hetalia_kink | Hetalia kink meme part 27

Hetalia kink meme part 27

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(Not actually my idea but this posted by someone else on this site over a year ago and I would love to see it filled) Arthur and Francis have been in love for thousands of years, literally, because in every life they have, they've met and fallen in love. They didn't always look the same or even be the same sex, but their souls are in a way connected (wow cheesy much)

Somehow, after they die in their last life, they wake as nations, but neither know of their past lives. Though they eventually remember.

B1- England remembers first and has to suffer in silence watching France flirt and fool around with the other nations
B2- Fluff that will rot my teeth

anon this is such a beautiful prompt i'm not sure i can pass it up. but since it's holidays soon it might be a while before i can post anything...i hope you would be okay with that :) (also i can't guarantee it'll be a mindblowing fic but i'll do my best...?)

Ah I'm so excited! Can't wait!! -OP

Just in case you're italian (or can read italian), OP, there is already a fanfiction about this on AO3 called Once upon a lifetime by sidhedcv!

I'm not the first anon who replied to this, but I thought I'd give this prompt a shot! This part fluctuates a bit in tense and time, but hopefully it all makes sense. The actual meat of the prompt will probably be in the next part!

--

The year is 2004, and Arthur is very much in love.

It crept up on him slowly, as these things often do. Their parents had been friends, and they’d seen each other since childhood. Arthur always thought too much, and dreamt too much, and wished too much. That meant that he worried constantly, and got his hopes up too high too often. He never admitted to any of this, but there was a perpetual furrow between his formidable brows and his smiles were scarce.

Francis was different, of course. He was wholly untethered to worry, and always seemed certain that things would work out for the best. He had convinced himself that he was lucky, and favored, and so exuded confidence that evolved from charming to flirtatious as he grew older. The sun always shined on Francis, just as the rain never seemed to cease over Arthur.

Arthur grew protective of Francis’ light as they grew older but refused to admit it. Francis never turned that smile on him—or, if he did, it was a smirk, teasing and unkind. Arthur retaliated with angry rants and cutting insults, and soon that became their medium of exchange. Francis was too French, too open, too dishonest with his charms. Arthur was too British, too practical, and a perpetual downer.

There was, in short, nothing holding the two of them together, and not a single good feeling to be found between them.

And now it is April 8th, 2004. And Arthur is very much in love.

A month earlier he’d been walking the streets of London. It had been raining, as of course it always was. He pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears and kept his head down, determined to reach his flat as soon as possible, make himself a cup of tea, and half-drown himself in a warm bath for the rest of the night.

Instead, he had crashed headlong into another young man and gone sprawling into a puddle, dingy rain water soaking his behind and seeping into his trousers. Head spinning, he looked up and glared.

“Watch where you’re going!” he said, and then tossed out a few curses for effect.

The other man looked just as bad as Arthur did—his back had landed against a lamppost, and rain had already soaked through his pale yellow hair. When he looked around, he seemed dazed. His eyes were blue, dim and unfocused. They were rounded in red, and there were wet tracks trailing down his cheeks that did not seem to be from the rain.

And Arthur gaped at him, because he knew that face, though he’d never seen it looking so dirty or troubled.

“Frog?” he asked, as though he expected the other man to remember a childhood insult.

And Francis had taken in Arthur’s astounded features and smiled thinly. He didn’t make an effort to look up, but it was with a familiar smirk and gentle mockery that he replied, “Rosbif.”

How they ended up at Arthur’s apartment, he would never know. He certainly hadn’t taken one look at Francis and insisted. And he most definitely hadn’t taken the man’s coat once they were inside and draped it over the radiator to dry along with his own. And he didn’t let Francis have the bathroom first, and lay out a loose pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt for him to change into. And he didn’t put on the kettle for Francis’ benefit, only his own. And he didn’t sit in his kitchen, still in soaking things as he waited for Francis to emerge, and think back over his childhood and laugh—because he certainly, certainly didn’t remember those days fondly at all.

No, all those things happened of their own accord, entirely without Arthur’s permission.

And it was also without permission, and without prompting, that Francis had entered the kitchen a short while later, wearing Arthur’s clothes. The t-shirt was too baggy in the shoulders and the pants rode low on his lips. His hair was damp, laying against his neck, and he’d taken on look at Arthur nursing his cup of tea and laughed.

