Arthurs' relationships~ (and FANFIC)

[sarmander.livejournal.com]

Hello hello. ^_^
Okay, I am a massive US x UK shipper, everyone who knows me will tell you that, and I've been DYING to write a fic dedicated to them but...I know I can't do them justice. Their relationship is...well, special. XD But it is SO special, SO bitter-sweet that I think any attempt I make to write for them will end up being too fluffy, too angsty or just plain WRONG.
BUT. I'm also a fan of pairing England with France and Japan, and it got me to thinking;
Normal people have quite a few relationships in their lifetime, but very few utterly meaningful ones. I'm sure, then, it must be the same for our beloved nation-tans, right?
Englands' relationship with America is, in my opinion, the destined kind. They will, eventually, figure this out.
France? A more physical, hate-hate affair. They are, after all, shared-fate nations and really...well, as much we both bitch (UK and France that is) I'm pretty sure we like eachother really.
Japan? I've often thought how similar we Brits and the Japanese are, as a nation and as people. It's hard to describe, but I'm sure many of you will know what  mean.

SO! Because I'm too humbled to write US x UK, I have prepared two fics that hopefully contrast eachother and highlight just how different each relationship is.

Author; Sarmander
Pairing/ characters; UK/Japan, France/UK
Rating/warnings; Fluff leading to smut with guess-who, plus Arthurs' potty mouth.....18/NC-17/M
Summary; As stated above. Two very DIFFERENT relationships.


I'm not a great author, as much as I may try. I tend to switch between past and present tenses quite a lot, and while, to me, it reads just fine I'm sure it must jar with many, so apologies for that.
Comments are very appreciated though, especially if you have theories of your own or share my views~ ^_<

Islands In The Stream (UK x Japan)

 Another visit, another cup of green tea.

Arthur watched as Kiku set the cylindrical ceramic cup in front of his guest, the Japanese man offering a small smile along with the beverage.

Arthur blinked and smiled back, a slight pink flush colouring his cheeks, before accepting the cup and sipping at it in the fashion he had picked up from his host; one hand on the bottom and the other around the side and small, refined sips. It was like drinking tea back home only with less pomp and more traditional weight.

The two nations drank their tea in silence. They certainly seemed to enjoy each others’ company and had long since discovered that, isolated and otherwise lonely as they were, they were very alike. Their friendship, albeit an odd-seeming one, was strong enough to enable them to sit in such silence without awkwardness or need to make pointless conversation.

Or at least, that was how it used to be. Recently, Arthur found, he had been feeling more and more…well, not uncomfortable, not in the slightest. He never felt anything BUT comfortable around Kiku, but that’s what was starting to feel strange. The ease at which both men shared their company was becoming more and more UN-easy, and it had nothing to do with a growing dislike for each other but rather the opposite.

Arthur swallowed, even though he had finished his tea. He could feel Kikus’ eyes on him and daren’t raise his head, lest their eyes met. The blush rising in his cheeks betrayed him, however, and he silently cursed this tell-tale trait of his.

He cleared his throat rather loudly before he looked up with a jovial smile.

“Arigatou, Nihon-san,” he beamed, “As always, you’ve been too kind.”

“Ah, n..no, not at all,” Kiku stood abruptly and bowed, he himself coloured a deep shade of pink, “It is always my pleasure.”

The Japanese nation moved to take Arthurs’ empty cup at the same time as the Brit picked it up to offer to him, causing their hands to brush.

The effect was almost instantaneous as Arthur stood in a flash and was tugging on his overcoat with lightening speed and as Kiku practically ran off with the empty cups, calling out a flustered goodbye as he departed from sight.

Minutes later and Arthur was walking stiffly, head bowed, down the road, the rural paddy fields on either side of him going altogether unnoticed in his current state, when his pace began to steadily slow until he came to a complete stop.

He raised his head and looked at the beautiful scenery around him, then slowly looked back at the direction from which he had come.

 

Barely moments after Arthur had left, it seemed, there was a knock at Kikus’ door. He opened it cautiously and peeked through the gap.

“….Ah! E…England-san,” he slid the door wider, “Is anything the matter?”

Arthurs’ face was redder than usual and he looked out of breath, as though he’d been running,

“Not at all,” he puffed, “I….um….er…I forgot my, uh, reading glasses, yes. I forgot them…here. I think.”

