Hi :) I'm a Hetalia Fanfiction writer and as I've been writing a lot lately I thought I'd post them here as well as on Fanfiction. My OTP is USUK but you might see other ships too :)
Okay, this is in incredibly petty nitpick, but: if you’re writing a fantasy setting with same-sex marriage, a same-sex noble or royal couple typically would not have titles of the same rank - e.g., a prince and a prince, or two queens.
It depends on which system of ranking you use, of course (there are several), but in most systems there’s actually a rule covering this scenario: in the event that a consort’s courtesy title being of the same rank as their spouse’s would potentially create confusion over who holds the title by right and who by courtesy, the consort instead receives the next-highest title on the ladder.
So the husband of a prince would be a duke; the wife of a queen, a princess; and so forth.
(You actually see this rule in practice in the United Kingdom, albeit not in the context of a same-sex marriage; the Queen’s husband is styled a prince because if he were a king, folks might get confused about which of them was the reigning monarch.)
The only common situation where you’d expect to see, for example, two queens in the same marriage is if the reigning monarchs of two different realms married each other - and even then, you’d more likely end up with a complicated arrangement where each party is technically a princess of the other’s realm in addition to being queen of her own.
You’ve gotta keep it nice and unambiguous who’s actually in charge!
Okay, I’ve received a whole lot of asks about this post, so I’m going to cover all of the responses in one go:
1. The system described above is, admittedly, merely one of the most common. Other historically popular alternatives include:
The consort’s courtesy title is of the same rank as their spouse’s, with “-consort” appended to it: prince and prince-consort, queen and queen-consort, etc. This is how, e.g., present-day Monaco does it.
The consort is simply styled Lord or Lady So-and-so, and receives no specific title. I can’t think of any country that still does it this way, off the top of my head, but historically it was a thing.
(Naturally, your setting needn’t adhere to any of these, but it would be highly irregular for it to lack some mechanism for clarifying the chain of command.)
2. The reason why the consort of a prince is historically a princess even though those titles are the same rank is basically sexism. This can go a couple of ways:
In many realms, there was no such thing as being a princess by right; the daughter of a monarch would be styled Lady So-and-so and receive no specific title, so the only way to be a princess was to marry a prince.
In realms where women could hold titles by right, typically a masculine title was informally presumed to outrank its feminine counterpart. So, e.g., kings outrank queens, princes outrank princesses, etc.
In either case, no ambiguity exists.
(Interestingly, this suggests that in a more egalitarian setting where masculine titles are not presumed to outrank their feminine counterparts, or vice versa, you’d need to explicitly disambiguate rankings even outside the context of same-sex marriages. Food for thought!)
3. It would also be possible to have two kings or two queens in the same marriage without multiple realms being involved in the case of a true co-monarchy. However, true co-monarchies are highly irregular and, from a political standpoint, immensely complicated affairs. If you’re planning on writing one of those, be prepared to do your research!
4. The next rank down from “countess” is either “viscountess” or “baroness”, depending on which peerage system you’re using.
(Yes, that last one actually came up multiple times. Apparently there are a lot of stories about gay countesses out there!)
I never thought about this, and have actually done it wrong in the past! You’re absolutely right, though.
If you’re doing this in a fantasy setting, rather than, say, a sci-fi or futuristic space opera one, it might be worth inventing terms instead of using a lower rank or rank-consort. If the people of your setting have always had to distinguish between reigning and non-reigning figures, they’ll probably have developed linguistic conventions to account for that.
On the other hand, invented terminology can easily become silly and/or cumbersome - apos’tro’phes, anyone? Using rank-consort as a “translation convention” is probably better even for fantasy, unless you’re very, rightly confident in your fantasy linguistics. At the very least, if you’re inventing titles anyway, might as well go whole hog and invent separate reigning and consort versions.
Prompt: Both sensation models, Arthur and Alfred competing against each other to see who is more popular on a poll. Loser has to be the other's slave for a week.
A/N USUK Summer Exchange Fic for evenica on the USUK network. I only had time for one full picture out of several doodles I’m afraid but there’s a fic to go with it :) Also sorry it’s a bit last minute...
Arthur was a professional.
A damn good professional at that. He’d trained and practiced and worked his way to the top with skill. He knew what he was doing and what he wanted – and he knew how to get it.
Which was naturally why Alfred Fucking Jones infuriated him so much.
Arthur acted professionally, he sat up straight and listened carefully to the photographer wanted and then he did everything perfectly. On the other hand there was Jones, far too casual for this line of work. He’d saunter in dressed in jeans and a loose t-shirt (and still manage to look fantastic which was just plain unfair, some people had to put effort into their hair each morning. But nooo, not Jones.)
