i know hardly anyone indulges in hetalia anymore (nevermind reader inserts), but for old times' sake (and self-satisfaction), i am opening the cringy "le lemon" blog i would've been freaked out to find when i was younger lol.
⏆﹒⬚﹒🍏﹒➲﹒important notes
i am NOW turning 22 and executive dysfunction is always kicking my ass! so i always move at a snail's pace. please be patient with me 🙏
i'll only do reader-insert requests since i honestly hardly engage with the canon x canon stuff of this fandom anymore. also, as i've stated, my main forte (in terms of full-length fics) are nsft pieces. however, i'll also gladly do all kinds of headcanons and things like match-ups.
i'll write for just about anyone (1ps, 2ps, nyotalia, etc.) except animal or child characters. i also don't engage with most proship content (pedophilia, incest, homophobia/orientation play, misogyny, racism/raceplay, and noncon specifically), but i am open to writing dark and dubious topics. just ask! i won't bite.
readers are gender neutral by default, though i write afab readers more often. i am open to writing anything though, so please specify if you want something 🫶
Hetalia y/n’s have to stand together, how about England x Reader where y/n admires his tattoos?
anon bless your heart because this lead me down a path of picturing arthur as a prep with secret tattoos and i promptly blacked out. when i woke up i ended up with this oneshot. i hope you enjoy and may your meals always be delicious and your pillow always cold (or warm depending on how you like it lol). also i wasn't sure if you wanted smut, so it's sfw (just to be safe). but it's still suggestive. if you wanted full-blown smut tho just lmk 👍
⏆﹒⬚﹒🍏﹒➲﹒reader admiring arthur's tattoos; gn! reader (nothing specified), 800 words/4k characters, fluff with some suggestive themes. lowercase intended.
the contrast is interesting, you muse.
your lover’s always projected a proper– if not a tad pretentious– image of the quintessential upper-class english man. he has all his clothes and shoes tailored; every thread and button perfectly bespoke (the extra costs just for suit jackets can be somewhat incomprehensible, but he always assures you it is a perfectly good investment. you never complain too much– not when he’s so damn handsome in those same bespoke suits).
he drinks his tea with a pinky up; always, always with the fine, intricately painted porcelain (an antique dating back to the victorian era, he often tells you).
he rubs elbows with the upper echelons of london society; engaging in those stereotypical, hoity-toity activities only people with money to burn can do (polo, horseback riding, fucking golf… it would make you laugh if it weren’t for his tall, elegant frame, with the lean, subtle musculature of the ideal english sportsman).
but beneath that proper exterior, though– there’s something more passionate, something more untamed lurking. while arthur often keeps that side of him under wraps, you have the privilege of being privy to it in numerous ways.
you’re reminded of it as you laze next to him in his sheets, basking in the post-sex afterglow. his back is to you, you can fully take in the smattering of golden freckles across his fair skin, and… oh.
“i haven’t seen this one before.”
you trace your fingers along the merfolk inked on his back. you try to summon some hazy memories from a past gallery date with arthur– ah, yes. it’s a near-identical replica of john william waterhouse’s mermaid, except…
it’s you. replacing the mermaid combing her long, auburn hair is you. you’re in that same, languid pose, with just a long white fabric draped tightly along your body to preserve the barest modicum of modesty. somehow, though– with the sultriness of your eyes, the curve of your bare neck and shoulders– this remaster of waterhouse’s mermaid somehow seems more… suggestive.
“do you like it?” he murmurs, turning over to face you. his forest-green eyes are lidded, light, feathered lashes nearly resting on the top of his freckled cheeks. this is the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him; your heart leaps for a split second.
“a tattoo of me?” you say, mock-dryly. still, your face is warm, and you can’t help but smile. “i thought you hated cliches.”
“ah, well.” suddenly, he’s blushing too. his freckles are even more stark against his skin; you barely resist the urge to trace your thumb all over them. “some… can be alright.”
you grin.
“when did you get this?”
“a few weeks after our date to the tate.”
you can’t help but snort out a laugh, fond.
“and you said you were done with tattoos, hm?”
“when i saw that painting,” the pinkness of his cheeks deepen, “i just couldn’t stop seeing you. so one last tattoo couldn’t hurt, i suppose.”
“mhm, it’s not like i mind,” you whisper, drawing a hand down to trace the tudor roses and ivy inked along his ribs, “you know i love your tattoos, arthur.”
“perhaps that’s why i had it done,” he laughs raspily, “you might only want me for my tattoos. needed something to keep the spark alive, don’t you think, my dear?”
“don’t be an idiot.” you lightly chastise him, then draw him closer for a kiss, bracing him by your hand on the back of his head. unlike the heated, passionate kisses you two shared earlier, he moves his mouth against yours slowly and indulgently; the kind of kiss that could lull you to slumber after a long day.
“let me see it again, then.” you say against his lips, quiet and muffled. he smirks, uncharacteristically roguish.
“i believe you just proved my earlier point.”
“oh, shut up.”
he complies anyway, shifting so you can see his back; this time, you can study it more clearly. your face, stark as day– maybe it’s corny, but you can’t help the way your heart leaps at the sight. proper, upper-class arthur kirkland being lovestruck enough to have you permanently inked on his skin, even when he’s eschewed tattoos and everything that can be linked to delinquency in favor of his image. there’s just something truly… amazing about it.
“i wanna see the rest.” you mumble. he rolls over, pretending to grumble.
“maybe you really are just with me for my tattoos, love.”
you ignore him and look over the rest of his tattoos– the tudor roses and ivy on his ribs; the plantagenet lions on his left shoulder; a hobbes’ quote– a great leap in the dark– on his right forearm.
and now, the portrait of you as waterhouse’s mermaid on his back.
“i do love your tattoos, arthur.” you quietly repeat, settling down next to him. you draw nearer, hooking a leg over his body and resting your head against his chest; his heartbeat thrums in a consistent pitter-patter right next to your ear.
“but i love you more.”
he’s silent, but he combs his fingers– long, graceful, and work-worn– through your hair.
“i love you too.”
“yeah.” you smile drowsily. you can see yourself as a merfolk in your hazy mind's eye, forever inked on his back. “i know.”