Kiku looked utterly confused for a split second before clipping a short laugh that resonated in Arthurs’ ears like birdsong.

“They are on your head” he smiled.

Arthur blinked once, twice. “Ah. Yes, of course.”

Before the Brit could think of something more to say, Kiku peered around him and made an excuse for him.

“The sun is setting. It shall be dark soon. I….well, it was rude of me to allow you to leave so late in the evening,” he bowed deeply, a handy custom that hid his red face, “Please, do me the honour of staying tonight as my guest. Ah, I have a spare room!” The last part of his speech was rushed and slightly garbled but echoed the awkwardness of both men. Arthur smiled.

“I…would be very grateful. Thankyou.”

 

They dined together that evening. Kiku had forbid that Arthur enter his kitchen space arguing that as the guest, he should relax and wait, and besides…he was preparing a surprise. Arthur had blushed for the umpteenth time that day and did as he was told, first changing into a simple bath-house style robe then padding around the main front room, prodding ornaments and studying pictures, until Kiku called for him.

“Honda-san…this is….”

Kiku beamed, “Sushi. Yes!”

Arthur visibly paled.

“…..Ah. Right, well, how very kind of you to go to the trouble. But, um….I’m not sure that…”

“I knew you’d say that, Kirkland-san!” Kiku was clearly enjoying this and chuckled at Arthur, before picking up some fatty tuna with his chopsticks and holding it close to the others’ mouth. “Here!”

Arthur backed away very slightly at the closeness not only of the raw fish but also the man holding said morsal, the colour returning to his face and more so. The Japanese mans’ previous timid behaviour seemed to be temporarily suppressed by his excitement at having this westerner try his culinary delights.

“Say ‘ahhh’”

Swallowing hard, Arthur did so, allowing Kiku to pop the squishy red lump into his mouth. He chewed it, making several faces as he did so, then swallowed.

“…..That…..” he blinked, “Was actually pretty good!”

Kiku laughed in delight and held up another piece for Arthur to take, cupping his hand underneath so it wouldn’t fall to the floor.

“I’m so glad.”

He looked up when he realised that the fish wasn’t moving, and found himself staring straight into Englands’ eyes. In his eagerness he hadn’t realised just how close they had become until now, and yet, this time, neither man seemed to want to look away. It felt like a lifetime passed before Arthur blinked and finally closed his mouth over the end of the chopsticks. He had barely pulled the sushi off the end when Kiku pulled the chopsticks back, setting them next to the plate, his face red.

“Would you…care for some sake?”

Arthur swallowed the remains of the sushi before answering vehemently,

“Yes. Very much so.”

 

The small amount of alcohol that they consumed helped greatly during the meal. Not enough to make them outright drunk, but enough to loosen their tongues a little and to put aside their awkward feelings. Arthur, for one, wasn’t used to drinking without getting drunk. It was very strange…he was still in control of his legs and could remember everything. Oh well, there was a first to everything. He was inwardly rather proud of himself for having so much restraint. After all…if he WERE to get drunk…well. In this situation he didn’t want to do anything he’d regret. He most certainly didn’t want to compromise his friendship with Japan. He was the only friend he had and…he didn’t want to be lonely again.

He had to forcibly look away as he found himself gazing at the other nation.

“Need a hand with the washing up?”

Kiku shook his head and smiled. “I shall leave them until the morning. But thankyou.” He stood up gracefully, despite the sake, and gestured towards the door. “Allow me to show you to your room, Kirkland-san.”

“Thankyou,” Arthur stood also and followed Kiku down a dark corridor with several rooms off of either side. The Japanese nation stopped at the final door and pulled it open, allowing the moonlight from the rooms’ window to pour through and illuminate him. He stood for a moment, facing the room, his face hidden by the shadow that was now being cast by his fringe, before turning towards Arthur with a delicate smile.

“I hope you will find this room to your liking….”

The British nation stepped forwards, into the moonlight and towards the door,

“I’m sure it’ll be jus…”

…And promptly hit his head on the top of the door frame, having forgotten to duck. Now, England was not a tall man by any standards. It was just another feature of his that fanned the flames of his insecurity. But here at least, he felt tall. Normally anyway. Now he just felt stupid.