Jones was infuriatingly too good for his job for a rookie. Which Arthur still liked to call him because despite it being a good five years since Jones had started modelling professionally, Arthur had been doing it longer goddammit and he was not about to let Jones one up him. Ever.
It was just Arthur’s luck that their managers were close friends, Francine Bonnefoy was really the most irritating of managers sometimes. Arthur liked to remind himself at these times that without Francine he wouldn’t have made it as far as he had. But it didn’t change the fact that it was thanks to Francine’s friendship with Jones’s manager Matthew that he was constantly on the same photoshoot with Jones, or working at the same time in the same building or basically anywhere in close proximity to the brash, annoying and stupidly handsome even for a model American.
Sometimes he cursed the woman, sometimes he gave up and let her drag him home after a thorough drinking session to forget the real reason he hated Jones so much. Because he hated that smile that could be smirking or kind or goofy and still looked perfect on that chiselled face. He hated that crop of gold hair that was unmissable even in the packed streets. He hates the way Jones would tease him during photoshoots with that charming accents of his. He hated how comfortable he felt doing romantic photoshoots with him.
But most of all he hated the crush he had on his rival.
Arthur could think of terrible, terrible things he could do to that lock of golden hair Jones liked to gel and he could see a much better use for that mouth, pressed against his own instead of teasing him.
But he couldn't act on those frustrations at all. Firstly Jones was a colleague, secondly, a rival, and thirdly, considering the amount of teasing the American gave him, there wasn't a hope in hell that he'd like him back.
xxx
Alfred sauntered into the room the photoshoot was taking place in late on purpose because he knew it was the best way to rile Arthur up.
Today they weren’t even sharing the photoshoot, just the room because Mattie and Francine apparently had ‘big plans’ and wanted to spend time planning together. Alfred didn’t really care, the more time it gave him next to Arthur, the stuffy, uptight, downright drop-dead gorgeous British model the better.
Arthur was perfect to both tease and stare at and spend countless hours in the depths of his imagination with. When he teased him Arthur would either turn red and yell or he might snarkily throw something right back at him, matching him insult for insult and hidden compliment for hidden compliment. And how could he possible resist staring? Arthur was a model for a reason after all, he looked damn good and he knew how to pose in just the way that made him look even better. The light caught him in all the right ways and the faces he could make for the camera… it was nearly enough to make Alfred groan out load when Arthur bit down on his lower lip and stared up into the camera lens from between his eyelashes. His green eyes always seemed to hold a token of mirth in them and Alfred relished being able to make the green eyes flash, sharp and dangerous across to him.
His mind is already running amuck with ideas on how to tease Arthur today as he crosses the room and leans against the wall to face directly opposite Arthur.
And, oh he’s in for a treat today. Arthur’s in tight leather pants, tighter even from the way he sits with one leg crossed over the other. Then the Green t-shirt with the black and red ‘Anarchy’ scrawled across it in graffiti lettering. The leather jacket hangs over his shoulders in a way that just screams haphazardness, not a word he would generally use to describe Arthur, but damn did Arthur know how to act the role the clothes gave him. And then there are the piercings. A teardrop green hanging from his left ear with a golden cuff sitting above it. Then two small hoops, glinting when they catch the light, through the top of his right ear and a shiny red crystal in the lobe. Arthur makes a really, really good punk.
“You sure you can pull off that look old man?” Alfred teases, smirk drawing onto his face. Of course, Arthur can pull the look off, Arthur Kirkland is the type of guy that could make a binbag look like an attractive piece of clothing so when he wears something that really suits him; he looks really good. But of course Arthur doesn’t need to know that Alfred thinks that.
Arthur lifts his head to glare at him, eyes fierce and daring and perfect. “You’re late.” He snaps, accent laying on thick as he comes close to growling through his teeth at Alfred, “Matthew’s been waiting for you.”
“Ah, well,” Alfred shrugs nonchalantly, “I’m almost ready.”
“Hardly,” Arthur scoffs, “Unless you plan on leaving the poor lady with photoshop lots of work to do.”
“Hey now!” Alfred protests, “It’s your eyebrows that need all the photoshop work, she must have to spend hours fixing them!”
“My eyebrows are just fine!” Arthur defends firmly, it’s a frequent argument but that doesn’t stop Arthur from defending his brows just as vehemently each time.
Alfred grins as the red spots dart on Arthur’s cheeks, a sure sign that he’s working up his temper and breaking the Englishman out of his shell of cold professionalism. Slipping his hands down for the hem of his t-shirt he slowly peels it off and smirks. His outfit may be simpler than Arthur’s but tight skinny jeans and a six-pack could easily compare.
