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#usuk fanfic
alifeasvivid · 7 days
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A Feast for the Fae; a ukus faerie tale
:D this was commissioned by @ok-scans. They asked for smut and the supernatural with virgin Alfred, so here it is. Thank you so much!!
Rating: Explicit Warnings: major age gap: centuries old immortal faerie + 18 year old human Tags: fae!Arthur, human!Alfred, smut, intoxication, ambiguous non-modern fantasy setting Summary: Alfred has been selected as his village's sacrifice to the Fae King, to be eaten at the Beltane Festival. It's up to Arthur to stop it from happening. Word Count: ~3200
“What is your name?” the hushed words slide into the boy’s ear and down his spine as easily as the wine had slid down his throat. Arthur leans in close enough to see the summer sky in the human’s eyes, though it is the witching hour now, in the glen, with the full moon sighing softly on them.
The boy grins. “Alfred!” he declares as if it’s a surprise even to himself. He drinks greedily from the goblet full of Arthur’s wine. The two of them are sat on a large, flat rock before a crackling fire, though Alfred is at every moment about to topple off of it.
Arthur’s glittering emerald eyes flash as he surveys the sun-drenched fields that are the boy’s body, rich and ready for harvest. Alfred is far less a boy now than when they met, for certain, but that smile will always first belong to the little human child that had fully enchanted Arthur thirteen years ago. He hadn’t known the truth about Alfred back then.
Alfred giggles and grins and swirls his cup, he blushes, but it’s certainly not with embarrassment. He’s naked as the day he was born, after the head mage of the village led him out here.
Arthur pours him some more wine and kisses Alfred’s forehead. He has no right to do any of this, yet nothing in the world is going to stop him from doing it. Only last year, when Alfred had turned eighteen, had Arthur learnt that he had been chosen at birth to be his village’s sacrifice to the faerie king upon the Beltane following his eighteenth birthday. Being a summer child, Alfred is nearly nineteen now—and that is fortunate because Arthur had needed the time.
Perhaps Arthur really has become soft. He has spent several centuries with humans at this point, more time than he has spent in Fae, namely with witches and mages, which is how he met Alfred. The witch with whom Arthur lived and worked hired Alfred’s mother as a live-in maid in an arrangement which benefitted them both greatly.
Supposedly, faeries cannot feel love, but if these feelings—the urgent compulsion to save Alfred from being eaten at the Beltane feast, the way he withers at the thought of never seeing his smile again, the desperate want to keep the boy all for himself and make sure he is always happy—are not love then Arthur does not really know what else to call it.
But he is not the faerie king. He is one of the faerie king’s subjects—and a low born one at that, so he has spent all this time, this grace period as it were, trying to find some way to save Alfred.
He has found out there are several criteria that must be met, having much to do with time and place of birth, of parentage, of innate magical energies… nothing can be done for any of those.
But the sacrifice must be un-taken, that is to say, still having their true name so that they can give it to the faerie king… and, to also say, they must be a virgin.
Beltane is three days away and the fae court will come to collect him at dawn, so Arthur has only until the end of the witching hour to… to—oh gods… is it a terrible thing? not that Arthur doesn’t want to claim him. Alfred has grown up so well and he is such a good hearted lad, but that’s what makes it worse. He would rather have Alfred come to him freely.
Perhaps that crush Alfred seems to have been harboring for him signals deeper feelings. The situation is still not ideal, but needs must. “No, pet. I want your true name,” Arthur says, cupping Alfred’s face in his hands and lacing the words with the appropriate spell of taking.
Alfred hiccups. “Can’t give ya that, Arthur, You’re not the king! You’re just a faerie witch.” The situation was only partly explained to Alfred: the part about being made the centerpiece of the Beltane feast being left out.
Arthur winces, knowing Alfred doesn’t mean that how it sounds. Arthur knows well enough that he isn’t “just” anything to Alfred. “Oh?” he says. “How do you know I’m not?” he says in a suggestive tone. It’s not a lie at all, just a question. “What if I had been all this time?”
Falling for the trick perfectly, willing to believe more than anything else that he is meant to belong to Arthur, Alfred’s eyes widen in glee. “Wow! Really!? That’s so good, oh that’s so good, I’m really glad. Yeah! You can have it, it’s Alfred Franklin Jones.”
Arthur’s palms and the back of his neck and the tip of his nose all tingle with energy. It has been quite some time since he has taken anyone’s true name. There hasn’t been one he wanted or needed in so long. Alfred is his now, forever… and can never be truly free again, but it’s certainly better than spending eternity in the bellies of the members of the faerie high court. Arthur can’t help himself then and he surges forward and kisses Alfred deeply.
Alfred responds ecstatically, pulling himself into Arthur's arms. He giggles and whines as Arthur kisses him, tossing his head back as Arthur’s lips paint his cheek, his neck, and then his shoulders. The wine sparkles in his brain and he’s so relieved that Arthur has been the one for him this whole time—just as he has wanted for so long.
Arthur enchants a bed of soft leaves and sweet grass for them and wastes no time in pitching Alfred into it. Seeing the human splayed out in it, the firelight dancing on his skin while the moonlight gently caresses him, Arthur is more enraptured than ever. He kneels between Alfred’s legs and smooths his hands over the boy’s body. Alfred is tall and most of his chores had been rough, manual labor, leaving him tan and well-muscled… with a little bit of softness in his stomach since he was often compensated with food and Arthur only wants him more the more he is able to touch.
A Beltane feast indeed.
Alfred squirms and laughs as Arthur’s palms traverse his body and leave tickles in their wake. The tickling sensation soon reveals something more urgent: his cock hard and twitching and aching for Arthurs pale, elegant hands. “Arthur…”
Arthur leans down and kisses his forehead again. “Yes, love?”
“Am I your bride?” he asks with a bit of a slur due to the fae wine. “Is that why I was promised to you?”
Arthur laughs fondly. “Silly boy. Is that what you want?” He drags his finger along the underside of Alfred’s cock, pressing it just below the head and rubbing. “Do you want to be my bride?”
Alfred wriggles in pleasure and nods, feeling warm and happy as he does. “Yes.”
Arthur won’t completely dismiss the idea that it’s just the wine talking, but even still, he feels a possessive, toothy snarl deep in the parts of him that are still feral and truly fae, despite the many years he has spent with humans. “Shall this be our wedding night, then?” he purrs, magic making short work of removing his own clothes.
Alfred nods again, more emphatically this time. He shifts and spreads his legs wider and can’t help but wrap his hand around his cock, stroking it and smearing pre-cum all over. Seeing Arthur undressed, Alfred releases himself in favor of petting at Arthur’s flawless, fair skin that nearly glows in the moonlight. He smiles giddily as he wanders into Arthur’s eyes, which still flash green in the firelight as if lighted from inside.
Not once does he pause to consider any concerns, the fae wine has driven them all from his mind. And it doesn’t matter anyway; this is what he has wanted for so long. The wine may have freed him from inhibition, but it certainly did not cause him to desire Arthur. He had been besotted with Arthur since they first met and with the first blossomings of maturity, the infatuation deepened… and darkened. But Alfred has never feared it.
Since childhood, Alfred has noticed the way other humans regard Arthur warily, but everything about him that has always unnerved so many others—his pointed ears; his piercing eyes that see through everyone; his fair and flawless skin accentuating fine, almost intolerably beautiful features; and, of course, the unsettling sharpness of both his incisors—are all the things that draw Alfred to him. He has never once felt unsafe with Arthur.
He certainly doesn’t feel unsafe now.
Arthur purrs as he pours his body flush against Alfred’s, claiming the boy’s mouth with his tongue and nips from his fangs. He rolls his hips against Alfred’s, groaning and drinking in Alfred’s wanton gasp at the same time. His wings, which he so rarely has cause or energy to manifest, spring outward, delicate and shimmering green-gold, pulsing with sparks of glittering red in the firelight to indicate the flush of power from taking Alfred’s name as well as the arousal coursing through him.
Alfred catches Arthur off-guard when he leans up, the bed of grass following him, supporting him. Arthur is stand on his knees, the perfect height for Alfred’s mouth to pull him in from this angle. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s hips and nuzzles his cheeks against the faerie’s cock, then kisses the tip of it over and over. “You’re so beautiful, I’ve wanted you so bad forever,” Alfred murmurs with heart-wrenching sincerity. He continues kissing lightly, flicking little kitten-licks in the slit of Arthur’s cock.
Alfred is clearly operating off of whatever simply feels good to him and that gives Arthur every reason to do the same. He grabs the base of his cock with one hand and the back of Alfred’s head with the other, carefully guiding himself into Alfred’s throat. It feels even more wonderful than he had imagined it would. Combing one hand back through Alfred’s hair, Arthur uses just a little magic to make sure he stays relaxed. “Yes,” he huffs, “yes, good boy.”
Alfred moans in bliss as Arthur rocks into him just barely. The head of Arthur’s cock knocks gently against the top of Alfred’s throat and with the heaviness settled on his tongue, it feels amazing. He does his best to rub his tongue along the underside of it while learning very quickly how to suck it in just the right ways to make Arthur make the best sounds.
A century or so of celibacy has done just enough to increase Arthur’s sensitivity and the way Alfred looks up at him, adoring and also hungry, along with just how utterly enchanted he is with the human all compel him to pull away. Letting Alfred pleasure him with his mouth is not enough; Alfred must experience orgasm from stimulation by someone other than himself in order to no longer qualify as a virgin.
Whining at being denied, Alfred is placated by Arthur’s fingers caressing him, gently pushing him back down. “Arthur…” he pleads softly, shifting and spreading his legs further still, not even knowing exactly what it is he’s asking for, just that he wants Arthur closer.
“Gods, you are so lovely, Alfred,” Arthur praises, beginning to follow his hands with his lips, more and more until he laces his fingers with Alfred’s and kisses him everywhere he possibly can. Alfred gasps and sighs now, but doesn’t laugh anymore from ticklishness.
Alfred writhes, instinctively lifting his hips, and spasming around an emptiness he’d never realized he’d had until now. He cries when Arthur strokes his tongue along his cock and throws his arm over his face, since seeing Arthur do it is too much to bear.
“Look at me, pet,” the faerie insists, using a bit of magic to compel Alfred to do it. “That’s it, good boy.” Arthur only takes Alfred into his mouth all the way once and then repositions himself to lie between the human’s legs. The bed of flowers and leaves raises Alfred’s hips to give Arthur a better angle while Arthur easily lifts Alfred’s thighs up and out. A fang-baring grin spreads over his face as he rubs two fingers at Alfred’s entrance; those fingers conjure a slick, honey-like substance from out of thin air to help Alfred relax and make him easier to open.
Alfred arches and cries out as Arthur presses one finger into him. His hands pull at the leaves and sweet grasses beneath him, which hold fast. Arthur pushes it in and out for what seems like ages before he adds another, stretching Alfred open. There it is, the emptiness he hadn’t felt until now and only Arthur can fill it. “More,” he sobs. “More, Arthur, please.”
Alfred is well known for being impatient and ordinarily Arthur would take great pleasure in denying him, in teaching him how to move slowly, but there is a tickling clock on their tryst. Arthur has scarcely more patience than Alfred at this moment anyway. He nuzzles Alfred’s cock as he continues to open him, inhaling the scent of a human, green and fresh, but musky with arousal; he has almost never been close enough to Alfred to revel in the scent of him like this. He has three fingers inside Alfred now, as far in as they will go, and he makes certain that Alfred is slick, each stroke of his fingers producing more lubricant.