The smaller nation looked deeply concerned,

“England-san! Daijob..ah, a, are you okay?”

Arthur rubbed at his forehead, “I’m fine, it’s nothing.”

A hand tugged at the sleeve of his robe.

“Please, let me see.”

“I said it’s nothing. Really, I’m quite alright….ah!”

With surprising strength his sleeve was pulled hard enough to force him down to Kikus’ height and there he stood, looking into the deep pools of black that not even the moonlight could penetrate. His own eyes widened as Kikus’ hands cupped his face, drawing him closer.

The intense look on Kikus’ face faded into relief,

“There is no swelling. It may bruise a small amount but it should not linger….” His voice trailed off as he too, stared into the eyes of the man before him, green like the oceans that surrounded their ever-segregated homes. Both men saw each other reflected in their eyes, not just physically but also in a deeper sense. There was sadness, loneliness and a hint of desperation, but also strength and resolve. They had been through tough times, had done many things that they would sooner forget, and here they were now, reading their nations’ history in each others’ eyes.

Arthur felt the slight pull of Kiku backing away and acted upon instinct, like he used to. He pressed forward, placing his lips upon Japans’ in a sweet, chaste kiss. They lingered there for barely a second before he pulled away, the heat radiating from his blushing cheeks matched by those of Kikus’, who mimicked Arthurs’ actions and placed an equally gentle kiss upon the Brit.

They pulled back and looked at each other, silent. Just as their friendship had always been, they did not need words. They didn’t even need any more fleeting kisses.

Arthur glanced into the room.

Kiku followed his gaze, gently tugged Arthurs’ sleeve as he stepped inside, and Arthur followed him.

The door slid shut with a slight click.

 

 

Arthur had never appreciated the moonlight more than he did that night. The way it played across the smooth skin of Japan, straddled above him, back arched, moving oh-so-slowly but in perfect unison.

 

Yes.

The shadows danced beautifully on the wall that night.

 

“Beautiful….Kiku…..”

“….A…Arthur…..”

 

 

Several days later and Arthur really did have to leave. They had both run out of excuses, after all.

Arthur scratched the back of his head, smiled awkwardly, then nodded curtly,

“Japan.”

Kiku bowed in response, hiding his grin,

“England-san.”

 

 

They were, after all, so very alike.

 

 

 

 

 

Best Fiends Forever (France x UK)

 Despite being the worst of enemies, France and the UK were the BEST of drinking buddies. Neither would confess to it, of course. Who’d want to spend their free time with THAT French git/English pig anyway?

But no matter how much they deny it, it was obvious to everyone but themselves that they, perhaps, maybe, actually ENJOYED each others’ company.

Every now and then.

When there was alcohol around.

Okay, only then.

 

But tonight was one of those rare occasions. It had started with a slanging match, followed by an issued drinking challenge, followed by many glasses of wine, pints of bitter, even some shots of Vodka thanks to Russia (neither of them knew when he arrived or, oddly, when he left.)

 Which is why they were now hanging off each others’ shoulders for support, staggering up the pathway to Frances’ house and singing a hideous mix of ‘La Vie En Rose’ and ‘Land Of Hope And Glory’.

Arthur stops abruptly and glares at Francis.

“….Y’r singin’ it all WRONG.”

“Pardon?”

The Brit stabs a finger at the other,

“S’no damn FRENCHIE words n’ shit in Lan ah ‘ope an’ glory. Moron.”

Francis starts to complain but suddenly looks as though he’s forgotten what it was he WAS singing in the first place and decides to take a different route,

“Well zere SHOULD be, hah. Maybe I should re-write eet, ehh?””

Arthurs’ face does a series of complicated somersaults between mildy disturbed and outraged and gets a perfect 10 for completion. However, all he can say is,

“Fuck off.”

“Awwww, cherie,” Francis puckers up and pinches Arthurs cheek, “ You are zo CUTE when you get all angry like zat and cannot think of anything WITTY to say.”

Arthur slurs some expletives and makes a drunken attempt to push him away, but fails miserably and ends up grabbing at the Frenchmans’ clothes in an attempt to keep himself from falling flat on his face. Another attempt which also fails.

