed his jaw tightly and pulled his gaze back away from the documents on his desk, the both of them pausing only for a moment before they kissed again and all thought of paperwork was forgotten in favour of instant gratification. He could feel Francis smile triumphantly as he kept up his slightly desperate grabbing and squeezing, his hips starting to move up against the open legs resting on his desk. It was rather ungraceful, Francis’s legs snaked tight around him as he pressed their bodies together. In the one moment before he would no longer be able to resist himself, a clutching shock of guilt crackled through his chest. Unbeknownst to him, his face contorted slightly, a grimace of pain and reconsideration. Francis didn’t see, or, at least, didn’t pause. Instead, the hot, slender fingers that still held his jaw were keeping the pair kissing as a rhythm not dissimilar to one that the Englishman was familiar with was hammered out against the solid office desk. If only he could say he forgot the expectations of his bosses and the world at large for those moments, but he couldn’t. His will was stronger, however. At least, his will when combined with his desires. Besides, it was difficult to pause when his pervasive nuisance was sitting its fat arse on his desk, when they were clutched and and hugging together as tightly as his wax seals pressed to his paperwork that was currently watching the display. His hands were suddenly disordered-- after months, years even, of writing when told to, shaking hands properly, adjusting ties, now they had free reign to fly wherever they fancied. Tangled in bouncing blond locks one moment, then back squeezing his partner’s chest, then slipped down the back of the loosened trousers upon his bureau. There wasn’t much time until the nonsensical French interjections fizzled into dripping moans, and even less of a beat until a quicker, tense breath of air joined in. Chests still together, their hearts raced. He was the first to pull away and face the wall with a few curses as Francis was left sitting. Realising the fruitlessness of any attempt to clean himself there, he circled around to tend to the ever-patient papers awaiting his return as he dutifully stacked them in his carrying case.

“I should be going, then. These need finishing. Ta.” Miraculously, he found the coldness he had been attempting to muster up upon his companion’s arrival, though it was a tad too late. Francis wasn’t altogether pleased with the change in tone, although he understood the haste required after their torrid encounter.

« But I need a-- Angleterre, you-- ! » His shirt unbuttoned and tousled, and his trousers hanging off of his hips, Francis slipped to place himself in front of the door.

« You are bringing me to your flat, or your kennel, or wherever it is they keep you when you aren’t here. »

“Not if you’re going to speak French, I won’t.” A raised eyebrow came with the easy, chilled reply.

« Do not get smart with me. » Francis shot back, deft fingers working to button his shirt and press down his clothing as swiftly and naturally as bird preening itself. The other’s stern expression and eyes looking elsewhere told him as much as he needed to know. He softened, if only slightly.

« Look, I’m just as presentable as you. It’s a business trip, would that make you feel better ? I won’t bother you as you do your paperwork. I’ll even make you tea and something real to eat as you finish up. Hein ? »

Another few beats between them, and, ever the gentleman, he opened the door for Francis after giving them both a once-over.

“We’ll need to be quick, alright? These pants are already uncomf--... Go.” He gestured briskly out the door, and followed after the other man who seemed far more pleased with himself and the situation. What was he doing? Why was he-- well, that didn’t matter. All he had to worry about was getting back to his own room and not being seen by anyone in so disheveled a state… Besides, Francis seemed to be making no effort to be inconspicuous-- loudly asking for directions to his living arrangements because it had just been so long since he had seen them, and in French, no less. Though determined not to look at him, what made it worse was that he could just sense that sickening grin creeping up Francis’s face, spreading more and more by the minute. If only he had just remembered how irritating and inconvenient, unprofessional and repulsive the Frenchman was… Being apart for so long made him more alluring when he really knew what the bastard was like. If he had been prepared, why, he wouldn’t be bounding after him, through dirty, smoggy streets; his heart racing, his stern glare only slightly beating out the flutter in his chest and the small twitch at the corner of his lips. Incorrigible.

#fruk #ukfr #england/france #france/england #hetalia fic #hetalia fanfiction

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oumaheroes · 3 years

Text

Christmas Drabble (2)

Summary: England and France's night does not go as planned.

Word Count: 909

Characters: England, France- FrUK

Part one can be found here.

---

'There are not enough words in my language to describe how much I hate you.'

Through the dim light, England could see France pause at his pathetic, half-hearted attempt to turn over a clump of leaves with the toe of his shoe, 'This is why French is better,' he said, sighing far more dramatically than was warranted, 'I can think of at least seven ways to express the same sentiment to you.'