Arthur’s still glaring at him when he has the fabric out of the way, but he hasn’t looked away so Alfred deems his ‘catch Arthur’s attention’ plan a success. All he needs to do is keep Arthur focused on him for the rest of the day and he’ll be as content as he could possibly get.
“Bet I look better than you~” Alfred sings happily as Arthur stands up to face him, a fail because even Arthur struggles to stare someone down who was taller than him.
“I know what I’m doing,” Arthur says crisply, “So naturally I’m better.”
“Doesn’t work like that sweetheart,” Alfred says, enjoying the flush the pet name brings to Arthur’s face. Really, teasing him was almost too easy and way too much fun.
“Of course it does,” Arthur says stiffly, and Alfred’s smile breaks and a frown creases into his forehead because already he’s losing Arthur back into that stuffy, professional mode.
“It’s all about who’s more popular though,” Alfred counters firmly.
Arthur coughs, in a superior ‘oh-really?’ way, “Well that settles it then,” He announces, “I’m clearly still the best as I am the more popular of us two.”
“I think you’ll find my fan base is pretty big now, and growing,” Alfred counters leaning in closer, heightening the tension rising between them.
“Oh really?” Arthur questions, face perfectly level and calm and full of composure, “Prove it.”
“Bet.” Alfred proposes straight away, idea already forming in his mind, “The most popular of us after the photoshoots left in this month, including today, is the winner.”
“Oh,” Arthur croons, “That sounds very interesting.”
Alfred wants to pretend he didn’t hear that tone in Arthur’s voice. It’s the only time he feels out of his depth around him, when Arthur’s eyes sparkle and his tone lowers dangerously whispering in Alfred’s mind and setting his imagination alight.
“And tell me,” Arthur continues, “What do I get from you when I win?”
“Who says you’re going to win?” Alfred retorts almost breathless with anticipation and delight.
“I do.” Arthur says firmly, eyes shining and entering the deal, “Tell you what, I win and you have to be my personal slave. For an entire week, no complaints. If you somehow, despite the very small odds, manage to win, then I’ll be yours for a week.”
‘I’ll be yours.’ The words send a tingle down the back of Alfred’s spine and he reels with the sheer idea of it, oh if he could have Arthur with him for an entire week… he had to win.
“And no more calling me Jones,” Alfred replies in breathless acceptance.
Arthur’s lips curl up in a smile, “Only if you win Jones. Only if you win.” And then he turns around and saunters off, giving Alfred a lovely view of his butt as he does so.
Xxx
Arthur decides promptly that this is an opportune time to curse Francine. Possibly to the grave this time.
After all, it was Francine’s fault that he was here, sharing a photoshoot, with Jones once again. And he was shirtless. Again. Like it hadn’t already been hard enough to concentrate before with Jones in those fucking skinny jeans lying against his legs like a second skin and then the fact he was shirtless as well!!! Showing off all that tanned skin and hard muscles that Arthur sometimes struggled to pull his eyes away from. It had been even worse when after the shoots were done and Alfred had stopped posing against the wall – a wall, no one should be able to make solo poses against a wall look that sexual. But then he’d headed his way and pressed close against him, sweat dripping from his forehead from the strong lights in a way that was somehow exactly the opposite of disgusting. Leaning around him, hand slipping down his backside… only to slide his phone out of his pocket, tut at him for not having it locked and announce their competition on every social media site he could think of so that they could find out who was the most popular.
Mostly though he was cursing Francine to the death for bringing him to the beach.
She knew perfectly well that Arthur couldn’t swim, that he didn’t like sand because all you seemed to do was bring back the entire beaches worth in the seams of your clothes and between the pages of his book. She knew that Arthur didn’t tan – just burnt and she knew perfectly well that Alfred plus shirtless was going to make him distracted.
But Kiku, the photographer Matthew and Francine had brought with them and someone he had worked with before, just steps out of the van with a polite smile at him and passes him his kindle as a silent apology. So, reluctantly, Arthur trudges after the four ahead and resolves to try his best, the scores were looking pretty much equal at the minute which was not a good sign. He should be way ahead of Jones…
Arthur grumbles even more when Francine gives him no time to rest, slathering him is sunscreen, handing him a pair of swimming trunks and then turning to help Matthew set up the volleyball net.
Kiku spends ages taking every beach picture imaginable.