He falls to the floor, dragging Francis none-too-gently down with him and ends up wedged beneath the larger body of the French nation, who, after an initial yelp, does not seem inclined to budge.

“Ow. Fuck’n OW. Gerroff me y’knob…..yer ‘eavy….an’ y’smell like cheese.”

Arthur wriggles beneath Francis in an effort to get free but doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere fast.

Francis chuckles, a deep, throaty noise, and proceeds to make himself rather comfy atop the smaller nation.

“Ah, but I rather like eet ‘ere, Arthur. Eet ‘as such a wonderful view.”

“WANKER”

“Now, now, I must warn you….ze more you squirm, ze more it make me…” A lecherous grin creeps across his face and he chuckles, unable to finish the sentence.

Arthur stops wriggling and pouts, then tries a different approach. He frees an arm and manages to clout France in the side of the head, a rather effective move as France curses and rolls off.

The Brit staggers to his feet, wobbles for a moment, then adjusts his rumpled suit and brushes himself down with as much dignity as he can muster.

France stands up next to him, rubbing his head, and starts fumbling in his pocket for the door key.

“….Zat was harsh.”

Eventually, after trying lots of different keys and dropping them all on the floor several times, he chances upon the correct one, opens the door and stumbles through. Arthur staggers in after him and immediately gravitates towards the luxuriously plush sofas. Gracelessly, he flops onto one and mutters something into the cushions about them being too hard.

France doubles back on himself as he remembers to shut the front door,

“Ingrate.”

“Oiiii, wine freak. M’tired now, so gonna sleep….so, you can, like, bugger off now, kay?”

Sniffing, France heads over to the drinks cabinet and gets out several large bottles of varying alcoholic beverage. He sets them down on the table with a clink.

At the sound, Arthurs’ head pops up from behind the sofa. His eyes have widened impossibly, giving him the impression of a drunken puppy-dog.

Francis grins and shakes a bottle of Brandy alluringly, then starts to pour it into two glasses and over the tabletop, for good measure.

“More drink, more drink, more drink, more drink,” he sings to himself, “More drink, amis?”

Arthur narrows his eyes suspiciously at Francis.

“….Yes.”

 

Several empty bottles later and Arthur looks as though someone has ripped out his soul. He sits, semi-naked, on the sofa, staring into space, having already thrown up several times and passed out, luckily in that order. France is next to him, tracing fingers up and down Arthurs’ bare arm randomly.

The fingers move up, over his cheek and into his hair as Francis presses closer, his lips inches away from Arthur as he slurs French whispers into his ear.

Arthur grumbles and swats at him lamely, then collapses against the arm of the sofa,

“….stupid…..pervert France….gettin’ me drunk….all your faul’ yaaaaaaaaaaa wank…*hic*….er…..”

France stifles a belch and, unperturbed, clambers over Arthurs’ torso, hands wandering over his chest and down his sides. As drunk as he was, he was still damn good at this. Must’ve been all that practice, Arthur thinks vaguely, before passing out again.

The next time he wakes up he’s in altogether unfamiliar surroundings. Satin sheets beneath his bare skin, a soft pillow to support his head and….France between his legs.

Fuck.

He wondered what that feeling was.

Groaning, he scrubs his hand over his face, feeling the beginnings of sobriety creeping up on him.

The noise alerts Francis and he grins at his partner,

“Ahh, you’re alive, zank God. For a while I thought I’d be ‘aving sex wiz a corpse.”

Arthur tries to prop himself up slightly and watches blearily as Francis’ tongue laps at the base of the Brits’ shaft before then travelling all the way up to the tip. Against his will he mewls slightly, then curses himself mentally for doing so. Damn it, he hadn’t been hard when he awoke but Francis was doing a very good job of changing that.

He scowls as best as he can.

“You’re somethin’ else, ya know that.” With no audible venom in his voice however, it ends up sounding more like a compliment.

Francis chuckles as he wraps his mouth entirely around Arthurs’ length, the vibration sending a jolt up the British nations’ spine and ensuring that yes, he was now fully hard inside that cavernous French gob of his.

Stupid France and his damn tongue…

Giving up, Arthur flops back against the pillow and drapes an arm over his face, muttering,

“….Perverted froggie bastard…ougghta kill ya fer sure when ‘m awake proper….ah……AH?”

