Van Zieks has that insane vampire swag I just wish he wasn't racist
Van Zieks has that insane vampire swag I just wish he wasn't racist
White Mountains National Forest.
Hey! Sorry for clogging up your inbox with this but your like England's go headcannon queen and I have the headcannon that when britannia was an actual thing, England themselves was actually known as the celtic nation of Cornwall (own language, celtic culture, each of the UK bros represented by different celtic tribes) and its only when britannia 'died' that England got her land and spread out and when Rome invaded he helped make England more 'civilised'. I always think the idea each of the UK bros once had their own unique buy extremely similar language and culture was something that would have made them close and with the passing of britania it's what made it rocky. Again sorry for the spam! England being cornish is something so important to me shshsgshsg
*king, please read my about page, I’m transmasc and my pronouns are he/him.
Thank you for the headcanon though, it's interesting ^^
You know... Sometimes the fact that the first time we see Arthur make decent scones is for Ludwig pops into my head and makes my GerEng obsessed loving heart so happy 🥺🤭🥰
This is going to be a bit of an odd love triangle, so bear with me. Yandere magical strike Alfred, Francis, and Arthur with a darling similar to Francis. They're a magical girl too and they work with Francis. They see the Frenchman as a big brother.
🌟Enjoy my Ramblings🌟
“Mon Cher thank you so much for helping me with today’s difficult shift. I wouldn’t have survived without you.” The long-haired blonde was almost in tears from having to survive the slew of difficult customers today all he wanted to do was drink some red wine and relax in his porcelain bathtub. He was trying to hurry and finish wiping down the table from tonight's chaotic rush.
“It’s no problem darling~ You know how much I adore this place. It’s a fabulous spot here in Paris and the Parisian locals love it.” However, your normal clientele was pushed out by a smaller clientele today: The businessmen that were in the upper echelons of the society and were among some of the top earners in the world. “But I’m sure during that rush you also noticed there weren’t many for our beloved faces in our community…..”
“Oh Oui. I realized that too. It’s likely due to the fact that there were so many people from that multinational company that has set up shop in Paris recently. A lot of them stayed and drank leisurely. All the while eying you like an entree.”
“You mean that excentric CEO and his even more eccentric son? Yeah, I’ll say.”
“Exactly y/n. I have a feeling that those two are-”
“Up to something delightfully devious. Indeed.” A British accent chimed from the ceiling of the quaint but posh establishment.
“Arthur. Don’t you know we’ve closed? And it’s rude to loiter and trespass.”
“Well, I’ll leave….” His striking green eyes leer over to Y/N. “Only with y/n in tow. ANd this can be an easy and clean transaction or…” He draws out his finely carved mahogany wand that had ancient Celtic cravings over it topped with a star. “This can be done forcefully.” He has a shallow grin that deepened at the thought of you being in his company for the night. This British CEO was not going to back down.
“Well, I can’t have you threatening my darling underling that way!” Francis grabbed his golden pendant from his black slacks and kissed it. He transformed within a mist of soft pink light, yellow glitter stars, and crystal blue butterflies. The butterflies danced in his hair and blessed him with his ponytails. His beloved pink and white warrior dress supercharged him and prepped him for battle.
“In the name of the vitality of France, I WILL BANISH YOU!” He summons his pink megaphone.
“La gréve! La gréve! La gréve!” He begins to chant into his megaphone. The soundwaves bang against Arthur’s head like a mallet.
“Blast bloody frog!” He’s unable to cast any of his curses for a few moments since his thought process had been disrupted by the sounds of an angry middle class.
‘Dad really is getting old.’
The dirty blonde raises his black and silver guitar pic and plays a harsh high pitched rift that scrapes against the eardrums of y/n and Francis. The horrid sound brings them both to their knees.
“Getting old and rusty their dad. I’ll take things over from here.” He takes a moment to take in Y/ns trembling visage. It was like cracking open a fresh can of Coca-Cola for him. He was dying to have her to himself.
“Don’t be scared of me, babe. I know I can offer you better than the tadpole with a pink bow over there.” He takes off his star sunglasses. In an attempt to seem less scary and down to earth and understand the middle class. People which he rarely ever talked to. He wanted to try to appeal to you on what he saw as an emotional level. He was the opposoite of anything that could be soothing or charming as he wanted to convey to you. A large feathered coat with deep orchid accents is attached to his eggplant-colored coat. It didn’t help that a shirt was nowhere to be found on his visage leaving only his abs to take center stage. His leather pants gripped his toned thighs tightly and his thigh high heels made his height at least 6”5.
When your headache from his boisterous guitar strum wore off some you allowed your e/c to roam his frankly ghastly appearance. He was a gaudy eyesore.