And somehow it was infectious, and they recalled their younger days as Arthur sipped his tea and Francis drank a cup of instant coffee, and soon enough it was a very late hour.

It was only then, under the protection of the hours that bled from night to morning, that Arthur had the courage to ask. Francis, maybe emboldened by the same, had no problems answering.

“Her name is Jeanne. And I made the mistake of loving her more than she loved me.”

Arthur could never remember seeing Francis sad, before. And at that moment he was despairing, letting the entire tale fall easily from his lips.

They’d met at university, and he’d pursued her for months, chasing the fierce passion in her eyes. She was one for strikes and protests, and often said that France could be better than it was—she had a dream for the country that she wanted to see fulfilled.

And eventually she’d let Francis win her, and he’d been happy. But the things about him that were dreamy and bright—his charm, his mastery of words, his generous touches—were the same things that showed Jeanne that he was ungrounded and unfocused. He had no goals, no passion for anything beyond himself, and no drive. He loved art, but did not create it. He appreciated hard work, but never made an effort himself. He sought out others’ passions, but never claimed one for himself. And for a woman with so much to give the world, this was a fatal flaw.

“And so here I am,” Francis said—and his voice held that tone that Arthur remembered so well, only this time it was self-mockery. “Twenty-six years old, and single yet again. And she was right—I’ve nothing else to return to.”

It wasn’t the right time, at 2am in Arthur’s kitchen, to reach over and kiss the sadness off the other man’s lips. And Arthur definitely hadn’t thought about doing so. He used words, instead.

“You’re an idiot,” he said roughly, not caring to see Francis flinch. “So one girl breaks up with you—so what? You think the rest of the world doesn’t go through the same? This had always been your problem—you think you’re exceptional.”

Arthur didn’t add that he thought Francis might be exceptional, too.

Francis smiled at him again—still thin and ironic—and ruffled Arthur’s soaked hair. “I can always trust you to put me in my place, can’t I?”

Arthur huffed and continued as if he hadn’t heard. “If she didn’t like something about you, ask yourself this—do you think that same quality is a problem? If so, then fix it. If not, then carry on. There’s nothing else to be done.”

The other man leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking down into the dredges of his coffee and slowly shaking his head. “It is hard to judge yourself,” he said finally. “Many people find me charming, at first. They think I’m good company, and that makes me very happy. But they don’t stay.”

To Arthur, who’d only returned to the city of his birth a year ago and was stricken with not infrequent bouts of wanderlust, this seemed a bit absurd. He hated stability, and seeing the same people over and over. He never saw his brothers, if he could help it. And even his romantic experiments—João in Portugal, Prem from India, all the rest—had been fleeting things, bright and passionate but not built to last.

“Don’t expect them to, then,” Arthur said briskly, as though that was the end of it. “It’s less lonely when you know they’re going to leave.”

Francis cocked his head to one said and took in these words, lips parted slightly. He really was unfairly good-looking, sculpted features and pale skin that blushed pink in the cold. His hair was light but his lashes were dark, as he looked down again at his hands.

“I can’t do that,” he said. “You’re going to call me foolish, I know. But every time I see someone, I can’t help but think—there’s a whole person, with an entire life. I don’t know much about them, but they exist in their entirety. Every moment I might spend with them would not be enough to know them fully. And perhaps it’s greedy, but even knowing I can’t ever know them entirely, I want as much as I can have. I want to learn all about each and every one of them. I could never be the first to leave, or want them to.”

Arthur thought his eyes would roll back into his head and be lost forever. “That’s not love, though. Knowing everything about someone, or even as much as you can. Love is… moments. It’s the connection you have, not what you and they add up to.”

“Ah, perhaps we’ll have to agree to disagree, rosbif.”

“It’d be the first thing we ever agreed on.”

There was quiet in the kitchen, after that. Arthur got up to rinse his teacup, and Francis followed with his mug. When the dishes were set aside on the drying rack, Arthur realized he was still wearing wet trousers. He excused himself to go shower.

When he returned to the kitchen, Francis was gone. In his place was a note, written is stupidly beautiful calligraphy on a napkin—

Thank you for your company, Arthur. Even if it isn’t very good.

It was the first time Francis had ever called him by his first name.

On that night, Arthur’s heart was broken. But a month later, he is in love.

For a week he grumbled his way around London, sharper than he should’ve been with his colleagues at the library and irritated to the point of fatigue. He told himself he had nothing to do with Francis, but Arthur was not very good at lying.