Arthur faces Alfred at volleyball, a match he unfortunately both expected to, and did, lose. They lounge on towels gracefully and slip sunglasses off their noses to peek over them for a close-up snapshot of their faces and in particular their eyes which Arthur feels thankful for because he knows well his best attributes, captivating green eyes and long waxed legs. They paddle in the shallow water and then lie down and roll over in it, wet but not soaked, with droplets of water hanging from their hair and sparkling in the sun.
Then Francine tosses him a swim ring from her sun lounger were she sits not working hard at all. But the swim ring is all the excuse Alfred needs to drag him out into the sea where he can’t rest his feet on solid ground, just left to float helplessly in the current. Still, he tries, he smiles for the camera, eyes wide and joyful as he leans dreamily on the swim ring to stare into the camera lens. He keeps it up with the swim ring for a while, trying everything he can think of, hiding behind it, and peeking soft glimpses out, to just sitting and relaxing trying to bring everything people loved about the beach into the pictures, until finally, finally, he can take a break for when it’s Alfred’s turn.
And if he enjoys watching Alfred splashing in the waves more than he probably should have done then he certainly doesn’t say so. And if he snaps a picture of it himself and sets it to his phone screen then certainly nobody will find out, after all, it’s password protected now.
It’s somewhat blissful though, the sun was shining and the waves reflected the light in shimmers and sparkles, Alfred was grinning and laughing in the distance and the twinge at Arthur’s heart is a reminder that he can’t waste all this on some fruitless endeavour to seduce the American into his bed just once. He could settle for this.
And if he sighs inwardly and gives a small smile, pretending to be on a date, when Alfred tugs him back out to sea as the sun sets and they float in front of it, close together, Alfred’s arms wrapped around his waist, his own hands pressed against Alfred’s chest then certainly no one will ever find out, because that’s a secret locked in his heart.
And if anyone notices that Jones, is no longer Jones, but Alfred instead, then nobody comments.
Xxx
If punk Arthur had been dangerously sexy in all the leather, and swimwear Arthur had been gorgeous with all the lean muscles and freckles under the sunlight, then angel Arthur was stunning.
Arthur walked gracefully out of his dressing room, the short skirt of the toga swaying, gladiator sandals wrapped around up to his knees, with wings resting between his shoulder blades and secured there with see-through elastic and finally a halo resting above him with a very thin wire keeping it place. He was truly angelic looking, he’d already transformed himself into the role, eyes wide, pure and innocent. Steps graceful and naïve.
Alfred can’t help but feel that the situation is more perfect.
He’s dressed as a devil of course, black trousers, black suit style jacket and a dark bomber jacket to set off the more dangerous and anarchic look he’s aiming for. A wire tail with a pointy end hangs from the jacket, horns attaches to a headband cleverly hidden in his hair set off the pair of leathery demon wings that sit between his own shoulders.
It was easy to tell what the request was, he, as the devil was going to instruct this poor, sweet, fallen angel in the ways of darkness and debauchery. Oh, if only…
“I’m winning, you know,” He whispers lowly as Arthur draws closer and for a moment the angel is gone and the Arthur as he knows him is back, glaring at him.
“We’ll see about that,” He mutters darkly swooshing round and settling himself on the pew of the abandoned church that is their setting.
A click from Kiku’s camera signals the start of the shoot and Alfred takes his place, hands in his pocket and all arrogant confidence as he steps forward. Arthur shrinks back at first, a frightened, confused angel, but as his back hits the stone wall and Alfred swoops in closer he surprises him by shifting and glaring, no longer wide eyed and innocent, yet still an angel, a little minx of an angel.
Alfred chuckles, enjoying this twist on the classic and settles his hands securely around Arthur’s waist, relishing how comfortably they sit in the curve for a moment before sweeping Arthur off his feet and holding him in the air.
It wasn’t part of the script but the hasty clicking sounds from Kiku is a pretty good indicator that nobody’s finding an issue with this. Even Arthur, too busy concentrating on trying to hold a natural pose in the air, and staring at him with hidden curiosity and approval at his own strength doesn’t seem to mind.
Alfred slowly bends his arms, keeping Arthur off the ground, but no longer stretched away from him, closer, and even closer until it looks like Arthur’s hovering in his embrace in front of the glass-stained window sending streams of coloured light into the black and white picture they present.
Arthur is entirely dependant on him and Alfred can’t help but like it a little. Arthur would never accept it but if he could just win their bet… a week of Arthur with him is a temptation the demon can’t resist and he smirks as Kiku balances precariously on a small footstool to take pictures of them with their heads tilted back staring up at him.
He was in the lead, all he had to do was stay there.
Xxx
Arthur is beginning to consider drastic measures.