“You’re so tacky it's ridiculous.” You sneer at him. The audacity of this guy irritated you. “I could never associate with someone who looks like they got dressed by a hyperactive 5-year- that just watched their first Kiss music video.”
Alfred simply chuckles at your cruel jab at his flashy attire. Your words were neutralized by his overpowering ego.
“Too bad you feel that way. My cooperation is acquiring this quaint little place along with the two of you.” A sudden metal /punk song blares through speakers that Arthur summoned with his magic. The song brought back the grating feeling to your head once more except more pronounced and the migraine was crippling to you this time. You clutched your head praying that the torment would end. It felt like hundreds of nails were being bashed into your head. Your body was now in Alfred’s arms.
“You’ll learn to like the life that I can provide for you y/n.” His eyes glower down at your crumpled form.
“That WE can provide.” Arthur limps towards the two of you. Alfred just rolls his eyes and walks away with you. They wander away with you leaving Francis in the dust.
day 2: always meant to be
Fruk / Engport | G | 2,3k
It’s Gabriel’s first party since his parent’s divorce and he hasn’t seen his cousin since they were both two. He fixes his hair again, rubs his sweaty palms on his pants, hopes Francis won’t comment on his worn out shoes and ill-fitting clothes.
His mom pushes him towards his cousin and tells him to go say hi. Gabriel forgets all the French words he has ever learned, in fact he forgets how to move at all.
On the other side of the Bonnefoy backyard, his cousin is surrounded by friends, laughing loudly and smiling a lot.
“That’s a tiny box you got there,” one of the kids say and Gabriel fidgets with the present in his hand, his clammy hands leaving grease stains on the wrapping paper. “What did you get him?” the kid asks, taking it from his hands. Gabriel tries to stop him, but he can’t find the words, panic growing inside him as he watches the kid shake the little box next to his freckled ear.
Gabriel’s hand darts to reach the present, but the kid just pulls it out of his reach, holding him at bay with an elbow to his chest, continuing to shake it with increasing strength. Gabriel bites on his arm and the kid yelps away, letting the box fall to the ground with a loud crash.
“Shit,” the kid breathes, freckled cheeks flushed and green eyes flashing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—why didn’t you just said—”
But Gabriel is staring at the fallen box, small shoulders shaking and heart beating too fast. His mother was going to be so angry with him. They had just upheaved their entire lives and moved to a new country, she had been struggling to find a job, he hadn’t spoken to his dad since they left and he now couldn’t remember how to speak. He was going to get into so much trouble, so much trouble.
“No, fuck, don’t cry!” the boy hurried to say, picking up the broken box and nervously turning it in his hands, treating it far more carefully now than he had before. “I can fix it! If I fix it will you please stop crying?”
Gabriel looked at the kid’s flustered face and touched his own cheek gingerly, surprised to find it wet.
“I’m Arthur,” the boy said, pointing at himself, quickly grabbing Gabriel’s hand and pulling him towards the garage. “Come on, I know where Francis’ dad keeps the tools.”
Gabriel lets himself be led by this strange child, listening to his incessant nervous chatter without fully understanding what he’s saying.
Only later, after the broken watch had been glued and taped together, after Francis looked at it and him with snide disdain, after Arthur punched him in the face and the two rolled around in the grass until Mrs. Bonnefoy declared the party to be over and his mom pulled him away mumbling apologies to her cousin.
Only later would he realize what had just happened.
He is fifteen when they meet again. His grasp on French is a little better, their life in Calais turned out okay, his grades are good enough that he’s even thinking of applying to college once school is over. Francis still doesn’t like him all that much, but he lets Gabriel tag along sometimes when he goes out to meet his friends under the promise that he was not going to tell either of their moms about the underage drinking and smoking.
It’s not a hard promise to make, not when Gabriel is the one doing most of the smoking, lighting one cigarette on the next and washing down the taste of ash with cheap beer.
He’s not one for crowds either, so he’s happy to let Francis be the center of attention, charm everyone around them with the story of how he once beat this kid in his seventh birthday and chipped his tooth to everyone’s absolute delight.
Said kid comes over to where he is, sitting on the public benches facing the Channel, a chipped tooth smile when he asks for a light.
“You never told me your name,” Arthur reminds him after the first drag, watching him through the smoke, and Gabriel shrugs, hugs his own arms against the cold.
“You never asked,” Gabriel tells him in return and Arthur blushes beside him, takes a swing of his beer to hide it.
Francis calls his boyfriend back to his circle of friends to tell his side of the story and Arthur bumps Gabriel’s shoulder lightly, shoots him a tentative smirk.
“See you around then stranger,” he says and Gabriel snorts, places his cigarette back on his lips, looks back to the ocean.