So when he returned home one night and found a neat parcel of folded clothes outside his front door, his heart nearly stopped. On top of the package was a single—cheesy!—red rose and another note.

Dinner? It can be anything you like, just not roast beef.

A week after that, and three dates in between, Francis had his hands on Arthur’s hips as he pressed him lowly back into his own mattress. Their kisses were dark and heady, both of them gasping for breath but unwilling to relinquish their hold on the other. France’s movements were light and graceful, practiced but reverent. His fingers over Arthur’s skin felt too good to be believed—and also uncannily familiar.

There was something primal about the way that Arthur arched into Francis’ touch and moaned against his neck. There was something slightly amused about the way that Francis smiled into the next kiss and distracted Arthur from the moment of pressure and stretch. And there was no denying the tenderness of the way they held onto each other, fingers laced together and foolish endearments in two languages falling from their lips.

“Is this a moment, or an eternity?” Francis asked afterwards, long fingers trailing along the soft skin of Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur grabbed a pillow and smacked Francis across the face with it. “Don’t kill this with philosophy, frog.”

Within a month of meeting Francis again, Arthur is in love.

His cheeks are flushed and his movements quick as he packs his things and leaves work. Today is Francis’ last day in London—Paris calls him home, and they haven’t yet decided what that will mean for them. Arthur knows what he wants it to mean—frequent rides on the Chunnel to see one another, dates that will have to wait until the end of the working week and an increased phone bill for them both. But he has not yet said these things to Francis.

Arthur pulls up the collar of his coat and keeps his head down. Francis will be waiting for him at the station, and then he will say these things. He will finally let the pretty words fall from his lips, and he will admit that he is happy.

He is in love.

There are notecards stashed in his coat pocket, where he has written the things that he’s been working up the courage to say.

I’m not going to leave you, and I won’t let you leave me. I’ll take an eternity, with you. I want that.

He looks up at the last moment, expecting to see Francis’ face smiling at him. Instead he sees the flashing headlights of a car, and the driver’s panicked face.

He sees Francis’ face, but much older. His hair is tied back, and he is wearing a lace cravat and sipping wine. He sees Francis’ hands, but different—softer and more feminine, long nails painted deep red. He sees Francis’ smile, but it isn’t mocking—it is a child’s soft and gleeful and bordered by the light of the sun. He sees a thousand different versions of Francis, each as beautiful and mysterious and infuriating as the last, and he loves them all. And then he sees nothing at all.

Eternities aren’t granted easily, not even to those in love.

^ part one, obviously, not part ten. silly finger-slips.

oh my god anon this is such a beautiful start! great job!

i can't wait to read more of this!! ♥

OP here~
Anon this so wonderful thank you so much for filling!! This is such a great start I can't wait for more updates!!
Fun fact: this is the first time OP's request has ever been filled! (even though its technically not her prompt to begin with...) OP can't stop grinning like an idiot!
*eagerly waits for next part*

This is so beautiful you took my breath away.

Much like the Spanish Inquisition, no one expects an update 2 months after the first! I'm so sorry for the delay on this story, but the thread of it sort of got away from me for a bit there. But now I think I've got it mostly figured out, so here's an update for anyone still reading this! Future updates will probably alternate between past lives and current nationverse. Let me know what you think!

--

England sits straight up in bed, the covers falling away from him as his breath comes in frantic gasps. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rushing to get—where, exactly? He’s halfway across the room when he realizes that he doesn’t know where he’s going, what he’s doing. He scowls at himself, looking down at his shaking hands.

There are glimpses and impressions running through his mind. He can hear a car honking, and feel rain against his face. But most of all, he’s overcome by a deep longing, as if he just needs to get somewhere in particular. When he does, he’ll see who he needs to, and that person will be smiling at him. And England will tell them—what, exactly? He can’t remember. It’s on the tip of his tongue, present but out of his reach.

“Bloody hell,” he groans, massaging his temples as he steps back over to the bed. His cellphone is charging on the nightstand, and he reaches for it almost subconsciously. He flips through his contacts and selects one, holding the phone to his ear as he sits himself down on the bed.

“You do realize it’s four in the morning,” the person on the other end of the line says, as soon as he picks up.

“I—ah—France?” England’s words are disjointed as he tries to make sense of this. He hadn’t dialed France’s number, had he?