Alfred’s eyes are squeezed shut as Arthur works him open and he releases his grip on the plants that are their makeshift bed to weave one hand in Arthur’s soft hair, holding on tightly. He wriggles around the wetness now inside him, around Arthur’s fingers. He twists enough that Arthur’s fingers start massaging his prostate and— “AH! Oh Arthur, Arthur, please more. Right there, more.”
Arthur’s wings flutter rapidly as he watches Alfred come apart so freely under his touch. The fire has burned to its embers, giving the moon unbound license to Alfred’s perfect skin. Arthur thrusts his fingers in and out, faster, a frenzied need to make Alfred come just from this pricking at the edges of his mind. He wants to see Alfred come. He pumps in and out, faster, far more dexterous than a human could ever be. “There?” he asks, knowing the answer already.
Alfred nods, biting his lip hard and drowning in a sea of fae wine and moonlight and utter devotion to the faerie he has loved since he was a little boy. “Yes, there, please—I—!” That sea takes him under and his body pulls taut and he comes, begging broken syllables of Arthur’s name for more, to never stop.
Arthur must stop, reluctantly, and only does so once Alfred’s body is quivering from the exertion. He’s trembling a little himself from merely being privileged to witness Alfred’s pleasure. It is delicious, both magically, and, as he leans down to lick Alfred’s cock clean, physically. Alfred is now wet and loosened well and the terms of taking his virginity have been satisfied, but Arthur still wants.
“Arthur,” Alfred slurs, “I’m… I’m…nnnnnggh empty. Please.”
Something powerful and sure and dark at the edges curls around Arthur’s mind and forms a heart where he had nothing before. “Yes, you are. Fear not, pet, I’ll take care of you.” Leaning up and over Alfred, wings beating softly, Arthur kisses his forehead, then his cheeks and his nose and then his mouth, deeply, drinking more magic from the pure, pulsing sunlight that suffuses Alfred’s every cell and earned him the “honor” of being the Beltane sacrifice. With one decisive move, he sinks is cock into Alfred’s entrance. It is absolute bliss: Alfred is loose enough that he yields wonderfully, but so tight, squeezing Arthur with warmth and undiluted desire.
Alfred sighs, hums, moans contentedly as Arthur fills him. Of course, Arthur fits perfectly inside him, it could never have been otherwise. When his body pulses now, it is to pull Arthur in, to hold him, and there is no more emptiness. In the aftermath of his first orgasm, he is pliant and sweet and welcoming. He wraps his arms around Arthur's neck, feeling more in love with him than ever, and doesn’t even notice his own cock getting hard again.
Arthur moves slowly at first, letting the moon rock him against Alfred like the tide. He kisses Alfred over and over and reaches down to stroke his cock. “Good boy,” he murmurs next to Alfred’s temple. “Such a good boy for me.”
Alfred’s eyes roll back as the head of Arthur’s cock strikes his prostate again and again, accurately, but far too languidly. Arthur doesn’t pull out very far, but it’s enough that Alfred can feel and hear how slick Arthur made him. “I love you,” he sighs.
At that, Arthur drives into him harder, a little faster. “I know, pet. I’m so very glad you do.” He watches Alfred’s face, but the human shows no distress at his confession not being reciprocated, if anything, he seems more blissful than before. He begins thrusting in and out of Alfred’s willing body even faster, pumping the boy’s cock and letting the pleasure build up between them. “You are so lovely,” he says; it would be breathless except that Arthur doesn’t breathe.
Alfred orgasms again in no time at all, being young and inexperienced and sensitive, he cries out, begging Arthur for more, to move faster, to never stop.
Arthur rolls his hips in a staccato rhythm, melting at the way Alfred’s body grips him and pulls him in, holds him tightly. Whatever magic forms his makeshift heart receives Alfred’s unadulterated love and feeds on it. This is how Alfred should be feasted upon, Arthur thinks distantly. He comes, plunged all the way inside Alfred, quivering violently due to his own sensitivity, and he buries his face in Alfred’s neck as he fills him with cum. “Beautiful,” he groans, scraping his fangs against Alfred’s skin when he kisses and sucks marks into it, without drawing blood. He’s careful not to draw blood. They might smell blood.
Alfred arches and squirms as Arthur fills him in hot spurts that seem to be endless. But eventually, Arthur falls into the leafy bed next to them—the leaves and sweet grasses having morphed into ferns, royal and maidenhair. Alfred tucks himself against Arthur, head under his chin and admires his wings for the first time, though he dares not touch.
The witching hour is nearly over. Arthur holds Alfred protectively, though Alfred’s body has already been blessed with a spell that cannot be undone to make him ready for Beltane and it cannot be taken back just because he no longer has his name or his virginity. Arthur knows there will be consequences for himself. They can’t kill him and he is bonded to Alfred, so they can’t keep them apart. They could, however, curse his feet to burn with each step or make him feel stabbing pain when Alfred touches him or any number of other cruel and capricious things.
Or they might do nothing at all. The high court fae are fickle and strange like that.
It doesn’t matter. Alfred is safe and whatever happens, Arthur will keep him that way. He will keep him forever.
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Reward
Very short ass drabble?? Omegaverse!USUK ft. daddy kink
Rated: Explicit
Everything under the cut
“That’s it baby, nice and slow. Keep doing that and I might reward you later.” Alfred murmured as he watched Arthur fucking himself nice and slow with a dildo on their king-sized bed. Arthur had his legs spread apart, chest heaving as he worked the toy in and out of his stretched hole.
The Alpha was sitting in a white accent chair in the corner of their bedroom, leaning back so casually like he was watching movie that was made just for him. His tongue swept over his chapped lips, watching his darling Omega whimper and writhe on their bed. The cute noises his mate was making were so melodic, literal music to his ears that he can have Arthur, of all people, submit to him so easily.
Well, only behind their bedroom door.
“Al—”
“Ah-ah,” Alfred interrupted Arthur, making the other man close his lips with such ease. “You forgot something, baby.”
Arthur huffed, the hand on the pink dildo stopped, so he could try to perform a proper word or sentence. “Daddy.”
A smirk tugged at the Alpha’s lips hearing the Omega call him that. He loved it when Arthur called him that when they would have sex, sometimes slipping out when he had him lost in the pleasure of them fucking each other. Sometimes Arthur would forget, and the other times Alfred would remind him. That was this time.
“Good boy, wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
“No, daddy.”
The blonde got up from the chair, still in his suit for work. Hungry blue eyes kept watch on his flushed mate. The dim light in the room highlighted the perfect areas of that porcelain skin Alfred came to adore and memorize. Some areas shone, sweat glistening the skin, almost like Arthur was an exhibit that only needed to be seen and not touched but Alfred was allowed to touch him. He was the museum curator for putting on such a wonderful display.
The bed dipped in weight from Alfred getting on top of it. His suit jacket was already left on the back of the chair, his tie was loose around his neck, and there was an all too familiar tightness in his trousers.
“You’re beautiful ya know that, darling? All spread out like this, just for daddy.”
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Can y’all help me find that old Hetalia fanfic.
America gets approached by England who is an Angel and tries convinced him to kill himself so that they can together but America has no memory of this and only person the does is Canada who is slowly losing it.
I remembered it made me cry at 15 (probably younger) and I need to feel something again.
There was also fanart of this fic in which America looks out the window exactly when England falls from the window
UPDATE: It’s Just Going to be You and Me by Butterfish on Fanfiction.Net
Thank youuuu time to go emotionally destroy myself again
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thenarcolepticone · 2 years
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Fulmination
by TheNarcolepticOne
Summary: An inquisitive dragon named Arthur asks a half dragon namedAlfred on why he is attempting to catch a fish underneath a dying star. On the other hand, Alfred may have caught something else he wasn't expecting.
A/N: Re-uploaded from AO3. Story is a FFXIV and USUKUS fusion AU, regarding a half dragon and an actual dragon. No, you do not need to understand the game in order to read this story. Everything will be explained.
For the people who do play FFXIV, these are my specifics:
Alfred - FSH + Au Ra (Human with Dragon Horns and Tail) Arthur - Dragon (Literal) Orchestration Suggestion: Close the Distance
Reader Warnings:
- The story will reference a location from the FFXIV: Endwalker expansion but will not be discussed by name nor referred any more than by vague description
- Furthermore, to be extremely vague about the lore for those who HAVE a played Endwalker, I’ll just say. Nothing about the tragedy will be referenced here too much. Nothing Stormblood already didn’t say.
- Arthur speaks Old-ish English but it’s not that confusing nor accurate. It’s also not very good. Sorry.
- The safe for work version of this story will be posted here. Check out my pinned post for my AO3 if you’d like to read the continued chapter, it will not be linked. There are tags included too, please heed them. Thank you. 
+ + + 
“Thou shall not findeth any creatures here.”
The individual in question, small stool in hand, set it down upon the grayed and drying sand underneath him. He paid no mind to Arthur, nor his question, and merely produced a fishing rod as he sat down to fiddle with the tangled string.
It was a strange thing, the dragon thought. That the man just seemed so certain about the idea of finding something amidst the void of the stars. Arthur was the one that had lived amongst them, for eons upon eons. Certainly with that amount of time, one could accurately come to the conclusion that there was nothing to expect, at least, alive amidst the galaxies of his home. But despite how long Arthur had stared into the darkness of them; the interstellar spaces in between the dotted lights, the man seemed both hopeful and ignorant. It was an admirable determination; worthy of imitating what Arthur once thought he had once upon a time ago.
The fishing spot that was chosen was, undoubtedly, not very unique or enticing upon first glance. The entire environment was situated upon what was similar to the edge of a desert without a sun, blanketed in total pitch black darkness were it not for the faint hue of the dead sun nearby. The ground was flat, and at the end of the cliff where the earth ended, the dust of the sand seemed to float away upward instead of falling back down.
The location wasn’t anything important to Arthur either; the dragon had long since ignored the thought of assuming that anything around them was worth attempting to remember.
But the man still came, as he always did religiously every single day,, rod under his arm, a tackle box in one hand and stool in another.
It was only recently that Arthur had taken it upon himself to finally move from his current seated position to move closer to the location of where the frequent visitor flocked to. He hadn’t moved from his eternal resting place in many years, and with nothing else much to stimulate him, he had been in a dormant state of sleep, eyes gazing into nothing while waiting for his demise. But the age-old feeling of curiosity was starting to build within him now at the young man’s frequent visits, and slowly but surely, he made his way nearer to the fishing spot, so as to finally catch the other when he arrived.
When further inspecting the individual, Arthur found that the other was oddly not as human as his silhouette had initially made him out to be. Now up close, the man looked almost half-dragon; tail sprouted at the base of his spine and with two very large horns protruding off the side of his head. Not that it wasn’t anything Arthur hadn’t seen in his lifetime, but the similar yet different features were admittedly shocking.
“Thou shall not findeth aught,” Arthur said again, voice a little louder this time.
The dragon man did not turn his head, but snorted in response.
“I’m an expert fisher. Don’t expect that just because there’s no water here that I can’t catch anything.”
Arthur’s tail flopped lazily, finding the man’s lack of interest in him a little bit disappointing. The wyrm eventually found himself staring at the bizarre, crooked and glowing piece of rock that the other placed on the hook. It was a very light blue thing, with a soft glow on its outline. It was jagged like the inside of a rock and wasn’t moving; not even alive.