His mother calls him when he is twenty-four to tell him Francis had been arrested during the protests in Paris. They had found him setting up a barricade on the street, inflammatory pamphlets against the government among his things.
“I feel so much better knowing you are far away from all of this,” his mother tells him with a sigh, “I can’t imagine what Emma is going through, they say some of these kids died during the protests.”
Gabriel breathes in smoke from his cigarette. His merchant ship had just left Portsmouth behind them and was heading back to France. He would have liked to be there, out on the streets when the police came out. He knew the news exaggerated some things, but, all in all, he was actually impressed. He would never have guessed snobbish, stuck-up Francis would one day be leading students in a fight against the government. He would have liked to see it.
Instead here he was.
“Don’t worry about me, mom,” he whispers, blows out smoke into the night.
“Oh, you can leave that anywhere,” Francis says, wrist doing a little nonchalant twist to indicate any available surface on his Parisian apartment holding a glass of cognac on one hand and a lit cigarette on the other. “Everyone, this is my cousin Gabriel. Gabriel, this is everyone.”
Gabriel nods to the small crowd gathered in Francis’ cramped living room, a record spinning lazily on the player and a thick cloud of cigarette smoke hiding their faces from him. He balances the cake box he had been assigned to buy, a little wet from the rain pouring outside, and follows Francis into the kitchen.
“Wine?” Francis asks, opening cabinets in search of clean, non-cracked glasses, serving him a good amount of red without waiting for an answer. Gabriel pushes three overflowing ashtrays out of his way to put down the cake and graciously accepts it. “Have you heard the news from Lisbon? It’s all everyone’s talking about.”
“I have,” he says, drinks. “I’m thinking of joining them, actually.”
“Oh,” Francis lets out, crossing his hands over his chest, seeming almost… impressed? “Aren’t things a little… chaotic in Portugal right now?”
Gabriel pulls out a drenched pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and takes one out with his lips, offers it to Francis who refuses with a shake of his head.
“That’s exactly why I think I should go back,” he responds, lighting it and taking the first blissful drag. “There’s a lot that needs to be done.”
“What about your mother?”
He swirls the wine on his glass, “She’s, ahm…”
The door of the apartment opens and closes, a distinctive British accent curses all the way down the narrow hallway.
“You invited your ex?” Gabriel raises an eyebrow at him and Francis sighs exaggeratedly, indicating the cake.
“Whose birthday do you think it is?” he says to him, pushing his hair out of his face. To the man that appears on the doorway, he scowls, “You’re late and wet, why didn’t you take your shoes off at the door like a normal person?”
Arthur flusters and grumbles, water dripping down his entire person as he drops two bags of wine bottles at their feet and stands in the middle of a growing puddle on Francis’ floorboards. “Have you seen what it’s like out there, Fran?”
“Gabriel was just outside and I don’t see him dripping all over,” Francis counters, huffing in annoyance, going up to Arthur and pulling his leather jacket from his arms with two rough but efficient yanks. “Honestly,” he grunts, turning on his heels to go hang it by the door.
“Oh, hey, Gabe,” Arthur waves at him and Gabriel waves back. “I heard about the revolution.”
He gives him a restrained smile, tilts his glass back into his mouth.
“Are you planning on heading there? Do you still have family in Portugal?”
“My father still lives there, in the countryside. I was thinking of going, yes, I know it’s a stupid idea, but—”
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Arthur interrupted him, standing in the doorway with his hair plastered to his temple, droplets of cold water running down his face. “I think it’s actually pretty brave.”
Gabriel forgets to smoke. He nods after a long stretch of time.
“Kirkland, what is wrong with you?” Francis scolds Arthur when he comes back, “What did I say about the shoes?”
Arthur shoots Gabriel a chipped tooth smile before following Francis back to the front door, the two of them bickering the entire time. Gabriel looks at the ash on the tip of his cigarette, smiles to himself before taking another drag.
“I’m fine, mom, you don’t need to worry.” Gabriel balances a baby on his hip and keeps the telephone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. “Yes, I talked to dad. He said he can’t come help us with the baby, but it’s fine, honestly.”
Said baby just gurgles by his side and regurgitates green pea soup on his shoulder. Gabriel turned his eyes up asking for patience.
Clara comes into the kitchen and relieves him of their daughter, mouthing something at him that he responds with a thankful smile, finally taking his phone from his shoulder and moving it to the other ear.
“No, mom, you don’t need to bother. The trip from Calais is very long and expensive. We’ll go visit as soon as we can afford it. I just started a new job so it might still be a while. Who offered you a ride? What young man? Mom!”