“Yes, Angleterre.” France sounds bored. “You did just call me, no?”

“Of course I didn’t. Why the hell would I call you?” Even though he just had, England can’t bring himself to admit it. To admit to the hazy feelings swirling around him, memories leaking into one another and becoming dreams that he can’t quite remember.

“How should I know? I have long since given up on understanding you.” France huffs, and England can almost see him—standing out on his balcony, elbows balanced against the railing, the Eiffel Tower large and imposing before him.

Maybe he’ll be smiling, England thinks suddenly. The image comes unbidden to his mind, France looking down for a moment at his feet. And when he looks up, the blond hair shifts away from his face, and he’s smiling brightly, as he looks at England, because England’s who he’s been waiting for.

“Are you there?” France asks through the line, irritation coloring his voice. “Angleterre?”

England cannot answer for a moment, because the words have all lodged themselves in his throat and refuse to come out. He sees it, now, with striking clarity. He’s walking across London town, maybe ten years ago. And he’s going to go see France, because he needs to tell him—

Oh, lord.

“I’m hanging up on you now,” France says. “Honestly, I know there are no manners in Britain, but you should think before you—”

“Who are you talking to?” That’s a new voice, and one England doesn’t immediately recognize. “Come back to bed—”

England presses the button to hang up the call before he’s even aware of what he’s heard. He drops the phone onto the bed beside him, the lights of the display glaring at him for a moment before the screen goes dark.

He sits there for a moment, the room quiet and dark around him. His head is still buzzing, trying to process too many different things at once. He lies back and lets his head settle on the pillow, willing his thoughts to slow and dissipate.

This time, when he falls asleep, he does not dream.

--

“You’re very quiet today, England.” India’s takes a light sip of his tea, glancing at England over the rim of the cup. “Not that I’m complaining, but is there something on your mind?”

England barely registers that India’s speaking—he’s looking out over his lawn, his thoughts very far away. It’s only after India clears his throat meaningfully that England snaps back to attention and turns towards him. He’s greeted with deep, dark eyes and raised eyebrows—full and dark, though not nearly as prominent as England’s own.

“I—what?”

India sets down his cup, lips quirking into a smile. “You’re very eloquent today, too.”

“Oh, shut up.” England runs a hand through his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp in the hopes of ridding himself of the headache he’s been nursing all day. It’s like a swarm of wasps has taken up residence just behind his eyes, tugging his attention away from the matters before him.

The other nation doesn’t say anything more, merely continues to gaze at England with that too-knowing way of his. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of just how old India is, and just how much he’s seen.

“What do you think of dreams?” England asks the question suddenly, pulling his own cup of tea back towards him. He takes a sip as he waits for India’s answer, wincing a moment later—it’s gone cold.

“Dreams? What about them?”

“Exactly what—what do you think of them? Are they just memories shoving up against each other while we move them into long-term memory, or are they spiritual messages sent to torment us, or…”

“Or?” India prompts. England hates the smile on the other’s face, the way it feels like he’s being teased even though India has hardly said anything.

“Or, I don’t bloody know!” England slams a hand against the table. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

India sighs and sits back in his chair, balancing his elbows against the armrests and steepling his flingers together. The glint in his eye shifts from amused to calculating. “There are many theories,” he says after a moment. “We know the science, of course, but life isn’t just what can be experimented with and explained. My people say that dreams can be prophetic, or retributive. My sister says we dream when our souls leave our bodies, and interact with others’—although of course she is very foolish and we shouldn’t listen to her. I don’t know if you’ll find one answer that satisfies you—perhaps if you described your dreams?”

The idea makes England’s cheeks burn, even though he doesn’t remember every detail of his dream. A feeling of longing, and a smile, and insults and nicknames giving way to proper ones…

“Have you ever dreamed of yourself, but not as a nation?” England doesn’t know where the words are coming from, but they flow out from his lips unbidden. “In my dream, I was just—Arthur. And I was living a normal life, I worked in a library, and the radiator left my coats soggy but on some days I minded that more than others. But I was human, and I think— I think I died.”

India bites down on his lower lip, and England knows him well enough to realize he’s trying not to laugh. Before England can launch into a bitter tirade to cover up his moment of candidness, India lifts a hand to pause him.