The last photoshoot had boosted his place significantly, yet Alfred was still, infuriatingly ahead of him. The month was drawing to a close and he had time for one more photoshoot. He had to make it good, good enough to blow whatever Alfred was doing out of the water.
But what to do….
Xxx
Alfred was almost certain he’d already won. He was already planning their week together, dinner definitely, somewhere nice where he could tease Arthur lots, but also a quieter dinner in his apartment, maybe a movie night, maybe even…
He was startled out of his daydreams as Matthew quietly tapped him on the shoulder and then silently passed him his phone. Alfred knew what it would be of course, he’d has his last photoshoot of the month a couple of days back and he’d worn low-slung jeans just hanging off the edge of his hips, Cowboy boots, a leather vest with the sheriff’s star, a checked red bandana loosely tied around his neck and the cowboy hat off-kilter on his head. It had been the perfect photoshoot for the American, everything had gone perfectly, he’d thought there was no way he could lose.
But now, with Arthur’s final photoshoot on the screen in front of him he was beginning to doubt himself…
Only time would tell.
Xxx
The first day of the new month had Arthur sat in the studio waiting for Alfred who would, eventually turn up, and they would check the scores for a final time and see who had won.
But as per typical, in a way that really irritated Arthur, Alfred was late.
Even worse though was the phone buzzing away noisily in the bomber jacket that had been left on the bench. Alfred needed to take closer care of his clothes, especially if he’d left his phone in them.
At least it bought him time. He still wasn’t sure if he’d done enough to win and looking back at it he was almost embarrassed at his efforts, Alfred has surely seen the pictures, what on earth would he think?
He’d known his legs were one of his best features and naturally he should utilise them in his efforts… but the conclusion that heels was the best way to make his already long legs seem endless had led to the dress. The dress with a very short, frilly skirt that hid almost nothing.
He’d looked good, probably far better than he should have been considering he was in a dress but it has worked, his scores had rocketed. But had it been enough?
The phone buzzes again and Arthur glares at it irritated, he had to get it to be quiet somehow.
Xxx
Alfred’s not late on purpose this time, but because he’s lost his phone. He’d spent hours trying to call it from Mattie’s phone trying to locate it from the ringing but to no avail. Honestly, how could he lose it? He’d been glued to it for days and now it was suddenly gone?
The only over place he could consider it being was the studio, and considering he wasn’t purposefully trying to rile Arthur up this time, an angry Arthur was not so high on his to-do-list. After all, without his phone they couldn’t check who’d won.
A shove from Mattie though and another slightly stronger and pressing shove courtesy of Francine had sent him to the studio anyway. He supposed he had to face the music at some point.
Yet as he enters, Arthur doesn’t yell, he doesn’t complain, he doesn’t even lift his head away from the phone in front of him.
A phone that looks suspiciously unlike Arthur’s old flip.00 phone and more like… Oh shit.
Arthur finally glances up at him, where he’s frozen in place and set to ruin everything he’s built on with Arthur so far.
“You really need a better password than 1234.” Arthur says slowly placing the phone down, the screen swiped to the side until a clear one with no apps blocking the view of the picture of Arthur in that damn gorgeous dress, all long legs and coy expression…
Arthur unfreezes him with a tap on his shoulder and stands in front of him quietly. Staring up at him. They don’t tend to talk during a photoshoot, it’s always just been easier to listen to the photographer and direct each other with touches instead of words, but this silence isn’t quite the same, both at loss for words.
“Any reason I’m your phones background?” Arthur eventually asks, fidgeting, actual fidgeting, from Arthur.
Alfred turns red and doesn’t know what to say.
Arthur wasn’t supposed to find out like this. He was supposed to tease him until they were comfortable together, perhaps be a bit suggestive, hint, take him out on a date first.
But then Arthur smiles. That same sort of coy smile from the picture and settles his hand on Alfred’s arm, “Perhaps the same reason you’re my phone background?” He whispers, leaning in closer and closer…
Could Arthur really be saying what he thinks he’s saying? He’s not sure his brain can keep up.
Arthur watches him, eyes open and yet hidden at the same time, then very slowly, deliberately, bites down on his lower lip and looks up at Alfred through his eyelashes beseechingly.
Forget anything Alfred had ever thought about height giving him an advantage over Arthur, he was falling, doomed, entranced under Arthur’s spell.
“Arthur I-“ Alfred starts
“Shhh,” Arthur says placing a finger against his lips to stop him, “Who won?”
That’s what Arthur wanted to know? His heart plummets as the hope drains out of him. “Duuno yet, scores are on the phone.”
“Perfect,” Arthur mumbles drawing closer so that Alfred can hear the words on his lips. “If you knew who’d won I might have thought this to be a trick.