Clara takes the phone from his and raises her eyebrows at him, “Hi, Mrs. da Costa,” she chimes warmly, taking the phone and the baby with her as she exits the kitchen and goes up the stairs. “Don’t listen to Gabi, we’d love to have you.”
Gabriel grumbles and looks down at his green-stained shirt.
Laura sits on Arthur’s lap and Gabriel wonders how his life has come to this.
“So how’s the new job? Your mom told me about it on the way here.”
Gabriel lights a new cigarette on his old one and tries not to think of what his mother might have told Arthur Kirkland during the very long car drive from France to Portugal. Arthur Kirkland who is currently holding his baby girl’s little hands in his while she smiles and drools all over herself, his wife and mother having gone to the kitchen to bring out dessert over ten minutes ago without any sign of ever coming back.
“It’s going fine. It’s just logistics. Very boring logistics.”
Arthur wiggles Laura’s arms in his hands and bounces her on his knee, giving Gabriel a chipped tooth smile. “It can’t be more boring than my job at the bank.”
Laura giggles on Arthur’s lap and Gabriel finds himself smiling as well. “Is that why you came all this way? Did the bank relocate you here?”
“Oh, no,” Arthur hurries to say, slowing the bouncing to a stop. “No, I just heard from Francis that your mother needed a hand and I thought I might help.”
Gabriel frowns at him, cigarette forgotten. “You drove an entire day just to help my mother?”
A blush creeps over Arthur’s freckled cheeks. “Well, I—I thought—I hadn’t seen you in a while so—”
Clara comes back to the table with dessert followed by his mother, both of them swapping recipes and talking loudly about how badly the economy was going. The possibility of Portugal joining the European Community sounding more and more promising with every passing day.
Gabriel remembers to smoke and watches Arthur on the other side of the table.
Arthur cradles Laura carefully in his arms and avoids Gabriel’s eyes for the rest of the afternoon.
Laura is nine when he and Clara decide their marriage is beyond salvation.
He is forty-five when Clara decides to move away with her to France.
And like a movie he had seen twice, he watches as things unfold before him, unable to stop them, not finding the right words, feeling what his father must have felt when he and his mother moved away.
He sits on his couch in his house, illuminated by the glare of the television screen, trying to piece everything together.
He hadn’t smoked in a week. For some reason he doesn’t miss it.
The phone rings and he gets up to answer it.
“Are you watching the news?” the voice asks and Gabriel frowns when he recognizes Arthur’s voice.
“Yeah, the footage has been playing all day.”
He hears him breathe on the other end of the line, hears the rustling of clothes, the faint sound of the phone being passed from one ear to the other.
“Isn’t it incredible? I’ve been calling everyone I know,” Arthur says and Gabriel looks back at his television in the middle of his dark living room, scenes of the wall crumbling while the people cheered around it, journalists standing with their microphones in front of the cameras, constantly interrupted by smiling faces, the end of an era that he had watched and lived his whole life.
“Hey, Arthur,” he says, and Arthur hums on the other end, “Do you want to come over next Saturday? Spend the day?”
He thinks he can hear a smile on the line, pictures a seven-year-old boy with freckles on his cheeks and a chipped front tooth.
“I’d like that very much.”
Anonymous Request: I absolute loved your platonic allies ask, if it’s not too much could I maybe request some headcanons of just everyday life and how they would “parent” them, I just think the concept would be funny seeing as the teen reader ain’t a country so they don’t have that kind of control over them lol and the reader is just chaotic in the best way always trying to make them and their friends laugh 😂
So, America doesn’t look the part of a stereotypical parent, you know? As one of the younger Nations, he truly looks and acts the part—especially at meetings. However, when it comes to the reader, DAD MODE™ is activated once he realizes that he has to take care of someone else.
Don’t get him wrong, if the reader was a fellow country or some kind of principality or city, he wouldn’t take to parenting as well. Instead, he would have treated them like fellow Nations because Nations have to grow up pretty quickly. For all intents and purposes, though, the reader in his care is basically a human being that just so happens to be immortal. He wants to do right by them.
He definitely makes sure that he and the reader are always doing activities together. Sports are near the top of the list, but he also enjoys cooking exotic dishes, watching movies, or pranking together. (Hey, if he’s going to be a parent, he’s definitely going to be one of the fun ones!)
America is also a staunch supporter of education. He’s more inclined to the sciences himself, but if the reader wants to pursue the liberal arts, America doesn’t mind. Education is education and if the reader enjoys it, why not allow them the freedom to choose?
That said, failure is an opportunity to learn. America doesn't care about grades. Who does? They’re overrated letters and numbers anyway! What you should truly care about is what you learned, retained, and how you applied the material in real life.
America likes picking up the reader and throwing them up in the sky for laughs. He’ll stop if the reader is truly discomfited by the playful roughhousing.