“What is that?” Arthur asked, changing the subject.
“Stardust,” he said, smiling at Arthur as he finally turned his head to peer at Arthur and produced the mineral right in front of the dragon’s snout. “Looks pretty shiny, don’t you think?”
Arthur furrowed his brow, lowering his head to attempt to sniff the bait. It didn’t smell like much of anything, though, perhaps it wasn’t the smell that was meant to be its enticing factor.
“And thou shall expect something shall eat this Stardust?”
The Au Ra shrugged. “I’m not sure. But it's something. All my other bait hasn’t worked before.”
Arthur gently let his head down next to the fisher, staring out into the quiet and silent world around them. There wasn’t much Arthur could say; he hadn’t had a full conversation in so long.
“So…” the other began to start. “What brings you here? I wasn’t aware that many dragons were able to really sense that I was hanging around here.”
“Thine fruitless endeavor is what fascinates me.”
“Ah, well. I suppose it could be fairer said,” the man shrugged. “I enjoy catching things though, regardless of if it is a fish or not.”
“Perhaps if thou werest a fish, there would be no joy in it if someone caught thou.” Arthur postulated, his green eyes slowly blinking and closing.
To that, the man simply laughed.
“No, maybe not,” the other admitted, crossing his leg over his knee as he looked back at Arthur with beautiful blue eyes. “But I like the idea of seeing what exists. The creatures are not mine to take, of course; I don’t keep any of the things I catch for myself, really. I write them down in a journal so that I can remember what I've seen, like a log of sorts.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “For what purpose?”
“To remember what exists,” the other simply stated as if it were a natural thing.
Arthur watched as the man pulled his arm for momentum back before casting the rod forward. The whizz of the string unraveling from its reel was heard as it launched, going over the end of the cliff and into the endless pit below. The sound of the string eventually stopped and Arthur watched as the fisher repositioned himself, eyes upon the edge of the tip top with concentrated focus.
“To remember what exists,” Arthur quietly repeated after the Au Ra. “I doth not comprehend thee.”
The eyes of the individual turned to the dragon incredulously.
“What fish do you know of that lives here, Ser Dragon?”
“Arthur.”
“Arthur,” The man smiled again, accent flipping off the tip of his tongue. “I’m Alfred by the way. Short for something a little more annoying to pronounce.”
“Alfred,” the dragon repeated. “Art thee asking what creatures exist in this fishing hole?”
Alfred shrugged. “If you can describe them.”
Arthur wrinkled his snout only slightly. After a long moment of pondering, he spoke again.
“I am not familiar with everything of this land. But there was… unusual creature I encountered in my youth. A curious cephalopod. It has limbs that stretch out when threatened, and at the time, I foolishly allowed it to attach to my own visage. Mine own broodmother was the one who pulled it off before reminding to avoid attempting to eat them. It is a terrifying little thing.”
Alfred hummed at that, staring out back to the tip top. Upon a second inspection, Arthur discovered that the end of it had a small green light; something that made it appear more obvious if the jig was tugged down. Smarter even more so that it was dark.
Arthur watched with the fisher, but then began another thought.
“I have not seen such a thing in eons, and I believe it doth not exist anymore,” Arthur murmured. “Nothing in this place truly exists as it was. T’is a dead land now, and even thou were able to catch it, I wouldst only suggest ending its suffering.”
To that comment, Alfred rolled his eyes.  
“Do you really think so?” the other questioned. The limbal rings of Alfred’s gaze stared back at Arthur with such a ferocious intensity that the dragon felt almost threatened by the gesture.
“If its existence is such a futile endeavor,”  Arthur tilted his head. “It may be better to not exist at all, if simply to become someone’s prey.”
“Well, like I said,” Alfred huffed. “I’m not intending to kill it or eat it. I just want to see what it looks like. I’ve been wondering if—“
The reel of the line began to creak and Alfred snapped his head back to the line. With a rough tug, and several windings of the handle, the fisherman was able to pull in something at the end of his line. A familiar, monstrous fish of moderate size. Alfred did not dare touch it directly, only holding it by the string out in front of Arthur.
Arthur widened his eyes only slightly. A sense of emotion stirred in him; one of nostalgia.
“... I did not think it possible.”
“Told you I’m an expert fisher,” Alfred said proudly, his own tail swishing behind him. “This is the one you were talking about?”
“... strangely, yes.”
Alfred grinned, holding the line that the cephalopod was still attached to. The way it looked was genuinely horrifying, but perhaps, it was  still similar to something else found in regular dark water of the same depth.
“Hmm. I think I’ll name this one… Forbiddingway.”
“For…bid?” Arthur furrowed his brows.
Alfred laughed. “Did you not just say that it was something that was not supposed to exist?”
The dragon hummed at that. It was the closest he had ever gotten to a chuckle.
“What will thou do now?”
“Well… I was hoping perhaps I could look around here for more fish to catch, if you wanted to help me write down some…history of what used to be here. But first,” Alfred lifted the line again, grabbing the wiggling animal. “I have to let him go.”
The Au ra took a moment to grab the thing in his gloved hand, and before it could latch onto his forearm, he tossed the creature back over the edge. Arthur peered over to watch it disappear into the darkness and almost as if it were simply an apparition, the figure shadow of the critter immediately disappeared like dust upon the wind.
Arthur’s tail swished again. Had Alfred not been here to witness it with him, he would have thought the fish was a figment of his imagination.
“Got any more good spots to hunt down?” Alfred smiled warmly. “You seem like a dragon of wealthy knowledge. I don’t know anything much about what used to be here, but you could at least tell me what you know. What it was like. How it used to be for you.”
The dragon rose on its legs only slightly, causing Alfred to also stand up too.
“To be interested in such history,” Arthur asked curiously. Arthur butted his head against the torso of the man lightly, causing him to briefly lose his breath before laughing again. “Thou art a strange dragon indeed.”
“I get that a lot. Don’t worry,” the man came over. The gesture was warm against his scales. “I’m curious about you too. Arthur of the Dragonstar. Another dragonkin I know spoke highly of you back where I am from. Perhaps I’ll tell you about it, if you join me.”
“And perhaps,” Arthur countered. “In exchange. Thou could tell me more about thine own self. I have not seen an individual in the way thou hast presented until this day.”
“Heh, sure thing.”
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Fulmination: An expression of vehement protest.
[End]
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haveyoureadthisfanfic · 3 months
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Summary: WW2 AU. Feliciano Vargas is a passionate, if slightly scared, Italian resistance member. Falling in love with a German fighter pilot was the last thing he expected... and it will test his national loyalty, and his heart, to their limits.
Author: George deValier
Note from submitter: Link is to a reupload/archive, as the original ff.net account was deleted somewhere around 2019. Probably the most famous/notorious Hetalia fic, written by much beloved fandom writer George deValier, as part of a larger WW2 AU known collectively as the Veraverse due to being based around songs by Vera Lynn. The mysterious account deletion after years of inactivity probably only added to the mythos.  It was absolutely the kind of fic you'd find scattered references to in the most random corners of the internet back in the heyday of the Hetalia fandom, with all the dramatics you'd expect to follow. 
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pastelsugar6w6 · 7 months
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Forget suave, mature Alfred with a lady killer smile and 🌟moves🌟 (don't actually forget him just put him to the side for a moment). Give me adorkable Alfred with an awkward braces smile and even more awkward flirting skills. Give him a loud dorky laugh with a snort and dorky interests (space, video games, maths, etc)
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fumblingmusings · 4 months
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Lukewarm Coffee and Plum Rice Pudding
Absolutely pure schmop for USUK. Alfred needs a break. Arthur is making old man dessert. They are both tired and more than a little in love. Very chaste romance below, just stretching writing muscles in the present tense. Enjoy!
Arthur’s house is small. It is small, old, and smells of syrup and plums. When Alfred inquires as to why, England gives him a very funny look, as if the other man is as stupid as Arthur’s frequent insults suggest. He simply states that if Alfred cared to look in the kitchen, he would see the vat bubbling away on the hob. 
America ponders how he is to do such a thing, considering he is still standing on England’s porch. 
He says as much, and Arthur scrunches his nostrils. There is dirt, America notes, on the bridge of said nose. Most likely mud from the garden (for where else would the plums have come from?), the result of Arthur rubbing his skin, perpetually sniffing as if he has a cold. Alfred suspects it is something akin to hay fever and it would go away if Arthur bothered to take something as simple as an antihistamine. He wouldn’t, of course, because Arthur refuses to take anyone’s advice, no matter its practicality. 
Alfred remains under the tiny portico.
“Are you going to let me in? It’s cold.”
“It’s fifteen.”
Alfred nods, as if that number means anything to him. (It does, when he thinks about it for longer than a second. He tries often to not do so).
Still, Arthur steps back, muttering something about making Alfred take off his muddy shoes and leave them at the door. England then disappears down the tight hallway, turning left behind the stairs and returning to his kitchen. The sound of a radio station playing, some odd indie music, seems to be coming from the area.
Alfred follows his nose and ears, and sure enough, a rather large pot is bubbling away, making a sticky sound when Arthur goes to stir. Not burnt. Yet. Arthur lowers the volume of his radio, the announcer declaring it to be one of the multiple BBC channels. There were six?! More?
America drops his weekend bag on the wooden chair sticking out from the round table, then plants himself into the second chair. An excessive amount of crocheted placemats and coasters litter the small surface, and he is unable to help himself from picking one up and inspecting. Perfect, as always.
The silence seems to stretch on. With any other time that Alfred would drop by unannounced, he would be talking Arthur’s ear off. As it is, Arthur notes how utterly melancholic the boy appears to be.
Turning off the heat, Arthur moves the pot to the countertop, pouring the simmering fruit into a large glass bowl. It splatters as he does so, and the contact stings his bare wrists.
His loud, emphatic fuck makes Alfred start, look up from the table and across the cluttered room. Arthur is shaking his arm, as if trying to fling the stinging pain out of his limb.
“Careful,” America says unhelpfully.
The replying glare and bull-like snort are somewhat good-humoured, so Alfred manages a smile.
“Why are you here?” Arthur asks, turning to his sink to cool down the splatter. Alfred watches, quiet.
“Wanted to visit,” Alfred replies. He hears Arthur chuff to himself. 
“Wanna coffee?” England asks instead of acknowledging Alfred’s answer.
“Not instant?”
“No. In the French press. I’ll need to microwave it up though.”
America sucks on his tongue, then nods his assent.
“Sure.”
Arthur fills up one of his floral mugs two thirds of the way, then goes to the fridge. He pauses, the door open and his face hidden from view.
“Warm or cold milk?”
“Cold.”
“Weird boy…” but still, Arthur does as bid, pulling out a carton and throwing the mug in the microwave for just over a minute. He returns to his bowl of plums, then inspects Alfred again.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
“How long will you stay?”
“Oh. Until I get found out?”
England’s green eyes spark with glee. “You’re being naughty?”
Alfred’s smile grows, hearing the childish naughtiness that always manages to leak through Arthur’s prim and proper exterior. There was nothing Arthur enjoyed more than a good deception, a practical joke, being a general annoyance. Was it any surprise such traits were also found in Alfred?
When Arthur’s face lit up, when that veneer of bored politeness cracked… Alfred was reminded why people actually tolerated (or worse, loved) Arthur. Alfred would only ever whisper it in the dead of night when he was sure Arthur was not listening. Confessing sincerely and earnestly on how much England had never truly been extracted from America.