“I’m not mocking you, England,” he says reassuringly. “But can you imagine yourself as a human? It’s—it’s not funny, of course not. But we live so long, I cannot imagine we reincarnate the way humans might. We have our lifetimes all strung together, connected for us. We remember everything, and grow slowly.”

“I know that.” England drums his fingers against the table, brow furrowing. “You don’t need to tell me how long I’ve lived. But this was—this wasn’t just a dream. It felt like more than that, and it hasn’t left my mind.”

India hums thoughtfully, and a moment of conscious silence passes between them. Then he looks up and says, “Would you give me a few days to look into the matter for you?”

England tilts his head, suspicious. “And just why would you want to do that?”

His smile is all white teeth. “Because we are friends, England. Of course.”

“And?” England asks dubiously.

“And, you’ll owe me a small favor, of course. I don’t have anything in mind, yet, but if I do something for you, surely you’d be willing to do something for me later on.”

Now England rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t have anything in mind. But fine—if you think you can help.”

The smile never leaves his face as India inclines his head. Before he can say anything more, however, England’s phone vibrates on the table next to the cups of tea, interrupting them.

“It’s France,” India says, picking up the phone and holding it out to England.

He reacts instinctively, without much thought. Snatching the phone out of India’s hand, England swings his arm back and throws the offending object as far as he can. It lands out on the lawn, behind a row of rose bushes. England sinks back into his chair, face flushed.

“That was certainly dramatic,” India comments lightly.

I'm so glad you continued, A!A! I was hoping you would! It is simply beautiful and fills my heart with longing.

Me too anon. This is a beautiful fill. I love the characterizations and little details you sneak in (soggy rain coat is my favorite right now).

Aaaah I hope to read more of this soon <3

first a!a here, sorry it took so long. the beginning is slow, but i hope you'll bear with me as i develop the story bit by bit.

also warning for a bit of blood/potentially gross healing descriptions in this chapter.

October 14th, 1940

“Mr. Kirkland! Mr. Kirkland! Can you hear me? Please, please, tell me you’re alright!”

England could feel someone violently shaking him from side to side, and his mind was in a haze. As he slowly opened his eyes in pain, he saw that there was broken glass and debris strewn about in his study, and that the left side of his body had been badly injured, his blood all over the beautiful oak flooring.

It must have been the blast from a German bomb that caused him to black out.

His mind was scrambled as he tried to remember what he was doing before his flat was ripped apart. As he tried to collect his thoughts, a sudden pain began in his lower chest and it felt like his bones would burst straight out of his skin. He curled into himself and started screaming loudly, his body starting the process he always dreaded. He felt grateful that he had another chance at life, but the pain was frequently so unbearable that he always insisted on being alone while healing. Nations could never be injured or killed for very long, but that still didn’t make the joining of broken bones, the closing and healing of wounds, and the creation of new cells and organs pleasant.

England managed to finally find his voice, and croaked weakly.

“I…I….I’m…alive. D-don’t… worry…Howard.”

He winced in pain as he felt one of his broken ribs start shifting slightly back into place.

Howard tried his best to gently help the wounded nation get up on his feet, but England started screaming and cursing in pain at the slightest touch. Howard had seen him hurt before, but never so terribly, and he became genuinely worried that perhaps this time England would never truly heal…

“I’ll…I’ll try to...find someone…something…p-please, please…don’t die…” Howard whispered the last words under his breath, an intense fear creeping into his heart as he ran into the streets to try and find some help.

As England felt a large wound on his thigh start to slowly close, he bit his bloodstained sleeve to stop himself from crying out. His head was pounding from the new blood cells rushing into his body, and he felt himself slipping away from the room into a troubled sleep…

As the morning sun hit her eyes, they shot open with pure excitement. Her younger brother was still sound asleep in his little bed of hay, and her parents were already out in the fields tending to the animals.

After making the bed and waking her brother up, she bellowed a loud good morning to her parents and put more wood on the fire that was almost out. Although it would soon be spring, the cold days were still not over, and she was grateful that her family had a warm home.

She couldn’t help but hum a small tune, the excitement of the day so great it was almost making her heart burst. She danced a little to herself, making small motions with her feet and arms as she dressed in her best clothes. The soft, woolen green cape she was wearing was her most prized piece of clothing, and she had saved it for a special occasion such today.

After her brother finished his simple breakfast, she went outside to get the horses ready. Although she used to be afraid of them, she was now so close to them that she felt she could practically speak to them…but she could never tell anyone else that, or she might be accused of witchcraft. She ran her small hand over the strong front leg of the bigger horse, which softly neighed in response.