When he tells the reader “I love you”, it comes out like a joke. Well not necessarily like a joke, but he puts a lot of levity in his tone because while he’s physically affectionate, verbally expressing how he feels is taxing on his soul. The reader should expect a lot of hugs, head ruffles, and noogies as compensation.
China has had countless territories and countries under his care. He knows how to care of beings who are smaller and younger than him. However, the reader is still human, so adjustments and learning curves are something to be expected.
What do you mean the reader can’t stay up for hours on end doing government paperwork or fight in hand to hand combat after a few hours of demonstration? Preposterous! Why are humans so fragile?
China mostly plays it up for laughs, but he is genuinely concerned that humankind has managed to live for so long. As an eldritch abomination that acts like a grumpy grandpa and looks like a man approaching his middle aged years, he kind of has to face the fact that he’s way too old for this.
That doesn’t stop him from caring and protecting the reader as best as he can.
China will definitely put the reader to school because success in life is heavily rooted in the years of childhood and adolescence. Sometimes, he will also take the reader to work so that they can observe what it’s like to be a Nation and how to work his government position. The reader is not Nation material, but the idea of someone taking over as his legacy has a nice ring to it.
China is a bit no nonsense and strict, but it comes from deep in his heart. Life is harsh and cruel; he’s only preparing the reader for the real world. Besides, he’s not like that all the time. He can be fun and personable at times!
If the reader allows it, China will definitely give the reader as many plushies as possible that can fit in their room. Sometimes, if China oversteps and needs to apologize, he’ll just give the reader as many plushies as possible to be forgiven. However, he soon realizes that he can’t always bribe affection like that, so he’ll outgrow that compulsion.
China doesn’t care what the reader looks like, he’ll think they’re cute no matter what. Is it because of the large age difference? Maybe, but China isn’t going to agree or deny anything.
When he tells the reader “I love you”, it’s a once in a while sort of thing. Those words are sacred; there’s something grounded and taboo about just saying it out loud. He’ll show his affection any other way possible, but getting the words out of his mouth is like admitting weakness. He still cares for the reader no matter what though.
England is going to be a great father and mentor. He’s learned from his mistakes from his previous colonies and the reader is human! There’s no way he can screw up since he isn’t expecting them to start a war of independence against him.
Spoiler alert: He screws up. A lot. And often.
It’s not because he’s not trying, he is. However, England, whether he admits it or not, is a person who has been hurt too many times in the past. He knows what it feels like to be abandoned, to be betrayed, to protect himself before he could get hurt. Caring too much is a weakness for him and it takes him time to learn how to open himself up to the reader.
That said, England will take parenting guides and manuals—things that weren’t available during his time as a conquering world power—as word of law until he feels comfortable in knowing that he is actually a good parent for the reader.
As much as England likes to present himself as a well dressed and well mannered man and expects the same from the reader, he is known to be rebellious at times. It’ll show up in the small things sometimes—well worded quips under his breath due to bureaucratic red tape, breaking a few nonsensical laws here and there. You know, really small things that go under the radar. Other times, England decides to do away with conservative attitudes and go all out. If the reader wants to dye their hair or wear clothing from a subculture that he isn’t too well aware of, he’s not going to stop them. If he’s in a good mood, he’ll definitely encourage them!
England also likes to spend some quality time with the reader. Whether it be reading together in the same room, criticizing the news, or gardening, he enjoys it all. He especially enjoys it more if the reader also confessed that they also enjoy these small activities.
England never says “I love you”. Although he’s old and knows that all humans will one day go back to the earth, his lips can never quite form the words; his vocal cords never have the strength to give voice and flavor to such a wonderful phrase. Instead, he’s a column of support, unwavering in his loyalty. He’ll make the reader laugh with his dry wit and humor and sometimes, he feels like that’s enough.
France is probably the only one of the Allies who will take to being a good parent with great finesse. He’s had his fair share of colonies, but while England and China may have floundered in their attempts to distinguish the line between a child Nation and a human one, France easily knows how to handle the reader.
Most countries have walked amongst their citizens and have experienced the same trials and heartaches that life had to offer. However, France is somewhere more attuned to humanity. He feels and loves and cares so much! So, of course he’ll tune into how the reader deals with affection, how to best take care of them while feeling down. He is one of the more emotionally stable, resilient, and supportive of them all.
He always has a plethora of wise words to say, regardless of the situation. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense or not, sometimes it’s more of a joke so he can get the reader to relax and realize that some problems don’t always need hard hitting solutions.
France likes seeing the reader in clothing and accessories that emphasize their inherent qualities that make them stand out from others. He’ll make sure to provide an extensive wardrobe that not only appeals to his tastes, but also conforms to what the reader likes and will be comfortable by.