More than once, Arthur had in fact, not been asleep, and Alfred had become ashamed to even look the man in the eye for the next three days. 
Unabashed openness was a rarity in Arthur too, both in joy, and indeed in love. It was much more his style to simply open his home, offer a drink, and try to be useful. A land of such beautiful words and poets struggles to speak plainly at times, hiding behind inferences, suggestions and looks that Alfred only ever caught in candid photographs or mirror reflections. 
Truly, they were as bad as each other. And yet they understood.
“I needed a break,” Alfred finally confesses.
Arthur waves him over, not commenting on his reasoning. “I’m making rice pudding for the plums. You can help. Make yourself useful.”
America could have kissed Arthur. Not for the gift of rice pudding; Alfred feels it is slop - unpleasant in texture and lacking in any flavour - but for Arthur’s immediate understanding. The time of a nation was valuable, and often they were used as endless free labour. It could be physical (Ivan’s railway construction came to mind), but for people like Alfred and Arthur, it was bureaucracy. An office intern with no voice in policy and yet expected to enact decisions to carry them through.
Arthur learned long ago how to bite back; his own workaholic nature would take care of the punishing hours, no effort required from Downing Street whatsoever. Alfred, the perpetual people pleaser, had experienced varied results. 
Some years are better than others.
Arthur understands and seems very content - proud even - of his ability to be a bulwark for Alfred. More than once, he has slammed the door shut in the face of some silly-looking man in a suit demanding the world’s superpower to get in the black car.
Arthur knows when not to prod. Some things he will not let drop, badgering and arguing until Alfred cracks. Other times, he will do as he is doing in that moment - hearing the unsaid and knowing exactly what needs to be done.
A distraction, a comfort, an indulgence.
“There’s condensed milk in the pull-out cupboard. Two cans.”
The ping of the microwave leads to Arthur bustling around the tiny kitchen. There is a pile of dishes waiting to be washed in the basin and sticky surfaces of spilt sugar and fruit juice. Arthur hums to himself as he works, matching the quiet radio and its dreamlike rhythms.
Alfred places the cans squarely on the counter, then lays his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, right at the junction of his neck. The warm breath that he exhales visibly causes Arthur to shiver.
Not exactly looking back at America, Arthur raises a hand up to run his fingers through the boy’s golden hair.
“Your coffee’ll get cold,” England gently chides.
Alfred hums, only to wrap his arms around Arthur. England’s cool hands (so perfect for baking those cursed scones) hold on to one of Alfred’s own, the other petting him softly. 
“Big baby,” Arthur murmurs right into Alfred’s ear. “Rest up. You’re home now.”
Once, perhaps not too long ago, Alfred would have bitten back an angry and spiteful retort, but now it was not so. Home was an idea, a feeling, many places and many people. His glamorous and large apartment in New York; his ranch in Texas with his wonderful horses; sitting in Montreal with Mattie watching the Canadiens lose to Tampa Bay for the Stanley Cup final (both of them drunk for differing reasons). 
Holding on to Arthur like a buoy in the man’s tired and cluttered kitchen, a lukewarm coffee on a dirty counter, an excessive amount of boiled fruit cooling in a bowl.
Home.
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fireandiceland · 24 days
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Looking for this usukus fanfic - pls help!
does anyone know a ukus (I’m pretty sure it was ukus) fanfic where Arthur is some sophisticated rich guy and Alfred needs the money so he accepts a job as his private everything (maid, butler, chef, plaything, boytoy)?? I remember reading it but I can’t find it because of course I didn’t bookmark it. I think it was on ao3 and I remember there was an nsfw scene in the bathroom? Like Alfred was ordered to run a bath and he was in a convenient position for things to happen. Also I think there was a chapter where he was serving dinner and then dessert was himself in a maid dress without underwear? I hope anyone knows the fic and maybe has the link, I’m desperate rn I scrolled through 20 pages of ao3 history but couldn’t find it 🥺
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coralcatsea · 2 months
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CARDVERSE USUKUS
REC LIST
I'm a little picky about Cardverse fics, but here are some I've enjoyed! I wrote my own descriptions here, so if you want more info you can also click the link for the author's summary.
Weighing Pride Between Scales
by @demonicpiano
The Kingdom of Spades does not know how to handle the discovery that their queen is a literal beast. It turns out, though, that the king adapts quickly.
Link
A Little Wicked
by DemonicPiano
Queen Arthur tries to work up the nerve to assassinate the King, but it turns out the King isn't what he expected.
Link
Come Into My World
by DemonicPiano
England (the country) and Arthur (Queen of Spades) become acquainted thanks to mirror portals and decide to switch places for a little while. In the process, they meet each other's version of Alfred/America, and upon learning England and America are not romantically involved, Arthur resolves to fix this.
Link
Only a Matter of Time (and Waiting)
by DemonicPiano
Mechanic Arthur is tasked to work on a carriage for King Alfred, who supposedly cannot be looked in the eye because of mind boggling magic.
Link
Up in Each Other's Ropes
by DemonicPiano
Captain Kirkland does NOT want to be Queen. He employs various tactics to make the prince leave him alone, but none seem to faze him. Prince Alfred is still set on insisting they're meant to be, so the pirate forms a new plan to scare him out of the idea. Unfortunately, he's grown somewhat fond of the prince and can't make the threat very convincing, it backfires, and Alfred ends up enjoying himself.
Link
Treating a King Right
by DemonicPiano
Alfred has to do a queen-choosing party, but most people don't appreciate him as a person so he wears something unexpected to test them. His childhood friend, Arthur, is not deterred.
Link
Blind Trust
by ehcanuck
During the wedding ceremony and wedding night, the King is expected to wear a blindfold and stay silent, as is Spadian tradition. He doesn't get to see or speak to his fiance/husband until the next morning, and he's never met him before. Or has he?
Link
Queen of the Company
by @ixbranna16
Magical Strike and Cardverse hybrid in which Alfred inherits Spades Company and wants Arthur to rule by his side as Queen of Spades. Arthur agrees and uses this position to his advantage.
Link
Rock 'n' Royal
by @charlotte--kensington
Modern Cardverse with punk band member Arthur and Prince Alfred, who are both big fans of each other. One day Arthur discovers he has the Queen's mark, which leads to conflicting feelings. He doesn't want to leave everything he's worked for behind, but it's hard to be upset at the man he has a big celebrity crush on.
Link
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hwsforeignrelations · 2 months
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Arthur Kirkland's Famous Biscuits
AO3: Please give it some love :D
Words: 652
Prompt: "Arthur’s trying to get better at cooking and is having a cozy night in with Alfred, who helps him through making the recipe."
Made as a swap with @sarahhav on discord (their DELICIOUS Cardverse fic here)
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Arthur fiddles with the oven temperature dial, tone dubious as his eyes scan the recipe. “Well the instructions are only recommendations, so-”
“Wha- No!” Alfred cries, not relaxing until Arthur has set the correct temperature. “Not for you.” Arthur frowns, staring down his nose and Alfred holds up his hands to profess innocent intentions. “C’mon, babe. I ain't Julia Child, but you asked me to help and I’m telling ya- Just follow the instructions exactly, step-by-step, and it’ll be impossible to mess up!”
England deflates a smidgen. This is Arthur’s third attempt today at baking, and his kitchen counters are littered with biscuits blackened on the outside and raw on the inside.
When Alfred, held up the office, opened their scheduled Zoom he witnessed an expression of violent self-contempt partially concealed by messy, sweaty bangs. Those eyebrows intensified any facial emotion so that Alfred was momentarily concerned someone had died. England working an oven wasn’t any less worrying, though.
“Fine, we’ll try your uncreative approach. And don’t cut me off!”
America watches through the slightly smudged lens of England’s tablet camera as he meticulously measures butter, flour, and sugar on a tiny scale. America demands to be brought closer to confirm his partner is subtracting the bowl weight, and double checks the grams and pre-heated oven temperature. America watches England combine the ingredients in a porcelain bowl, watches him cover the bowl and place it into the fridge to chill.
Together they watch the latest Doctor Who.
Then America, now from the comfort of his couch and nibbling on discounted supermarket sushi, watches England roll the dough out until he can cookie cut twelve three millimeter thick disks. 
America watches England gently, reverently, anxiously place the disks on a lined baking sheet and slide it into the oven. England spends the next eleven minutes defending the modern practicality of sock garters and America doesn’t quite admit he’s lost but his silence is enough of a victory that England isn’t devastated when he opens the oven and has his face assaulted by a blast of bitter smoke.
England grabs his oven mitt and places the smoldering sheet on the stovetop. America watches silently with wonder on his face and impossible questions scrambling for room on his tongue. His eyes are wide and England snorts deprecatingly when he hears Alfred’s wooden chopstick fall to the floor on the other side of the world.
“I don’t- how? How!? You followed the instructions exactly-”
England bites gingerly into one of the biscuits, not really listening to America losing his mind behind him. The taste is a little burnt and his jaw struggles slightly breaking it. His eyes widen and a contented smile breaks his face, taking another bite.
These biscuits are delicious! 
“Babe, Artie, non, I’m sorry but I think you’re cursed or something cuz those indigestion cookies-things should not be on fire!”
“Oh hush. You never can see past appearances,” Arthur hums, polishing off another biscuit to America’s abject horror. “They’re splendid!”
“Well,” America starts awkwardly, bending out of frame to find his chopsticks. He rubs them off on his pants and resumes eating his own food. “If you’re happy I-uh! I guess it’s a success! Glad I could help!” His tone would sound insecure to anyone whose name wasn’t Arthur Kirkland.
Arthur Kirkland thoughtfully arranges the remaining cookies on a plate. “If only you were here to sample these,” says Arthur, tone rife with genuine longing. “Then you could give me something in return.” Arthur turns to face the camera and Alfred melts at the horny, yet tender expression he wears.
“What wouldn’t I give to try those?” Alfred asks rhetorically, pushing aside the finished plate and balancing his head on one wrist.
“Well, thanks for your help, luv. I'd better head to the office, sleep well and we'll talk Friday.”
“Love ya,” Alfred gets in a kissy noise before Arthur ends the call.
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nopeferatu · 3 months
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saw you post a lot of brokeback mountain content so i want to know if you have a list of your favorite brokeback mountain fanfic :)
I do post a lot abt Brokeback Mountain, but I've never actually sat down and made a formal, ranked list of all the Brokeback fics I love?? I have a collection on ao3 called "My Favorite Fanfics" which is where I put fics that I like beyond a simple bookmark, and there are more BBM fics in there than any other fandom I've read for haha. Unfortunately, this list isn't actually comprehensive as there are many that were either exclusively posted to the old BBM LiveJournal groups, or they were posted to LJ then later deleted and are now word documents that get passed around by email.
If I were to rank my fave BBM fics in a top 10 list, it'd look like this:
10. Once Upon a Time by rhye
A happy-ending ranch AU composed of short chapters based on fairy tale themes. As in fairy tales, some plot elements may be far-fetched, the angst runs deep, there is fluff, and they all lived happily ever after.
9. Life Ain't Easy by Creed Cascade (creedcascade)
Jack convinces Ennis to come work on the Twist Ranch after they leave Brokeback Mountain, but life ain’t easy.