Then Arthur’s fingers move, but Alfred has no chance to speak, still struggling to wrap his head around what Arthur was saying as Arthur closed the gap and kissed him with a sense of urgency, hungry and devouring.
Arthur’s kissing was even better than he has imagined, it was hot and heavy and yet somehow sweet and soft too. It was more than Alfred could have possibly dreamed and he has to pinch himself hard to confirm that he’s not. But pinching hurts and this is very, very real. He can reach out and touch Arthur, wrap his arms around him possessively and kiss back with all the effort he has.
They’re breathless as they draw apart, red-faces with swollen lips and a string of saliva still connecting them. Arthur smiles, really smiles and brushes it away with a contented sigh. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that for.”
“I think I might,” Alfred replies without really thinking about it, unable to tear his eyes away from Arthur in front of him.
“Mmmm,” Arthur hums happily.
“So what are we know?” Alfred asks, desperate to know.
Arthur’s eyebrow twitches, irritated and Alfred instantly knows he’s in trouble. “What exactly do you think?” Arthur says crossly grabbing his shirt and tugging him down to face him directly, “Do you think I just go around randomly kissing people!?”
Arthur’s yelling at him but somehow it seems oh so very easy to be distracted when his this close to Arthur, easily able to push their lips back together and swallow Arthur’s complaints. And apparently that’s a very good way to distract Arthur as well because Arthur swoons in his arms and lets Alfred push them back to the bench so they can forget about having to stand up and simply focus on each other.
Eventually, when Alfred’s sat lounging back on the bench with his back leaning against the wall and Arthur practically draped on top on him, they manage to break from the feverish kisses long enough to flick through Alfred’s phone and find out who won.
The results flicker as they count up from each shoot, Arthur in the lead first, then Alfred leaping in front after the beach photoshoot, Arthur drawing gaining as the scores from the angel and demon photoshoot trickle into the bars and finally the solid jump that places Arthur in front.
Arthur smiles triumphantly, “I win.” He says turning to look at Alfred, grin crawling on his face, “In more ways than one.”
Alfred had been about to protest, call for a recount of the scores, there was no way after could leap that far ahead in one go surely… although those pictures and that damn dress… okay he totally could. Besides when Arthur went and said something like that how could Alfred possible complain? In a way he’d won too.
Still happy despite his loss Alfred draws Arthur back for another kiss, hot with Arthur’s celebration and Alfred’s anticipation for the following week.
"Mmm" Alfred murmurs pulling back from the kiss and smiling at Arthur, arms still tucked securely in place around Arthur's waist, keeping then close and pressed up against each other. "I may have lost but I think I might actually enjoy being your personal slave for a week" He says ducking his head back down to give Arthur another searing kiss. "ln fact" he says, smiling smugly at the flushed face and well kissed lips of the breathless Arthur in front of him, "I think I might actually be looking forward to it."
Arthur smiled back smugly, "you're looking forward to doing all my cooking and washing are you?" He mocks watching Alfred pout happily. He really looked so kissable when he pouted, and now he didn't have to resist temptation so he drew Alfred in for yet another kiss.
"Is that really all I’ll be doing?" Alfred says cheekily, slipping his hands down to grope at Arthur's butt.
"Well," Arthur says considerately, "I do have a double bed that feels rather empty with just me in it, so once you're finished with everything else I suppose you should come join me" Arthur whispers throatily in Alfred's ear eager to hear Alfred's anticipatory swallow as he tucks their hands together and takes Alfred home. It’s going to be a good week. Probably, he considers, even longer than a week.
Please reblog this post if you’d like to be entered in the…USxUK SWEETHEARTS WEEK RAFFLE. • You may reblog regardless of whether you earned any Valentines. The top three earners of Valentines will be...
Summary: Valentine’s day may be a day where people go out and openly celebrate but for England and America it’s their own very special day with each other. Pre-established relationship.
It wasn’t much, nor was it particularly unusual but there was something very comforting to waking in the morning with a hand stroking though his hair softly and idly. It was a comfort America could relish whenever he and his boyfriend got to spend time together. Absolutely perfect time. America let his eyes stayed close so he could savour the moment but he couldn’t stop himself from snuggling closer and the hand stopped.
“I know you’re awake love,” His boyfriend says shadow leaning over him. Alfred smiles and keeps his eyes close, “ ‘m not ‘wake yet.”
England gives him a kiss and that wakes America up because England’s kisses are the best. Sometimes like now they’re filled with love and sweetness and over times they’re hot and messy and England always makes it perfect.