He is also big on physical and verbal affection. Life is short, no matter how many times the reader has to tell him that they’re immortal. Nonsense! If France wants to express how much he cares about the reader, he will definitely go out of his way to make sure that they understand him.
That said, when he says “I love you”, he says it differently each and every time. Sometimes, the “I love you” can be said in irritation. Sometimes, it can be said in fond exasperation. Other times, “I love you” is said as if it were one of those universal laws that cannot be broken. “I love you” is never a lie with France. He will also accompany his “I love you’s” with as much physical affection he can give so long as the reader lets him.
As a Nation born of winter and cold ice, Russia has known what it is like to lose the ones you love most when you least expect it. Many of his people had died due to the bitter, unforgiving cold and he is not prepared to see the reader go the same way even if they are immortal.
Russia may come off as overbearing at times, especially since he likes to drape the reader in mountains of winter wear even when it’s mildly warm, but he means well. There’s a certain tenderness in his actions as he tucks a scarf around the reader’s neck or slips a hat over their head. It’s almost like he’s scared of touching the reader lest they slip from his fingers—dead like some of his beloved people in the past.
On the walks that they take outside of his house, sometimes Russia gets struck with the urge to hold the reader’s hand. If the reader allows it, he’ll hold their hand comfortably in his, always making sure that he isn’t crushing their all too human hand in his grasp. His hands are always cool to the touch, but with time, they warm up and become malleable around the reader’s fingers.
Russia tends to be strict. He tries to be lenient at times, but sometimes he forgets that the reader isn’t one of his subordinates. He forgets that humans are still fragile, no matter how immortal they may seem. That said, sometimes he might expect too much from the reader and if they don’t meet those expectations, his disappointment is almost too hard to bear.
Russia tries to curb his austerity, but it always comes back to haunt him some way or another. Over time, he’ll learn from his mistakes, but until then, the reader needs to know that he isn’t taking any of the reader’s shortcomings to heart. If anything, it reminds him that he needs to be realistic with his expectations.
When Russia says, “I love you”, it’s a soft thing. You can barely hear it over the sound of your own breathing; it’s almost like he hasn’t said anything at all. However, if the reader looks at him, they’ll see that his normally vacant, hollow eyes are filled with deep, intense affection and care. He may ruffle the reader’s head or give them a soft smile that perfectly encapsulates how he feels about them.
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Blind as the old man Dreaming in the sun As I lay you down to die Love is a fire Burns in everyone We can fly till it gets you home
write me the most smut amazing story about bam. also make it sweet tho pls omg 💔
hi! i love that people request sweet bam because i feel that no one appreciates that idea of him enough! (also, smut is lowkey new to me so pls excuse that lmao)
warnings: smut, unprotected sex!!, oral sex!!, swearing, fluff, cute baby bam, and i think that’s it!
word count: 2793 (its a long one oops)
Bam was an entirely different person away from the Jackass set. To viewers, he seemed as though he was an angsty, angry human being. He has that “skater boy” persona, and he seemed like he hated the world. The truth is, he did hate the world. He hated how people treated him, and he hated how the fame that he acquired was making him feel. People were practically throwing themselves at him, and he never wanted any of that. He just wanted to be loved. He wanted to be loved by someone that loved him for who he was, and not his reputation.
You lived in apartment 382, right next to him. You heard his music, and you heard him during his most vulnerable moments. You heard and witnessed the side of him that no one else saw. Being neighbors, you got the chance to develop a close friendship with him. You would consistently go over to his apartment to share drinks and hang out. You loved his presence, you loved seeing him in his most genuine form, you loved him.
One day, you heard him coming home, his vans stomping up the wooden stairs. His door slammed, and all you heard was yelling. He began yelling obscenities and throwing things against the wall, causing a commotion that caused you to become worried. You sat quietly in your small apartment for a few moments before making the decision to check on him.
You walked outside and stood in front of his door. Your eyes scanned the number on his door, 383, wondering if it was truly the best idea to knock on his door. You did not know if it would upset him, or if you would even be able to help him at all. What could it hurt?
You slowly raised your hand up to knock on his beige-colored door. You knocked three times and waited for an answer. You only heard his music grow louder and a loud crash that shortly followed. You heard him scream, and it was one of the most heartbreaking sounds you had ever heard. You knocked again. only louder, desperately wishing for an answer from the boy next door. Again, there was no answer.