8. Come Hell or High Water by Just_K
Ennis Del Mar makes the decision to leave his simple life behind and follow the brazen Jack Twist across the state of Wyoming. With life in Texas heavy on their mind, the two come to realize that dreaming big comes with a price. Will they be able to hold together when the past threatens to tear them apart, or does love truly conquer all?
7. A Place to Hide by Way2
A possible portrait of Jack's relationship with Lureen during the years prior to his reunion with Ennis.
6. it could get easier (if you want it to) by biblionerd07
Ennis decides he has more to say after their fight at the trailhead, so he makes a phone call. And it changes his life.
5. A Various Language by Destina
This is the happy ending they deserved.
4. The Sky Above by mediumorange
August, 1983. Ennis’ postcard to Jack has come back stamped ‘Return to Sender.’ He finds Jack in Lightning Flat, determined to help his father save the failing Twist ranch. His father does not want to be saved.
3. Roots by 271horses
This story tells the complete life story of Earl and Rich. It follows them from deprived childhoods, through the maturation process, the events that bring them together, and the deep, abiding love that grows between them.
Unfortunately I can't link this one as it lives in a word doc, getting passed around from email to email after 271horses purged his LJ acc. It's fantastic, tho! A lot of users on the old Brokeback forums hold it in high regards, as you'll see lots of posts mentioning the great BBM Earl/Rich prequel fic and how good it is.
2. Somebody, Somewhere by mediumorange
If you can't fix it, you've got to stand it. Slowly but surely, Ennis finds a way to stand it.
1. Widower for One Year by 271horses
This story concentrates on what would have become of Ennis after he was left alone trying to deal with the finality of his loss in that beaten up old trailer, still mired in his miserable life.
This one is another one of those that gets passed around through email and I consider it one of the greatest tragedies of the fandom bc it is, no joke, the BEST fic I have ever read in my god damned life, but it was never finished. 271horses purged his LJ acc before finishing it. I actually stopped reading once I got close to the end bc I don't want to deal with the fact that it will never be completed, so for me to confidently call it the best fic ever without actually having finished it says a lot.
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alifeasvivid · 7 months
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A Closer Look; a ukus human au about tattoos; explicit
IT'S FINALLY HERE. Dedicated to @halfrightpartwrongmostlysnarky since they provided the initial idea :D
Rating: E Warnings: none Summary: strangers to lovers; Arthur assumes it's his ink that catches the eye of a handsome stranger on the tube at 6am, but the stranger's interest might be more than skin deep. Word Count: ~8300
Read here on AO3
Arthur thwacks the back of Gilbert’s head to wake him up. It’s around 6am on a Sunday and the Underground is nearly empty. The German ex-pat had fallen asleep on Arthur after making their way home from a friend’s house, at which they had crashed in the very early morning after a show.
“Oi,” Arthur snaps. “Wake up, wanker.”
Gilbert blinks at him blearily with spectacularly smudged eyeliner. “Wha?” He looks around the mostly empty train car.
“Your stop’s next,” Arthur informs him.
“Oh. Thanks, mate.” When the train stops, Gilbert stands up, adjusting his excessively studded jacket. “Text me when you get home,” he says with some gravity in his voice as Arthur is probably definitely still a bit drunk, having only had “hair of the dog” for breakfast.
Arthur waves him off dismissively, but affectionately. He watches as Gilbert and a few other passengers leave. He still has a ways to go before his own stop. As he settles himself in, his eyes snap to someone already looking at him.
It’s some blond bloke. Arthur quickly appraises him: blue eyes, glasses, very athletic if the muscular frame concealed by a form-fitting, long-sleeved shirt is any indication. Arthur scowls harshly at him, folding his arms over his chest. The boy looks a lot like some of the American frat boys who had harassed Arthur when he did a year abroad during uni—about that young as well, or at least a few years younger than Arthur.
Having been caught, the lad quickly averts his gaze and the tips of his ears turn rather red.
Arthur scoffs and just hopes that this idiot’s stop is coming up shortly.
It doesn’t seem so. The twat is still riding the train after a few stops, sat diagonally across from Arthur, and Arthur catches him staring a several more times.
He wishes he hadn’t left his jacket at his friend’s house. He’s starting to suspect that his two full sleeves of tattoos, highly visible with only a t-shirt on, are drawing the attention, likely not helped by the steel-studded bands around his wrists and myriad piercings. That attention, however, seems to be more curious and fascinated than judgmental and the lad’s apparent inability to direct his gaze anywhere else begins to intrigue Arthur.
The train car remains fairly empty as the morning wears on until it is only Arthur, this stranger, and a few other passengers.
For the first time in a long time, Arthur finds himself examining the marks on his skin which have become completely normal and unremarkable to him over time. The sleeves stop at his wrists and his hands are free of any ink. Some of the tattoos are tucked into the overall flow at random. Most of these were done at home by friends, like the crude anarchy “A” and the three arrows he’d earned for… well… he’d most certainly earned them.
Others are professionally done, sprawling and artful. For example, the fantastically detailed head of a lion guards his right bicep while a slightly regrettable skull adorned with spiked hair fades unevenly on his left shoulder—a relic of his teen years. A traditional mermaid perches on his right forearm, while a properly-rigged pirate ship sails on his left. There are several more on his arms and several which are not visible on the rest of him, including a swallow trapped in a thicket of thorny roses that spans his chest.
In his self-examination, he’s suddenly thankful to this odd, and rather startlingly attractive, stranger for reminding him to appreciate the artwork that decorates his body, accumulated over the last ten years of his twenty-seven, which have been marked by rebellion, activism, music, and general mayhem.
When he next looks up, the git is once again staring.
Arthur raises one pierced eyebrow in a direct challenge. “You got a problem, mate?” he says, cursing the liquid courage still coursing through his veins. His body is already sore from being thrown around the mosh pit last night and thus his black leather boots weigh his usual agility down; he’s not in any shape to start a fight on the Tube, especially not with a stranger who looks like he could probably incapacitate Arthur’s wiry physique with little effort.
The lad has the decency to look embarrassed and shakes his head.
Interesting.
A few passengers glance over at Arthur just to see who has had the audacity to speak so loudly in the confined space.
The young man manages to bury his attention in his phone until the next stop, at which time he stands up.
Arthur is a bit too out of it to make any sense of the disappointment he feels that he’s never going to see this stranger again. Now that he’s standing, he seems even more fit than he had appeared sitting down. The impression that this stranger could quite possibly snap him in half instantly becomes more arousing than threatening. It’s a shame.
But he doesn’t get off the train. He moves with the other passengers, but instead takes the seat one over from Arthur, leaving one seat open in between them. “Hi,” he says, a little abashed still, but earnestly smiling. “I didn’t want you to yell at me across the car again and get dirty looks. I’m Alfred.”
Oh, he is American… but not much like the ones Arthur knew, what with his shy blush and that sweet smile. Arthur suddenly wishes he actually had bit more booze to slosh around in his brain. This Alfred person is far too handsome for anyone’s good—even more so up close.
“Arthur,” he replies somewhat stiffly. “And what? You’ve never seen a ‘punk’ before?”
Alfred laughs. “I mean not really, not in person.”
Arthur makes a show of regarding him dismissively. “I can believe that,” he says, “since you look like you just stepped off a designer runway.” He hadn’t meant to say it so admiringly.
Alfred blushes and grins. “Thanks… I think.” His eyes flit down to Arthur’s arms.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen tattoos before. You’ve been staring at them, right?”
“I’ve seen tattoos,” Alfred insists.
“So you’ve got some kind of fetish or what?”
Alfred fidgets. “I… I wouldn’t call it that.”
Arthur glances over him again, noticing acutely now how Alfred’s fingers are flexing in and out of clenched fists. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
“I wasn’t only admiring them,” Alfred mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m really not trying to make you uncomfortable.”
Cute, is the thought that enters Arthur’s mind and he relaxes somewhat. “The only thing making me uncomfortable is how bloody gorgeous you are,” he says, or rather the alcohol says.
Alfred giggles slightly and smiles at Arthur. “Again, thanks… I think.”
Arthur stares at him for awhile. He really looks like he just walked onto the train from a beach in California… or out of an advert created so people would think so. Sitting next to him makes Arthur feel like he’s basking on that beach, like perhaps he won’t get a terrible hangover from all the booze and loud music and thrashing. “So you wouldn’t call it a fetish, what would you call it?” he asks, noticing that as far as he can tell, Alfred doesn’t have any ink himself, though he is rather well-covered.
Alfred shrugs shyly. “I don’t know. I guess I admire the conviction, the commitment, the ability to wear your story. There’s a meaning behind all of these, right? It’s like… your own history matters to you enough to display it and no one can say otherwise. I think it’s pretty awesome. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”
It’s too early for this, Arthur thinks as he blinks at this stranger. He’s not above getting philosophical to be sure, but not at six am on the Underground with pounding bass still metaphorically ringing in his ears.
Alfred looks searchingly back at Arthur and then backs off a little. “Sorry, maybe it’s just not that deep, right?”
“No—I mean, yes, that is—I’m—” Arthur fumbles, trying to say something reassuring and suddenly very much not wanting Alfred to back off any further. Maybe there’s just enough liquid courage left… but not enough for anything to happen on the damn tube of all places. Arthur pinches his nose. “Look, I don’t… know where you’re going right now, but if it’s not anywhere in particular, you can come with me and I’ll let you have a better look,” he says pointedly, “sound fair?”
Alfred’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “You’re serious?” he asks incredulously.
“Nah, just taking the piss when you’re the hottest person I’ve ever seen,” Arthur quips sarcastically. “Yes, I’m serious. I won’t ask again.”
Alfred blushes brightly, then checks his phone briefly and tucks it in his pocket. “Yeah. Definitely.”
Arthur sits up and looks around, no one has seemed to notice them at all. “Mine’s the next stop,” he says. A static-like tingle of anticipation spreads over his palms and creeps up his arms and shivers up his neck.
Alfred is practically sitting on his hands. He bites his lip briefly, then catches Arthur watching him and smiles. Americans and their incessant smiling. Arthur has never found it so endearing before. “I meant it when I said I wasn’t only admiring your ink,” Alfred confesses.
Knowing that his eyeliner is completely smudged, his unruly hair is full of sweat and grime, his t-shirt is torn up and he might even be developing a few bruises here and there, Arthur can’t help but scoff a little at that statement. “I’m sure you’ve caught me looking like a train ran over me.”
“If you look this good after being run over by a train, I’m kind of terrified of how gorgeous you’ll be after you recover.”
Arthur turns red up to his ears and he can feel it.
The train comes to a stop and Arthur gets up, glancing at Alfred who jumps to his feet and follows Arthur with that silly, American grin on his face. Arthur feels the soreness of his muscles even more, but his heart races all the same. It’s not like he’s never picked up strangers before, but somehow this seems different. Maybe it’s because Arthur picked him up in the morning on the tube instead of under the cover of night at a show or a pub.
“The house isn’t far, we can walk.”
Alfred looks at him skeptically. “Are you sure? You do actually seem pretty tired. We can take a cab, I’ll pay.”
“No,” Arthur says, despite wanting to say yes. “I think I need the fresh air to sober me up.”
Alfred laughs. “Is that going to work against me though?”
Arthur examines Alfred yet again. How is a person this stunning allowed to be out among normal people? “Definitely not.” He takes a few steps toward the direction of his flat. “Come on, it’s this way.” Alfred walks next to him, seemingly ready for Arthur to collapse at any moment. “So what brought you to the UK?” Arthur asks, trying to be casual.