America’s pretty certain that he could spend his whole life kissing England and being happy.
“Happy Valentine’s day love,” England says smiling softly in the way he only does when he’s really happy and America feels proud whenever he sees it because normally he’s the one who put it there.
It’s simple and sweet when they do eventually roll out of bed to have breakfast. And by roll, they do so literally, America hits the floor first and England falls on top of him and America’s thankful that one, England landed on top of him and two that they succeeded in dragging the duvet with them because it’s made landing on the floor just a little bit softer.
England pauses winded for a moment after the fall before he laughs softly and America can do nothing but listen to the deep sound and feel the reverberating of England’s chest. When they’re this close America can see the strands of golden hair in the wheat of England’s mop of bed hair and the few light speckles of freckles dabbled across England’s nose.
Perhaps he didn’t always pay quite as close attention to all this as he was doing now but normally it was a case of noticing them and then carrying on with whatever job the two had to work on that day. It was a rare case when he could just enjoy a work free day with England but this was one of them. This was a day that was going to revolve entirely around England and what he could do for England and well anything to do with England basically.
It’s what allows him the comfort of wrapping his arms around England still in the pile of their tumble and listening softly to the quiet breathing and the steady beat of his heart and think that they’re were many, many beautiful things that he loves about England. Far too many to name, even when England yells at him and he yells right back in meetings he’s still deeply in love; because he likes the way that England’s face flushes red, the accent that changes when he yells and the fact that he knows later that they’ll be together again curled up comfortably in front of the tv or something. The past always stays behind him where it should be and they don’t bother with apologies because they already know the others feeling and understand that as nations or even just as people there are going to disagree over things.
England kisses him again breaking America out of his trance before hooking his fingers through America’s and using his own surprising amount of strength in the much lither body to pull America upright. “This is a lot unlike you America,” England tells him but America tell just from the tone of England’s voice and the soft squeezing of his hand that England doesn’t mean bad different, just different. Which perhaps he is, looking out for every tiny thing about England. It’s not like it’s something America hasn’t ever done before, nor is it not something England’s ever done but maybe it’s because it’s been so long or maybe it’s because today is their special day entirely about each other but today is special, really special because this is the prospect of their future. A few days each year where they can spend the day with each other peacefully and happily.
It’s sappy but it warms America’s heart in a way few things can, (such as England’s surprise Valentine’s breakfast, it wasn’t burnt per say because English breakfast was one of the few things England could cook more or less but urgh… black pudding.) But America understands because this is just England’s way of speaking. For a man with a way with words England didn’t often choose to use them. He let actions do all the talking for him. Soft lingering touches, holding hands under the meeting room table, gentle kisses. And it wasn’t just touch either, England would sometimes cook him lunch, he’d slip a chocolate bar into his pocket in meetings, bring home Mc Donald’s as a surprise treat, tape that favourite show he missed and take him on trips to see everything from the London Dungeons to the Harry Potter studios.
England was a romantic at heart America just knew it which would be why he had his own Valentine’s day surprises tucked around the house.
He has the unbridled joy as England finds each one, sweet little messages on heart shaped post-it-notes, red roses placed in all the places he often finds England sitting and reading, chocolates on each table. He’s rewarded each time with a smile and a kiss and America grins goofily each time and let’s England’s calloused hand pull him around the house in the little treasure hunt to find more.
They don’t head out because today is all about each other and instead they do all each other’s favourite things. They sit across the table from each other sharing the chocolates with teasing and laughs and chocolate smudged kisses as they play board games and then late into the evening they tuck themselves up in each other and a blanket on the sofa with just the soft firelight and the bright screen of their favourite movies and show. They sit there for hours watching favourite episodes of Miss Marple and SHIELD and ‘Allo ‘Allo. They laugh and ponder through the episodes and chuckle about each other’s taste in programmes without admitting that they happen to like each other’s taste because they already know.
It’s nearly midnight when they solemnly sit up and each dig a small box out of their pockets. They day had been full of special little secret surprises for each over but they’d spent ages talking about this little moment. America is enthralled by the sweet expression on England’s face as he opens the box and smiles in the content sort of way that even America can rarely coax out of the stubborn and old nation. They settle back down again soon after, silently acknowledging the (perhaps big, perhaps little) change they’ve just made to their life. America wraps his arms around England as England flicks the tv off and the two lean back closing their eyes. The clock ticks and their perfect, special day is already over but the memory is always there to be remembered in the soft reflection of the firelight of the two golden bands around the two nations fingers.
"Are you ready Gilbert," Grandpa says pushing me towards the entrance of the new primary school. The building looks all modern and boring and un-awesome but at least the playgrounds big and there's a sandpit too!