“Emma! Are the horses ready?” Her mother called in a shrill voice. They’d recently been on bad terms as her mother proposed to marry her off with a distant family member, who she claimed could give Emma a better life. But marriage was far from Emma’s mind, and all she wanted to do was spend time with the animals, and be far away from all the burdens and responsibilities of adulthood…

“Yes, mother! We’re ready to go!” Emma shouted back harshly, and the horses let out an unpleasant grunt at the sudden shift in her mood. Her father came out of the barn and gave Emma a warm smile as he took the reins from her. He motioned for Emma to join her brother in the back of the wagon, and her mother jumped up to sit next to her father in the front.

With a small whip of the reins, the horses shifted forward and they were on their way to the biggest town near her home. Visits to town were very rare for Emma and her family, but today was the day that the youngest son of the local lord was returning home from a trip abroad, so festivities and merriment were to be expected. Although Emma had heard her parents arguing about the visit with words such as ‘famine’ and ‘greedy nobles’ coming up, she quickly brushed that thought out of her mind as excitement took over again.

After a small journey they arrived through the eastern gates of the town. Emma’s eyes widened at the new sights, with so many different types of women and men walking around. She could tell the nobles apart from the peasants easily, the richly colored and expensive looking fabrics signaling their status. The nobles were talking and laughing loudly, with some crinkling their noses and looking at the passing peasants with contempt. Servants dashed back and forth while trying to please the whims of their masters.

Emma’s family stopped towards the end of the main road that led to the small yet majestic home of the local lord, and many peasants and townspeople had already saved spots for themselves to get the best view of the procession that would welcome the youngest son home. Her father had just joined them after taking care of the horses when a loud musical sound from afar surprised everyone, a crowd emitting a collective gasp. Even though Emma was tall for her age, she still couldn’t see what the fuss was about and fought her way to the front area closest to the street.

Some people started to cheer and she saw the very front of the procession, which consisted of a few knights, their heavy armor clinking as their huge horses trotted by. Soon after she could see from a distance that a few noblewomen were getting up from their seats and waving frantically, as if they were trying to get the attention of someone. The procession moved slowly along, and Emma could hear people beginning to gasp and gossip around her as the thudding noises of a lone horse’s step got closer and closer to her.

Emma lifted her eyes up to see who everyone was talking about, and the moment her eyes locked onto his, they both felt a change in the air, as if time had slowed down and enclosed them in their own bubble.

She thought the boy was handsome, with chestnut colored hair that fell right to his shoulders. It looked so soft and well kept that she almost moved her hand to try and touch it. His eyes were a clear light blue, and even though he was still young there was a sadness in them that showed he had seen great suffering. He had a mischievous look about him, but she could tell that he had a way with words that would get him out of any trouble.

She knew instantly that she could love no other the way that she loved him in that moment. A warm feeling radiated from her heart as she reached up to touch his outstretched hand…

England gasped for breath as he awoke from the dream, and his body shivered in the cold of the hospital room.

notes: a!a's headcanon is when nations undergo severe trauma (such as the case of England and the bombings during the Blitz) they tend to remember things in their past that they'd previously forgotten. I hope that makes things a bit more clear. Also Emma=England and boy=France in a past life.

Oh this is good, this is really good. I can't believe this actually going to be filled twice! Ahhh, I'm getting too excited... I wonder if the original OP (...OOP?) is around to see this?

By the way it was probably just a minor detail to anon but I actually really love the fact that France has the same eyes as his past life. Like that there's one feature that he will always keep from his past lives (did that make sense?)

I really hope that you will continue this! Thanks for filling!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Hetalia kink meme part 27

FrUk - Reincarnation

potential author anon

Re: potential author anon

Re: FrUk - Reincarnation

Maybe In Another Life | France/England | 10/?

Maybe In Another Life | France/England | 1/?

Re: Maybe In Another Life | France/England | 10/?

Re: Maybe In Another Life | France/England | 10/?

Re: Maybe In Another Life | France/England | 10/?

Maybe In Another Life | France/England | 2/?

Re: Maybe In Another Life | France/England | 2/?

Re: Maybe In Another Life | France/England | 2/?

Re: Maybe In Another Life | France/England | 2/?

Once Upon a Dream 1/?

OP here