“Work,” Alfred answers vaguely. “You were born in London, right? Based on your accent anyway.”
Arthur raises his eyebrow. “Yes, lived here my entire life. Impressive for a yank to pick up on that. You must have lived here awhile then, but you haven’t lost your accent, clearly.”
“I’ve kinda got a knack for languages and stuff, but yeah, four years. I’m clinging to it for dear life. You guys keep telling me it’s attractive.” His grin becomes bashful once more and he compulsively adjusts his glasses.
Cute, Arthur thinks again. “Here it is,” he says, stopping them in front of an old, converted townhouse. His heart is hammering in his chest now. “What type of work brought you here?” Arthur asks as he opens the door, slightly distracted by sending a quick “made it home” text to Gil.
“Oh, I thought you knew,” Alfred says, mildly confused. “You mentioned on the train that I look like I stepped out off the runway, so I thought you’d seen an ad that I’m in somewhere.”
Arthur’s brain completely short circuits as he closes and locks the door behind them. “What?”
“I’m a… model. I was at a launch party last night. I guess the job is part of the reason I’m so fascinated by your tattoos. My line of work… I’m not really allowed to have any. It’s in my contract and anyway, photographers get testy if you have to spend any extra time in—”
Arthur doesn’t let him finish. For all he knows, this is some insane dream because picking up a literal model on the tube is so farfetched only his subconscious could have come up with it. Suddenly much more awake, he shoves Alfred back against the door and kisses him.
Alfred melts and kisses him back and it’s like fire. His large, warm hands cup Arthur’s face and Arthur tangles his fingers in Alfred’s hair. Alfred steers him toward a weathered old couch in Arthur’s living room, barely releasing their kiss for more than a second or two. He nudges Arthur down onto it and drops the floor in front of him, standing on his knees. “I…” sharp inhale, “was promised a closer look.”
“That was before I found out you kiss like a succubus,” Arthur replies, cupping Alfred’s face and leaning in only to be dodged. Alfred’s attention has returned to his ink. Arthur is somewhat miffed until he remembers that he is very in need of a wash. “Agh. I need to shower. Won’t take but a minute. Don’t move.”
Arthur darts out of the room, down the hall, and is under the shower spray before the water is even hot; he scrubs himself hurriedly and with more vigor than necessary. It somehow feels rather presumptuous to go back out totally nude, so he throws on a pair of clean boxers and a fresh t-shirt, one in far better condition than what he had on before.
Re-entering the sitting room, he sees Alfred standing, inspecting the dozen-odd framed and somewhat haphazardly hung embroidery pieces on the wall. They are meant to be eventually gifted to those who become part of the groups for which Arthur organizes.
“That’s a lot of embroidery,” Alfred comments absently. “Did you do all those?
Arthur growls quietly and brushes his fingers against Alfred’s chin, turning the lad’s head toward him and breathing kisses along his jawline. He doesn’t want to talk about his eclectic hobbies or his work; he wants to indulge in Alfred’s lips and hopefully other parts of his body. “Most of them, but let’s keep our priorities in order, shall we?” He kisses Alfred’s lips again.
Alfred’s attention returns to Arthur and he nods, looking flushed and little bit dazed and quite adorable.
Arthur gives him a smile that’s part smirk. “If we’re going to shag, I’d rather take this to the bedroom… if you’re willing, of course.”
Alfred’s breathless “hell yeah” in response is more than enough for Arthur and he leads the lad down the hall.
The bedroom is at least clean enough that Arthur doesn’t feel the need to make any apology for it and, finding some strength somehow, he pushes Alfred back onto his bed, laughing when he lands with a surprised yelp.
Alfred recovers quickly, grabs Arthur’s shirt, and pulls him down on top him so that Arthur is straddling him on hands and knees. He grins up at Arthur and before he can register the lad’s intent, Alfred flips them both over.
Arthur’s assessment on the train had been right: Alfred is exceptionally strong, though, quite delightfully, he seems to be expecting Arthur to be the one snapping him in half.
Alfred’s palms clasp Arthur’s hips and help him to sit up against some pillows. He kisses Arthur, coaxing Arthur’s soul right out of him as he does. He pulls back and takes Arthur’s right arm, kissing the inside of his wrist over the ivy vine that encircles it, lips quirking up when Arthur shivers. He quietly continues traces patterns over the lines above Arthur’s right hand gently with one finger, as if in disbelief. “And they’re just there, huh? All the time,” he says more to himself than to Arthur.
Arthur bites back a moan. “Yes. I… I hardly notice them anymore, to be honest. Only when you were staring…”
Alfred nods. “You can really just, like, mark yourself up like that,” he muses, moving to the left side, tracing the riggings on the ship, moving to the crudely-done arrows just above the inside of Arthur’s elbow.
Arthur stays very still, occasionally trembling and biting his lip to keep from sighing with pleasure. This is possibly better than kissing. Very possibly. “You aren’t—ah—you aren’t going to ask about them?” he says, remembering how Alfred had remarked on the story aspect of the tattoos on the train.
“Not right now,” Alfred murmurs softly. “Later though.” He grins as he reaches the ill-advised skull with the mohawk. His hands drop the to the hem of Arthur’s shirt again, but pause. He looks at Arthur with eyes like an endless summer sky that Arthur has only seen in films and photographs.
Arthur swallows hard. Somehow, this is the most intimate he’s ever been with anyone in his entire life and for a moment, he contemplates pulling away, saying no. Maybe it’s the booze (he sobered up a long awhile ago) or maybe it’s the surrealism of it all or maybe it’s just that Alfred looks mischievous and sincere and fascinated all at the same time, but he nods.
Alfred leans down to kiss him briefly before actually removing Arthur’s shirt. His eyes immediately snap to one particular thing and a cheeky grin spreads over his lips as he flicks his thumbs over the metal rings in both of Arthur’s nipples, making Arthur gasp. “Knew you’d have these too,” he says teasingly.
“Nnngh…” he moans, then kisses Alfred quickly and tugs at his shirt also. “Fair’s fair,” he insists as Alfred shifts to let him tug it off and over his head. Even knowing Alfred is a literal model, Arthur still hadn’t been prepared for just how beautiful he is; it borders on the absurd, particularly in Arthur’s very lived-in flat, in Arthur’s less-than-tidy bedroom, on Arthur’s far-from-luxurious bed. “God,” he breathes. “I stand corrected, this is not at all fair.”
Alfred laughs, rather self-consciously for someone who probably ought to be used to everyone ogling him by now, which Arthur finds all the more endearing. “I was promised a closer look,” he reminds him. His eyes and fingers turn their attention to Arthur’s thorns and roses. He clearly wants to touch, but only lets the very tips of his fingers brush the colorful skin.
“There’s one each for someone lost,” Arthur says, trying to catch his breath.
Alfred’s fingertips immediately retreat. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have—”
Arthur shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. Like you said, it’s my history. I keep fighting the good fight, so to speak, and never forget why.”
“It’s beautiful work,” Alfred says longingly. He runs his hands oh-so carefully along Arthur’s sides and then frowns slightly. “Jeez… Did you fall off a building last night or something?”
“Hm?”
“You’ve got some major bruising starting to show,” Alfred informs him.
Arthur looks down at himself and laughs at blurry memories of pounding bass and launching himself through the crowd and then the mosh pit, being drunk and alive and landing as many blows as he was taking. “That’s fairly standard, I’d say,” he pronounces, despite wincing. The equally standard soreness is settling in fully now. “Perils of the lifestyle.”
Alfred giggles a bit. So cute, Arthur thinks, but then Alfred’s fingertip strokes the swallow’s wing for a moment before moving along to the lion’s head. After a few moments petting the lion’s mane, he bends down and kisses the swallow with only a careful, insistent press of his lips.
Arthur melts helplessly, grateful to be lying against the pillows. The kiss is so simple, yet so profoundly deliberate that it leaves him a bit shaken. He gasps when Alfred shifts back on the bed, his fingers teasing the waistband of Arthur’s pants.
“Are there more under here?” Alfred teases. He doesn’t wait for an answer before tugging them down. His gaze falls on the tattoo of a red bass guitar that wraps around Arthur’s hip and thigh, but then gasps as he catches sight of Arthur’s other piercing. “Oh,” he murmurs, then bites his lip and grins giddily. “Should’ve known you’d have this too,” Alfred teases again as he flicks the heavy steel ring adorning Arthur’s “prince albert” piercing.
Arthur gasps through his teeth and lets out the smallest groan. He attempts to sit up and flip them over again, but Alfred presses his hand to his chest and pushes him back down.
Alfred grins as he raises his eyebrow, “You got somewhere to be or somethin’?”
Arthur groans from the soreness of his muscles more than anything else. “Definitely not,” he says mirthfully, “I appear to be at your mercy for the time being.”
Alfred laughs as he smooths his palms over Arthur’s hips and up his body, deliberately missing Arthur’s cock in doing so. He nuzzles his nose against Arthur’s collarbone and then presses a small, shy kiss on Arthur’s shoulder. “I’ve been at yours since the train,” he mumbles so quietly that Arthur almost misses it.
In response, Arthur threads his fingers into Alfred’s hair and reassuringly massages his scalp. He arches beneath Alfred, his cock rubbing Alfred’s hip. “Mmmmph… god, I’d like to fuck you,” he exhales.
Alfred huffs mirthfully. “You’re real polite for a punk,” he teases as he kisses down Arthur’s chest, pausing to kiss each rose as well as the swallow. “Seems like you’re pretty incapacitated right now, though.”
Arthur concedes by letting his head fall back against the pillows and nodding. “If I’d known I was going to be bringing home some gorgeous bloke from the tube, I might have not got myself so beat up last night, hmm?”
Alfred giggles as he brushes his lips against Arthur’s collarbone. “It’s alright, I’ll take care of ya.” His hands resume their mapping of Arthur’s body, tracing the lines of ink that mark it and his fingers dance around kisses planted by his lips.
Arthur sighs and struggles to form words, but manages to at least voice the important thing: “Ah, sorry, luv, I don’t bottom if that’s what you mean.”
Alfred raises his head to wink at him. “Never said you were gonna. We don’t have to do that right now anyway, it’s a lot of work, you know?”
Arthur remembers that Alfred was probably out very late, if not all night, as well. A lazy morning of lazy sex is actually very appealing. He gasps and sighs as Alfred abruptly tugs the ring in one of his nipples with his teeth and pulls the other with his fingers. “Fuck, oh fuck… yes, oh fuck… Ah!” His hand rests on the back of Alfred’s head and he threads his fingers in his soft, golden hair.
Alfred ducks him though and slides down, pulling Arthur’s pants all the way off now. He spreads Arthur’s legs slowly, massaging them apart more than pushing. He kneels between them brush his nose through the trail of fine hairs leading from Arthur’s navel to his cock, humming a little as he does so. Arthur might actually die from the way Alfred reflexively licks his lips as he settles more comfortably between Arthur’s legs.
Arthur gasps and possibly does die when Alfred pulls gently on the steel ring piercing the head of Arthur’s cock with his teeth. He cries out when Alfred doesn’t stop, “Fuck! Bloody hell—” His fingers twist into Alfred’s hair and he groans when Alfred gives him a kittenish little wink before laving his tongue under, up, and over the head before taking it into his mouth.