You put your hand on the doorknob and twisted it, finding that he had left his door unlocked. You slowly opened his door, only to find nothing short of a wreck. It looked as though a tornado had run through his apartment. There were broken bottles of liquor all over the floor, papers scattered everywhere. It looked absolutely awful, and you hated to think that you were looking at a visual representation of how he was feeling. You stepped inside, being careful to avoid anything that may hurt you. You slowly approached him, but he had no idea that you were even there. His music was playing so loudly that you could barely even hear what he was saying. His elbows were resting on his kitchen countertop and his head was resting in his hands. You walked around to where his speaker was, and you slowly started to lower the volume. His head shot up in surprise because he had no idea that you had come in.
"Oh my God, y/n, I had no idea that you were here."
You had practically shut off the speaker when you finally said, "I heard crashing noises and loud music and I was worried about you. I knocked on your door and there was no answer, so I opened your door since it was unlocked."
"I am so sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry. I just got a little angry after today," he let out a breathy, nervous laugh.
"Well, talk about it. Maybe it will help to let it out."
"I don't know, y/n. It'll probably just make it worse."
"If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. I just wanted to offer it in case you did," you gave him a soft smile while walking towards him. You placed your hand on his shoulder and gently moved your thumb back and forth. You moved your hand back down to your side when you noticed Bam's bloody hand. There was bright red blood dripping onto the hardwood floor below him.
"Shit, Bam, you're bleeding," you grabbed his hand to discover where it was coming from. "Here, let me help you."
You walked to the bathroom and told him to sit down. He sat on the lid of the toilet as he watched you find different things that would help cover his wound. After you had found everything that you needed, you crouched down in front of him. You began to clean his wound and bandage it. He intently watched you as his mind slipped away, thinking about everything that had caused him to act so angrily before.
"This may sting," you said. Your words brought him back to reality. You but some sort of cream over his hand and he hissed as a sharp pain struck his hand.
"You're being kinda quiet. Are you thinking about something?" you asked him. He was never this quiet, so you knew that something was wrong.
He said nothing, and you had begun to worry more. You did not know whether you should say something else, or if you should just let it be. You decided that if he wanted to talk, he would. You finished bandaging his hand and looked up at him. "All done," you smiled.
He just gave you a blank stare, and you asked again, "Bam, are you okay? You're really worrying me."
Tears began to form in his beautiful blue eyes. You put your hand on his cheek and wiped away the tears that had begun to fall. You gave him a soft smile as he brought his hands up to his head.
“Dammit, I just don’t know what to do. The all-mighty Bam Margera, badass Jackass star is fucking crying on his bathroom floor.” He sobbed, letting all the emotions he had built up for so long flow out.
"Bam, it's okay. Talk to me."
"I fucking hate everything, y/n. I hate the fame, I hate girls that throw themselves at me, I hate this person that everyone thinks I am. I hate everything. No one sees this shit. No one sees what being in this business does. I'm fucking sick of it." He sobbed.
You wrapped him in a tight hug. He rested his head in the crook of your neck. His warm tears were dampening your shirt as you pulled him closer. He needed someone to be there for him, and you were determined to be that person.
He wrapped his arms around you and his breathing finally started to slow. He gathered himself and his feelings and pulled away from the embrace to look at you once again.
"I wish they were all more like you, y/n."
You felt your face heat up at his comment. "What do you mean by that?"
His cheeks turned the lightest shade of red. "I mean that none of them see this side. None of them care about any of this. You are the only one that cares enough about me to be sitting here. I hate people that just want to fuck me because they want to fuck. I don't want that shit."
"What do you want, then?"
He looked at you and brought his left hand up to cup your face. He didn't say anything for a moment. He only looked into your eyes, watching your face change. He slowly leaned in and connected your lips with his.
He pulled away with uncertainty as to how you would react. Truthfully, you had waited for that moment for an extremely long time. Now that it was happening, you had no clue what to do. You let your body take over, putting your lips on his once again.
You pulled away to look at him. "Shit, I didn't mean to-" he cut off your sentence with a deeper, more passionate kiss. Both of his hands now rested on either side of your face.
This version of him was one that you rarely ever saw. He never let these emotions surface.
He pulled away to look at you once again. "You know, I've loved you for a long time now, y/n."
You smiled at him and said, "I've liked you for a while now, too."
He laughed. "Wow, just "liked" me. Damn, I sit here and tell you that I love you and that's all I get."
You laughed as well. "Well, it is what it is, Margera. That's the way the cookie crumbles, I guess." You shrugged your shoulders.
"So, you don't love me?" he said, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, trust me. I like you a lot," you laughed again, knowing this would soon start getting to him.
"Well, hell. I'm being played. Dammit, y/n," he laughed.
"I'm just kidding, Bam," your tone of voice changed. You were more serious as you said, "I have truly loved you since the first time we ever hung out together. That's cringy as fuck, but it's true."
"I like cringy," he laughed. "If I didn't, I wouldn't hang out with you as much."