‘You’re not even bloody well trying to find the car keys,’ England got up from his crouched position, knees clicking unhappily. He shook his legs to loosen them, ‘You’re just faffing about.’

‘And you are deluded,’ England did not need light to know the look France was giving him, ‘It is dark. It is dark, your keys are black, and we are never going to find them.’

‘Not with that attitude,’ England felt his lighter in his pocket and quietly bemoaned that he’d left his emergency cigarettes in the car, ‘This is entirely your fault.’

'My fault? I was trying to be romantic!'

‘Romantic?! You grabbed my arse!’

‘Well, if you had more of one to grab, we might be okay,' France gave a disdainful shrug of one shoulder, 'Besides, how was I to know you kept your car keys there.’

‘Where else would I fucking put them?’

‘I don't know, in another pocket? Not in the back pocket which you were dangling over the edge of a fucking bridge!’

‘You pushed me against the railing!’

‘You said that you wanted spontaneity!’

‘I'm never sleeping with you again,’ England said, beginning to stride away back up the hill where his car was parked before spinning around to continue, ‘and certainly not in a fucking car!’

‘Oh, you foolish, dense little man,’ France could somehow ooze condescension with the smallest shake of his head. He followed England’s path up the bank, ‘we both know full well you'll come crawling back when you realise no one else will have you.’

Instantly furious, England punched him, fist catching France right on the jaw. He somehow held his balance, feet slipping in the mud, and he grabbed for England’s shirt to either keep himself upright or to strangle him in return.

'I've got to pick up Australia and New Zealand from the airport in-’ England pushed himself free, France staggering backwards a few paces, and checked his watch, ‘-three hours!’

‘What do you want me to do about it, hein? Magically find your keys? Oh yes look! Here they are,’ France scooped up a handful of leaves and dirt and threw them hard at England’s face. If the sharp impact was anything to go by, he'd chosen a stone too, ‘Call them, you stupid man.’

‘My phone is in the fucking car,’ England hissed, wiping his face clean, ‘Why do you think we’ve been searching in the dark? Do you not think that I would have used my phone torch if I had one?’

‘Then break in!’

‘No!’ England's voice went far too high-pitched and France definitely noticed, a quick gleam of white teeth in the muted moonlight, 'That's a brand-new car; don't you dare,’ he said, grabbing France’s wrist as he made moves up the bank again towards it, ‘We are not hot wiring my car.’

‘Then what do you propose that we do?’ France jerked his arm free and gestured with it wildly, ‘We are in the middle of the woods and by a river, may I just say, and in the middle of the night. There is no light, your keys might well be in the water, and we have no way to contact anyone without getting into the car.’

He tutted, brushing back loose hair from his forehead to smooth it behind his ears, ‘Why did you lock the car anyway?’

‘It is new.’

‘Arthur just leave it, we can take a taxi-‘

‘It is NEW. And how the bloody hell are we going to do that? Everything is in the goddamn car; do you not listen.’

France shook his head, mouth pressed into a tight line, 'I have missed my flight back, you know. I was supposed to be on route to Spain right now. My Christmas is ruined because of you.’

England snorted, ‘Is that supposed to make me feel bad? What on earth are you whinging for, go tomorrow.’

France shook his head and began walking up the bank again, apparently not giving England the pleasure of a reply. England watched him go for a while before jogging to catch up, realising that France had entirely given up on the search.

‘Do you think either Gilbert or Antonio will be sober enough for the next 48 hours to be any sort of help to me?' France said when England levelled with him, hefting himself over the protective metal guardrail. He held out a hand to help England over and gave a dismissive wave of the hand, 'No no, that was it.’

‘Obviously you’re coming to mine.’ England said simply, feet thankfully back on the tarmac. There was a smear of blood across France's cheek and England rubbed at it with his thumb. France didn't say anything and England paused, noting that France was watching him with a funny look on his face, 'What?'

‘You are serious?’

‘Yes. Why on earth wouldn’t I be? What's the matter with you.'

France gave a soft laugh and smiled, face softening, ‘Nothing at all. However, about your car…’

Part 3

---

AN:

Phew, this one came reaaal close to the 1000 mark guys, real close.

#aph england #aph france #fruk #hws england #hws france #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy #aph fruk #hws fruk #aph #hws #hetalia #my writing

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koolkat9 · 2 years

Text

GerFra Week 2023: Day 6

@gerfraweek

Prompt: Jealousy || Drunkenness

Relationships: Setting up of Gerfruk, established Fruk and set up/focused on GerFra

Word Count: 834

Read on AO3

Happy for You

Ludwig was happy for them. He really was. Why wouldn’t he be when two of his friends had finally gotten together after years of confusing feelings and then even more years of pining because they were too stubborn to change things between them? But finally, someone took that crucial step, and Arthur and Francis were finally an official couple.