Alfred deep throats Arthur’s cock with impressive ease, but he pulls back in favor of wrapping his fingers around the base of it and sucking on the head, teasing the ring endlessly as he does. He moans loudly and luxuriantly and Arthur would have thought Alfred was touching himself if not for his other hand caressing Arthur’s hip, almost as if he were strumming the inked bass there. He doesn’t let up even when Arthur gives his hair a warning tug.
“Fuck!” Arthur cries out, looking down at Alfred and his cock being drawn in and out through Alfred’s red, swollen lips, coated with spit and pre-cum. “Please,” Arthur begs, “I’m—I—” It’s finally too much at Arthur’s hip bucks reflexively as his orgasm hits him harder than his already-sore body can really take, but it’s so good. “Alfr—oh god… oh fuck!”
Alfred holds Arthur’s hip down with one hand and holds Arthur’s cock steady at the back of his mouth with the other. His throat works with little effort to drain Arthur of every drop of cum.
Arthur sobs as he crashes back into his tired body, only for Alfred to still be sucking on him. He’s twitching out almost nothing at this point, but he can’t even push Alfred away.
When Alfred finally releases him, he lets Arthur’s cum spill past his lips and over Arthur’s spent cock.
Arthur groans loudly. “Fuck me,” he curses, only for it to be punctuated by a sharp yell as Alfred laps at him, licking him clean.
Alfred licks his lips, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and grins breathlessly up at Arthur. “Thought you said you aren’t down for that,” he replies cheekily, licking his lips again to get the last drops, eyelids fluttering a little as he hums. “So good.”
Arthur throws his head back in blissful defeat and moans. It’s too much. No one will ever believe this happened. No one will believe that Arthur Kirkland, while hungover and beat to hell, picked up a bloody model on the Tube at six am and then said model spent the morning sucking his brains out through his dick. It’s too absurd. It’s not even as though Arthur doesn’t enjoy the luxury of having his pick of partners, but this is really taking the piss.
Alfred crawls over him shamelessly and coaxes him into a kiss. He settles in Arthur’s lap, rutting against his thigh, his cock stroking the bass tattoo. He whines, loud and wanton. “Mm, Arthur… ahhh, fuck yes.” His hands settle on Arthur’s shoulders, one of them petting the lion’s mane as he rocks back and forth.
Arthur grunts because he’s too sore and sated to do anything else. “Here, let me move a bit, I’d like to return the favor,” he says, intending for Alfred to sit on his face.
Alfred shakes his head and then nuzzles his nose in Arthur’s neck, just panting while his other hand presses against the swallow, right above Arthur’s heart. “Mm-mm. ‘want it like this. Just like this.”
Feeling rather selfish, Arthur tries to remedy it by reaching between them to wrap his hand around Alfred’s cock, which is dripping profusely and lewdly smearing pre-cum all over Arthur’s skin, but Alfred brushes him away. Determined not to be completely useless, Arthur presses three fingers to Alfred’s lips, which are drawn in and sucked with no hesitation.
Alfred hums around Arthur’s fingers, getting them good and wet, until Arthur pulls them out. He clearly understands what Arthur intends to do, because he presses closer and spreads his legs further apart. He mewls and whines as Arthur presses two fingers inside him, working them in and out.
It is strikingly easy for Arthur to add the third and he purrs against Alfred’s temple, “Aren’t you a naughty thing? You’d take my cock this easily too, I’ll bet.”
Alfred nods enthusiastically, “Mmmm, oh fuck yes, ‘ll take anything you want me to.” He ruts against Arthur’s thigh desperately, rolling his hips back and forth. His breathing comes less and less evenly as he huffs and pants against Arthur’s neck. He keeps his palm pressed to the inked bird on Arthur’s chest as Arthur pumps his fingers in and out.
Despite Alfred taking him so easily, he’s incredibly tight and he squeezes Arthur’s fingers so enticingly, it’s impossible for Arthur not to imagine pounding Alfred with his cock. Maybe Alfred won’t evaporate or disappear and Arthur will have the chance. He pushes his fingers in deeper and from the way Alfred yelps and clings to him, Arthur feels rather smugly satisfied. He relentlessly thrusts against Alfred’s prostate as Alfred’s rutting becomes ever more erratic. “That’s it, darling, come on.”
Alfred huffs and moans and whines and babbles against Arthur’s neck. “Fuck, Arthur, I’m gonna—” he sobs and it sends a shiver up Arthur’s spine, “Don’t stop.”
Arthur certainly has no intention of stopping. He continues fingering him, feeling Alfred’s cock twitch, hot and throbbing against his hip. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he purrs in Alfred’s ear.
Alfred suddenly seizes up, grinds hard into Arthur, and pants desperate, strangled moans and cries against Arthur’s neck. “Oh fuck, fuck, ahhh~! Yes, Ar—!nnng…”
“That’s it, good boy,” he praises. Some combination of pleasure and affection bubble in Arthur’s chest as Alfred orgasms from little more than his fingers. He begins to wonder if Alfred is some fantastic creature come to lead him off to some toadstool circle in some garden that wasn’t there yesterday and the little delusion makes him realize exactly how tired he is. So tired, in fact, that he doesn’t protest one bit when Alfred cuddles up next to him, resting his head on Arthur’s chest, even though they are now both in need of a wash.
“That was so good,” Alfred sighs contentedly and rests his hand over the swallow inked over Arthur’s heart. “It was good, right?”
If Arthur didn’t find that so endearing and if he wasn’t so tired, he might roll his eyes. “Brilliant,” he confirms. He wants to ask Alfred to stay, but he can’t bring himself to do it. It might break the spell… disrupt whatever strange mixture of fate, luck, and magic caused this utterly absurd event. “Bloody brilliant,” he mutters, quite certain Alfred has already fallen asleep.
The afternoon sunlight peeks in through the slightly busted blinds on Arthur��s bedroom window as Alfred wakes up. His hand on Arthur’s chest rises and falls steadily with Arthur’s rhythmic breathing. A contentment Alfred hasn’t felt in so long rests over him like a blanket and he can’t help but smile from ear to ear. He might giggle and kick his feet if he wasn’t determined not to wake Arthur.
Without moving, his eyes wander around Arthur’s room. There are photos of lots of a few people, one of them is the white-haired man who was initially with Arthur on the train. Some of the photos are pretty old, showing Arthur and the same group as teenagers, so they must be Arthur’s closest friends.
Alfred’s eyes fall back to Arthur and the ink under his skin. He clearly doesn’t have to worry about keeping his body in a condition approved by someone else. If Alfred had known what he was signing up for four years ago, he wouldn’t have done it. Being a model isn’t being famous the way being a movie star or musician is; people only ever recognize him as a face they’ve seen somewhere, but it’s still more than he would really like.
Wanting to be famous and admired and wanting to be adored by someone are very different things.
Alfred sometimes wishes he had learned that a lot sooner, but he can’t deny that his life has definitely been exciting and often a lot of fun. Still, it has lost much of its appeal since he started. He shifts, feeling a bit uncomfortable and then feeling a bit more uncomfortable as he realizes he’s quite sticky. So is the bass guitar on Arthur’s hip. He grins.
Some of Arthur’s tattoos are crudely done or old and fading, but the cumulative effect of them is breathtaking and god, his piercings are sexy. He’s a heavy dose of reality that Alfred hadn’t known he needed.
Arthur’s room, his house, are lived in. The house isn’t messy and certainly not dirty, but lived in. The needlepoint works in frames on the wall, the worn couches and chairs in the living room, Arthur’s bedroom with a few pieces of clothing on the floor. It’s a real home.
It’s nothing like the glamorous, luxury townhouse Alfred had been heading toward after being out all night at the launch party for the new campaign, of which he is one of the main faces. Alfred hadn’t wanted to spend any more time with his colleagues/housemates with their loud drunken antics in the limo, so he had opted for the train. He glows thinking that it was one of the best decisions he has ever made.
It will definitely be the best one if Arthur doesn’t kick him out… if Arthur maybe lets him come back…
Arthur has texture and his body is lived in, just like his house. Before seeing Arthur on the train, Alfred hadn’t truly realized how much he has become so numb to smoothy, glossy things—things that slip out of his hands and out of sight so quickly and so few of them actually belong to him. The fashion industry is beautiful, but purposefully insubstantial, purposefully unreal… it’s art. It had been dazzling to a late bloomer of a college student, but now, real life has a tendency to seem as airbrushed as the photos.
That industry will have no use for him before too long and his career will be another glossy, gossamer thing that doesn’t belong to him.
Maybe Arthur would let him stay here sometimes.
The cum dried on Alfred compels him to finally get up. He goes into the bathroom—only one toothbrush on the counter, only one towel hanging on the wall, and that makes his heart flutter stupidly and he chastises it for that. He tries the shower, but can’t figure out the taps and he doesn’t want the noise to wake Arthur anyway, so he cleans himself with a washcloth, rinses it, and takes it back to the bedroom.
He cleans Arthur up as best he can without waking him. The bruises are even more apparent at this point—including one above Arthur’s eye which had not appeared until now. It isn’t bad enough for Alfred to be too concerned and he really can’t help but laugh. From what little he’s learned about Arthur, he’s sure that the punk will just laugh it off as ‘perils of the lifestyle.’ That lifestyle seems so joyous and free.
Alfred knows many people would envy his life, but he envies Arthur’s. Arthur isn’t airbrushed. His skin is full of freckles and ink and scars and bruises. Alfred could spend days mapping them.
He pulls on his boxers and heads out into the living room with the nominal intention of finding something to cook and the actual intention of snooping just a little.
The living room doesn’t have much space considering that most of it is taken up by two couches, five comfy looking chairs, one bean bag, a coffee table and various end tables. It’s clearly not some avant garde design choice, it seems more like necessity.

There is, however, room for a record player hooked up to some very expensive-looking sound equipment and next to it is a bookshelf full of vinyls as well as a few crates full of them next to the speakers. There’s a red bass guitar propped up on a stand near the corner and Alfred chuckles a little. He doesn’t peek through the records too much, but it seems like a really awesome collection, definitely a large one.
There are two other bookcases full of actual books and they are much more organized than the vinyls. One case contains fiction books and the other non fiction and they are all alphabetized by author. Alfred chuckles as Arthur’s punk appearance seems somewhat at odds with the neat organization and tranquility of his home.
In addition to the rather mysterious embroidery pieces, there are more framed photographs, an actually striking amount considering that most people just keep photos on their phones these days. Some of these even look professional. Many don’t feature Arthur at all, they simply show different groups of smiling people making silly faces—sometimes with obscene gestures. 

Most of the people who were in the photos in the bedroom are out here as well. Arthur seems to have a very wide circle of friends and acquaintances and Alfred can’t help but wonder what it is that he does for a living.
One of the few photos of Arthur catches Alfred’s eye: it’s an absolutely perfect candid portrait and Arthur clearly doesn’t know it’s being taken: Arthur has all of his visible piercings filled, even some that he wasn’t wearing earlier, and a black sleeveless shirt, displaying his tattoos. He’s sitting at the kitchen table in very soft light, with his head turned slightly away, smiling pensively with a delicate china teacup in his hands.
Alfred’s heart aches just a little and he envies whoever took the photo.
He’s startled by his own stomach rumbling. Arthur will probably up soon and he’ll probably be hungry too, so Alfred heads into the kitchen to see if he can make something. The kitchen isn’t… dirty by any stretch, it’s actually very clean, but it’s odd. There are scorch marks on the stove, on the walls and they aren’t exactly small. Poking through the drawers reveals burnt wooden spoons, melted spatulas, and other kitchenwares in various states of distress. Alfred laughs.