"Yes, Grandpa," I say dutifully but truthfully I can't stop fidgeting. I want to start playing! Not wait for Grandpa to speak to my new teacher.
"Just stay still for a moment Gilbert," Grandpa sighs.
"But I wanna go play Grandpa!" I whine. There are lots of other kids running about and I want to join in on all the fun. Just because I'm new. That's just plain mean.
"In a moment Gilbert, I just want to introduce you to Mr Fritz you're new teacher." Grandpa says taking a tighter hold on my hand as he senses me tugging away.
Grandpa's boring.
"Ah, Mr Fritz," Grandpa says and I look up hopefully.
"Nice to meet you Mr Beilschmit, and this is Gilbert?" the old man says peering down at me. And I mean he's probably not that old, definitely not as old as Grandpa. But he's still an adult so he's still old.
"Yes, Mr Fritz," Grandpa says too formally.
"Well it's nice to meet you Gilbert," Fritz says bending down to my level, "Now you know who I am why don't you go off and join in the play while I speak to your granddad? If there's anything you want to know or if you need help you can come to me okay?"
Finally.
I nod eagerly and let go of grandpa's hand running off quickly. I don't know how long it is until we have to go inside but I want to go play in the sandpit!
Sandpit's are the greatest and most awesome thing ever. You can build castles, and fortresses, and kingdoms and wage awesome battles and at the end you can stomp it all down to the ground ready to play again!
But there's already another kid playing in the sandpit I realise as I draw closer and I stop outside the box. I'm… not so good at getting on with other kids. It's not my fault! They just can't compare to the awesome me!
The kid in the box turns around with a spade in hand and looks at me curiously. They're slighter shorter than me I think with brown hair just long enough to pull into a small ponytail at the back.
"Are you new?" He asks openly standing up straight and swinging the spade over his shoulder.
"Yes," I answer glancing to the ground. It doesn't matter what they say. I'm awesome.
"Cool. What's your name?" He asks.
"Cool?" Nobody's ever told me that.
"Very funny, what's your name," He demands again.
"I'm Gilbert. Gilbert the Awesome Beilschmit," I say puffing up with more confidence.
He raises an eyebrow, "If you say so, I'm Elizabeta, nice to meet you or whatever Mum would tell me to say.
I wrinkle my nose up, "Eliza-what? That's too hard! And it's a girl's name~" I tease sticking out my tongue.
"It's not too hard! I can even write it out properly! And I am a girl so there!" She shouts chucking sand at me.
Pwelh, I stick my tongue out further and try to wipe the sand off, this stuff is disgusting!
She peers over at me and watches me attempt to remove the sand with interest. "Does it taste like Sandwiches?" She asks tone changing completely.
"Of course not," I answer, like this could ever taste as awesome as a sandwich.
"Okay. Do you want to build a sandcastle with me? You can have the special castle-shaped bucket if you want as a sorry." She asks holding out a hand.
"Sure," I say grabbing hold of her hand, she's turning out to pretty cool too even if she's not awesome yet. "But you're gonna have to be Lizzie or something, I can't say Eliza-whatever."
"Deal, Gil," She says passing me the bucket. "Want to build a whole kingdom before the bell rings?"
We only manage five castles before the bell rings but we look at the small set proudly and resolve to rush out here as quickly as possible at break.
"I'll show you to the classroom," Lizzie says, "There's a seat next to me you can have."
xxx
Fritz introduces me before I can sit down but as soon as he asks someone to be my partner Lizzie's hand shoots straight up with a broad grin covering her face.
Fritz glances somewhat critically at the trail of sand we'd dragged into the classroom between us before shrugging his shoulders and giving me the seat next to Lizzie.
He starts teaching as I shuffle to get my books and pens but once I'm settled Lizzie's hand sneaks under the desk and gives mine with a silent promise of being best friends.
The start of PruHun week! To be honest I struggled a bit with this first prompt as you can probably tell from the mix of child language and grown-up language. I really be better at that, it's not like I study it or anything. But yeah, PruHun is a really awesome dynamic so I'm looking forward to this week! I've got most of the other prompts planned so please stick with them!
Gilbert's Grandpa is Germania but I couldn't think of a name for him so I literally just left him as grandpa. But Germania always looks so stoic in the anime that he turned out really formal in my writing! Fritz on the other hand is Old Fritz the Prussian King, I see him as taking a fatherly role to Gilbert so it seemed suitable to make him the teacher.
And sandpits are awesome, I just know that Gilbert and Elizabeta would love them. They're probably around six in this fic I think?