And as Ludwig watched his two friends laugh and bicker affectionately, the way Arthur tucked a piece of Francis's hair behind their ear, how Francis wrapped their hand around Arthur’s wrist and squeezed it lovingly, Ludwig’s chest burned with red hot... happiness. His grip tightened on the handle of his beer, and he clenched his teeth at the display.

Then the smiling stopped, and Arthur reached into his pocket. Ludwig usually condemned the practice of eavesdropping, but in his partially inebriated state, curiosity got the best of him.

“Wait…Berwald slow down,” Arthur hushed, “What?–Oh is that all?–No, it’s no trouble–Just give me an hour, and I’ll be there.” He stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

“What was that?” Francis asked.

“Berwald needs me to watch Peter for the night. Something is going on with Oskar, and they don’t want to worry Peter too much.”

“Ah, I understand. See you at the hotel?”

“Of course.”

With a quick peck to Francis’s lips, Arthur departed. Ludwig watched it all, knuckles white. Perhaps he needed to cut himself off.

Francis’s gaze drifted over to him, and Ludwig immediately turned back to his drink, cheeks burning.

Over the thrumming of his heart, he didn’t hear Francis approaching.

“Ludwig?” he called.

“Ah…Y-Yes. Good evening Francis um…How may I help you?” Ludwig tried to keep his words clear and concise, but he stumbled and slurred a few of them. He refused to meet Francis’s eyes.

“May I sit?”

“I-I guess.”

Ludwig sipped his drink anxiously, stomach flipping as he heard the chair scratch against the floor.

Francis ordered a glass of wine before getting down to business. “So…I can tell something’s eating at you. Don’t try to deny it. What’s wrong?”

Ludwig steeled his eyes on his drink before downing the last third of his glass. The amber liquid burned down his throat, and his cheeks flushed an even deeper red. He took a minute, letting the drink fog over his mind and loosen his lips.

“I like you okay?” Ludwig slurred, a little more aggressive in tone than he meant to, “A-And I like Arthur. B-B-But–Forget it, just forget it. You two are happy, I shouldn’t be talking like this.” He rose to his feet, swaying a lot, shaking his already twisted stomach. He needed to leave before he ruined the happiness of the two he loved so dearly.

But Francis grabbed his wrist, tentatively and pulled him close so he could keep Ludwig upright. Ludwig’s heart pounded in his ears.

“I had a hunch. I see the way you look at us. At first, I thought you were jealous of one of us, but recently I’ve noticed the fond look you give.” He smiled softly. “If I’m honest, before Arthur stopped dragging his feet, I was considering pursuing you instead.”

Ludwig felt his heart shatter. All he wanted to do was crumple to the floor. He had been so close, and he hadn’t even realized, and now it was too late. He had to leave before he said something stupid.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Francis hushed. Considering they were shorter and less muscled than Ludwig, Francis had a surprisingly tight grip. Or maybe Ludwig was just too drunk to put up a proper fight. “I’m not done.”

“Stop…Just stop. I’m happy if you two are happy. I-I just need some time to move on.”

“But what if we both liked you too, and wanted to ask you out?”

The room was spinning, and Ludwig’s stomach lurched. He needed to leave. Before his heart broke anymore. “N-No…You don’t need to spare my feelings.”

“I’m not!”

Ludwig pulled away and almost landed on his face. Everything was becoming blurry, and he couldn’t tell if it was from how drunk he was or if he was actually about to cry. Either way, he just wanted to curl into his bed and fall asleep. Hopefully, he’d forget this foolishness and pain tomorrow.

Francis sighed. “There is no getting through to you tonight I see. Come on then. We need to get you to your room.”

With some stumbling and a few more almost falls, somehow Ludwig arrived back at his hotel without too much fuss. Francis sat him on the bed. He flittered off to get a glass of water, and for the morning, he brought aspirin.

Ludwig tried to keep his eyes open until Francis returned, but by the time they returned, Ludwig had nodded off.

“You really are an adorable man,” Francis cooed, though his voice sounded distant, “Sleep well mon cher.”

And like that, Ludwig was out like a light.

#hetalia #gerfraweek2023 #hws england #hws france #hws germany #gerfruk #gerfra #frager #fruk #ukfr #fanfiction #hetalia fanfiction

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