The fridge is in much better condition, though it seems to have very little in it and most of what is there seems to be takeout leftovers, but Alfred’s pretty sure he can pull something together.
Arthur blinks awake, surprisingly not hungover, but very, very sore and a bit groggy. His body aches when he tries to move it and it’s only after a few moments that he realizes Alfred is gone. It had to have been a dream, right? Surely.
He takes stock of himself and discovers that his hip and thigh are clean—just partially: the only proof that Alfred had really been there.
Trying to convince himself that he isn’t upset that Alfred didn’t stick around, Arthur stumbles into the shower just to soap himself down and rinse. Drying off and seeing himself in the mirror, he doesn’t really wonder why Alfred didn’t stick around since he still looks rather like a train ran over him—complete with a fresh bruise above his eye. The perspective of some decent rest must have made Alfred see sense and Arthur can hardly fault him for that.
It’s Sunday, but it’s probably for the best that Arthur get some work done. Thankfully, there is always work to be done. Arthur reasons that with the distraction, he can convince himself that Alfred was nothing more than a lovely dream.
He pulls on a fresh pair of briefs heads out toward the kitchen, trying to mentally take stock of what might be in the refrigerator, but when he rounds the corner, there is Alfred, frowning into the fridge with one hand on his hip. He’s still mostly naked—dressed to match Arthur in nothing but his knickers. Arthur knows quite a few extremely attractive people, but Alfred could have posed for the ancient statues of Apollo… in Arthur’s kitchen.
“Y-you…” Arthur stutters in surprise. “You’re still here,” he muses, a bit baffled.
Alfred jumps, looking Arthur up and down quickly, seeing that his hair is wet. Alfred hadn’t even heard the shower. Covered in ink and bruises and little else, Arthur is so sexy it almost hurts. Alfred blushes and he bashfully averts his gaze. “Um. Yeah. Sorry, was I not supposed to be?”
“No. I mean. Yes. I’m…” Arthur could kick himself for causing that dejected expression on Alfred’s face. He closes the distance between them, placing his hand on Alfred’s cheek partly to soothe him and partly to make absolutely certain he isn’t still dreaming. He then cups Alfred’s chin and pulls him into a languid kiss that leaves them both a bit breathless. “I’m very glad you’re still here. I thought you had seen sense and left.”
“Ha,” Alfred says, dazed momentarily. “I think I’ve seen more sense by staying than I have in a long time, if I’m being honest.”
“Oh?”
Alfred gazes pensively at the space around them. “This place… your house… you… it’s a lot different than what I’m used to.” He notices Arthur’s expression change and hastily adds, “It’s a good thing, I swear. It’s a really, really good thing. I’m really glad you yelled at me on the train.”
Arthur’s own face turns pink now, “I hardly think I yelled.”
Alfred laughs. “You definitely did, but it’s okay, I think you were still kinda drunk.”
“Then blame it on liquid courage,” Arthur says, waving his hand to excuse his own behavior. Shouting on the tube… what worse crime could a Londoner commit? It turned out to be worth it, of course, since Alfred is still here, all but totally naked, in his kitchen. “Anyway. You’re hungry, I take it? Apologies for the state of my kitchen, I’m a terrible cook.”
“Yeah, I kinda got that impression from the scorch marks and mangled utensils and stuff,” Alfred replies, trying not to giggle outright. “And it doesn’t seem like there’s much food for you in here, everything is labeled for other people.”
Arthur nods, “Yes, all of that is for work,” he says and then pauses, clearing his throat. “Are you… that is… do you want… do you have anywhere to be?”
Alfred grins, finding Arthur’s sudden moment of self-consciousness kind of cute. “Yeah. Right here, right?” He steps right up to Arthur, almost flush against him, gliding his fingertips up Arthur’s arms and grinning, “You still owe me an explanation about your ink.”
Arthur suddenly remembers that promise and then smirks. “Indeed. I’ll order something for delivery.” He slides his palm up and down Alfred’s arm in return, then clasps his hand and tugs him in the direction of the bedroom.
Alfred shivers and follows as if he’s floating and lets Arthur push him back onto the bed with a silly grin all over him.
A smirk glints off of Arthur’s bright green eyes as he straddles Alfred, sitting up on his knees, so that they are in more or less the same position in which they landed on the couch earlier. Reaching for his phone, he quickly orders lunch for the two of them and then tosses it to the side. “There we are. We have a little while.” He chuckles when he sees that Alfred isn’t looking up at him, but rather scanning the tattoos. “I’ll say right now, quite a few of them are little more than ‘me and my mates got pissed and did it for a laugh.’”
Alfred winks up at him. “Really? I never would have guessed,” he teases, poking the skull with the mohawk.
“Christ, that one is so old,” Arthur says, tilting his head awkwardly to look at the heavily faded ink on his left shoulder that he can’t really see. “Gil—my mate from the train—dared me to do it when we were, hm, couldn’t have been more than sixteen.”
Alfred raises his eyebrows reflexively. “Wow… that seems really young.”
Arthur hums. “I suppose. Not so young though, don’t a lot of models get recruited at that age?”
“Some yeah, not me though. I was in university, some pretty girl at a mall told me I should give it a try and I’ve never been real good at saying no to pretty girls,” he laughs a little self-consciously.
Arthur nods sagely, “They are notoriously difficult to refuse, but then… so are pretty boys.”
Alfred blushes even if that comment wasn’t necessarily directed at him. “Ain’t that the truth,” he answers, giving a coy look up at Arthur before tracing his finger over the mane of the lion on Arthur’s right arm. “What about this one?”
“Ahh that one does have a story, of sorts. It’s one of the last tattoos that a friend did as an apprentice to another artist. She really wanted to do the lion and I didn’t want it because it’s such an overt symbol of leadership and England and royalty and… all that. I do have a leadership role of sorts in the work that I do, but I don’t see that as… who I am. But she managed to convince me because she said the male lion was perfect for me since all they do is laze about and shag while the lionesses do all the work,” Arthur laughs.
Alfred can’t help but laugh too, hanging on Arthur’s every word. He circles his finger around the lion’s eye. The beast’s expression in profile is alert, focused, and determined. “But the males protect the pride, too, don’t they?” he says.
“Hm. That they do.”
Alfred follows the lines of the mane down to just above Arthur’s elbow where an extremely crude anarchy “A” is drawn. “This looks like one of those temporary tattoos my brother would have gotten at Hot Topic when we were kids.”
“Something similar may or may not have served as the stencil for this one,” he admits. “That’s the first one I ever got, of course,” he says with a self-deprecating eye roll. “When I was about fourteen, my friend, João, went to Brazil to stay with family for a whole summer and when he came back, he said he’d learnt how to do stick and poke tattoos from some of the, quote/unquote, “tribal” members on his dad’s side of the family and I told him to prove it, so he did that little abomination.”
“Really!?” Alfred asks, laughing incredulously. “No way.”
“Very way, I’m afraid,” Arthur replies solemnly with a grin on the tip of his tongue. “It hurt like hell, though not as much as the look my mum gave me when she saw it.”
Alfred nods in sympathy. “I think either one of my moms would have tanned my hide over something like that for sure.” He then looks at the striking mermaid on Arthur’s right forearm and the pirate ship on his left. “Got a bit of a nautical theme going there,” he says.

Arthur laughs again and rotates his arms a bit and then back again. “The mermaid is styled after an ex. My mates said she lured me in like a siren, so Gil suggested I get this in order to ward her off. His reasoning being that he can’t lure me in if she’s always with me, but that was, oh christ, so long ago it seems. I haven’t seen her in years.”
Alfred smiles at the tattoo lopsidedly. “I guess that makes sense, in a way. And the ship?”
“Well, I’m a pirate of sorts, you see,” Arthur says with a mysterious grin. “Or rather I like the idea of that as an identity more than the lion, I suppose.”
Alfred nods and traces all of the lines with his fingertips. “And I’m guessing the bass guitar corresponds to the one in the living room?” he says, stroking his fingers over where it peeks out from Arthur’s underwear.
“That it does,” Arthur replies. “Mmm,” he sighs contentedly when Alfred continues tracing it.
“You know, you’re not exactly what I think of when I think of a punk.”
Arthur gives him the same mysterious grin. “Well considering you haven’t exactly met one before now, I’d say your expectations are probably quite skewed. It’s more than the clothes and the boots and the music… it’s about, hm, pushing back against the status quo, taking care of each other, making sure anyone who gets left behind by the system finds a place.”
“That sounds… really cool,” Alfred says, a bit surprised and impressed. After a short pause, he says “What do you think I should get?” Alfred muses, “for a first one.”
“I don’t know if I could say yet,” Arthur says, looking down at Alfred, reaching out to brush the back of his hand over Alfred’s cheek. “You’d have to stay awhile, come back now and then, to get to know you better,” he says it, but it’s more of a question, a suggestion, perhaps a hope.
Alfred breaks into a little, silly grin. “Yeah? You’d let me do that?”
“I rather think I would, if you wanted to.” How lovely that an absurd one night—one morning stand might turn out to be something more. He takes Alfred hand, slowly, stroking over his wrist first and then threading their fingers together. He caresses the top side of Alfred’s forearm with his other hand, running his knuckles over it. “Maybe a compass. Here. To find your way back.”
Alfred knows that Arthur means back to this house, but it hits him like something more. Like returning to himself, to a solid form with history and stories and the freedom to do what he pleases with his body that he surrendered years ago. “I think I’d like that,” he murmurs, looking at where his fingers interlock with Arthur’s. “I was kinda hoping you’d say a skull with a green mohawk, though,” he says with a beaming, cheeky grin.
Arthur laughs, incredibly glad that he had taken the train, that Alfred had stared at him, that he’d taken Alfred home. He can sense so much potential here, between them—so much potential in Alfred that has so far languished. Arthur knows he could help change that. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you something equally daft… and a good story to go along with it.”
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shytalia · 2 years
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hey guys! here's a sketch I did for a fanfic I wrote. It's witch Arthur and a sort of frankenstein's monster type Alfred.
happy early halloween!
edit here's the fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41170917/chapters/103209141
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mexigum · 9 days
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Hello Tumblr,
I've once again come crawling back to ask for help finding a fanfiction... about Hetalia..
I might have a problem, a nostalgia problem
ANYWAYS! does anyone here know the name of that one Gerita and USUK fanfic where Italy ends up in a mental asylum for being gay during the 1940s/50s. And like, America works there as a doctor but he's secretly just as insane as his patients if not worse. Because he and England are just straight up serial killers who call themselves the "Message Man". I think Italy loses an eye to them at some point?
OH! And France runs the damn place as a priest of all things.
I read it a couple years back during middle school/first two years of highschool. I want to reread it but i don't remember the name and can't find it. :( and with the whole, authors going scorched earth and deleting all of their fics recently, I'm worried that it might be gone forever. I can't be the only one that remembers this fic, I could have sworn that it was really popular at the time.
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hetaliafucker · 8 months
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I'm back to writing my Usuk series that went on hiatus due to life. It's a hero x villain AU. Alfred is the villain, Arthur is the hero.
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pagesinmylife · 9 months
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I just want to apologize to my followers in advance because I am diving head first back into my hetalia phase and I can’t stop myself
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