Feeling something slimy slip inside of him, Arthur bolts semi-upright again and shoots a fiery glare at Francis who has pushed two fingers into his entrance and yet, even doing so and with a mouth full of cock, still manages to give Arthur an innocent look.

“That….that’s RAPE you git!”

Francis lets the shaft slip from his mouth and he treats Arthur to his most lecherous smile,

“Only eef you do not want eet, cherie~”

Arthurs mouth opens and closes several times as he blushes furiously and tries to formulate a reply, but ends up flopping back again with a pout.

“…Hurry up then.”

The Frenchman gives a short, victorious laugh that was clearly meant to irritate Arthur, and sets to work at stretching the opening out wide enough to accommodate him. It doesn’t take too much, and Arthur realises that THAT was the sensation he had been feeling whilst semi-conscious. The horny bastard was gonna screw him while he slept! He was REALLY going to pay for all this.

The fingers are suddenly replaced by something much bigger and Arthur chokes a little as it is forcibly pushed inside him with no further pretense. His fingers grip the satin sheets and he squeezes his eyes shut as Francis buries himself fully, before starting to move, slowly at first but building up to a rhythm that has both men gasping in unison.

Francis must’ve hit a sweet spot in Arthur as the Brit suddenly cries out and claws at the sheets, his inner passage involuntarily tightening around the larger man and returning equal amounts of pleasure.

“ah, mon DIEU!” Francis gives a particularilly hard thrust, resulting in Arthurs’ head hitting the bedboard with a painful CRACK.

“GYA! FUCKIN’ PRICK!” Arthur retaliates by kicking Francis sharply in the side. It doesn’t put the Frenchman off his stride but it certainly would leave a bruise by the morning.

“You know Arthur, you would be zo much more attractive eef you deed not open your mouth quite az much.” The Frenchman pulls out of the smaller man and, ignoring the protesting and flurry of fists, flips him over onto his stomach and presses his face firmly into the pillows, muffling the string of curses.

“Ahhh, zat is much better.” He rams himself vigorously back inside the sore entrance, delighting in Arthurs’ muffled yell, then removes his hand from its’ restraining position and, instead, reaches around Arthurs’ torso and wraps it around his neglected erection, timing each thrust with a pump on the length. It was not particularilly artful or dextrous but then, for this night only, Francis really didn’t care too much. He doubted that England would, either.

Arthur didn’t bother to move from the position he now found himself in. After all, at least that smug git wouldn’t be able to see his face now. He pushes back against Francis’ every thrust, meeting him halfway, groaning at the sensation of being utterly filled and, at the same time, completely filling the others’ hand.

 

Overall, one would describe their sexual act as violent, and they rocked, violently, together for quite some time considering how much alcohol had been consumed. When Arthur comes, he is filled with the satisfaction of not just the warm fuzziness of post-climax, but also the knowledge that he has SERIOUSLY soiled Frances’ sheets.

Francis’ follows shortly afterwards, spilling deep inside of the British nation whilst calling his name. Which, afterwards, he found to be…slightly odd and more than a little embarrassing but, luckily for him, it seemed that Arthur had been unawares of his outburst.

They lay on the bed for some time in silence, catching their breath. After a while, Francis licks his lips and turns to look at Arthur, who has deliberately chosen to face the opposite way. The Frenchman grins and slides a finger down the others’ exposed back, making the Brit shiver and grumble,

“Fuck off, already.”

“You know, for me eet eez customary to embrace AFTER sex az well az before……” To illustrate the point further, he attempts to wrap an arm around Arthurs’ shoulders, but is brushed away with a returning strength.

Arthur sat up.

Yes….yes, he was most definitely sober now.

“I’m going to sleep on the sofa. Away from your….pawing.”

In a stalwartly dignified manner, he swings his legs out of the bed and stands up…before buckling at the knees and crumpling to the floor in small heap.

A very faint curse is heard and Francis chuckles quietly at the now out-of-sight Brit.

He gives him a few minutes before asking,

“Do you need some ‘elp, Arthur? I could CARRY you to zee couch…”

“NO, I’m QUITE alright, thankyou-very-much!” The venom in his tone dripped like the fangs of a snake.

Again, several minutes pass and there is no sign of movement.

“…”

“…”

“…Pass me a pillow.”