Your mouth dropped open as you let out a breathy laugh. "What the hell? You expect me to just sit here and take this?"
"I mean, that's exactly what you're doing," he laughed again. "I'm just joking, y/n, you know that."
"You sounded pretty serious. Sounds to me like you're faking this 'I love you' shit."
"I'm not faking it, asshole." he grinned.
"If you aren't faking it, then prove it."
His body took over before his mind could rationalize his actions. He slammed his lips against yours. He pushed you against a wall and grabbed your face with his hands. This time, he was much rougher, but that did not bother you in the slightest.
He reached down and pulled the bathroom door open, which led directly to his bedroom. He stayed connected to your lips as his tongue explored your mouth. His hands found your hips as he guided you to his bed. The back of your legs brushed up against his black sheets, and you carefully sat down.
He pulled away from you for a moment and stood straight up. He pulled off the band t-shirt that he was wearing and immediately found your lips again. He pushed you back, to where you were laying down, but your legs were hanging off of the edge of his bed.
You were in shock that this was even happening. The boy you have quietly chased after for so long is finally here doing this to you. He was on top of you, and he wanted you. He wanted you.
He gently made his way down to the sweet spot on your neck, sucking just enough to leave a light bruise. You ran your fingers through his dark curls, and tugged. He started to move his hips back and forth, creating friction between the two of you.
He pulled away from your neck and rested his forehead against your own. Your breathing sped up, and your hands caressed his back. His hands made their way down to the hem of your shirt and began to tug. You arched your back up to allow him to take your shirt off. He lifted it off of your back, and then placed his right hand behind or shoulders. He lifted you up just enough to pull the shirt over your head. He threw it to the floor, and found his way to your lips once again.
Your breathing only continued to speed up, and he could hardly bare it. He pulled away to look at you and said, "You're so fucking beautiful, you know that?"
"Fuck, Bam," you groaned.
"Tell me what you want, y/n. Use your words."
Your breath hitched, "You."
He kissed you again, and his hands found the waist of your pants. He unbuttoned and unzipped your jeans. He slowly slid them off, leaving you in only your bra and underwear.
"Fuck, y/n, you're so fucking pretty." You could feel him grow on top of you. You grinned, knowing that you were the person that was doing that to him.
You did not say another word. You kissed him again, this time taking the lead. You end up flipping to have yourself on top. You pull away and let your hands find his belt. You unbuckle it and proceed to unbutton and unzip his black jeans.
He groans under his breath because now every part of him is exposed. Your eyes widen, realizing that this is his most vulnerable state. You realize that he is letting you in, and he wants you to see him in this state.
You look at him and bring your hands behind you. You unclasp your bra, leaving your upper half completely bare. You then stand up, sliding the last piece of clothing that remains on your body off. He lays there and watches you, in complete awe. He admires you so much and thinks you are the most beautiful person he has ever seen.
You climb back on top, lining yourself up with him. He grabs your hips and smiles, giving you a cue to let you know that it's okay. You lower yourself onto him, and he groans in pleasure. You arch your head back, finally being able to feel him.
He grabs your hips and takes control of your movements, moving you up and down. He bucks his hips up to match the rhythm in which he is moving you. You decide to take control of your own actions and speed up the pace, causing him to whisper obscenities under his breath.
"Fuck, you feel so good. Fuck." He could hardly bear it. He grabbed your sides and flipped you both over once more. Now he was on top, and he was in control.
He began sliding himself in and out with a steady rhythm. You brought your hands up to his shoulders and pulled him closer to you. Your head rested in the crook of his neck as he continued to keep the steady rhythm. You kissed his neck, causing him to whimper.
You bucked your hips up, causing him to go even deeper. You grabbed his face and brought his lips to yours. You moan into his mouth, causing him to do the same.
"Fuck, Bam, I'm close," you say in between words.
"I am, too" he replies.
He brings his hand up to your face and brushes a stray piece of hair away. He smiles at you as he slows his rhythm just a bit. You grip his shoulders and dig your nails into his back.
"Cum for me, please, y/n," he says. With that sentence, you let go. You pull him as close to you as he could possibly get. You shake and tremble as your high begins to fade.
Bam was struggling to keep it together. He looked at you as you orgasmed, and said, "Does that feel good, baby?"
You looked up at him and gave him a soft smile. "Yeah, it does."
"Since you've been such a good girl for me, you can help me finish. How about that?"
You nodded, realizing what he wanted you to do. He pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed as you got onto the floor. You put your mouth around his dick and put it all the way in. With only a few times of repeating this action, Bam had his fingers in your hair. He was bucking his hips, causing him to go deeper into your mouth.
"Fuck, don't stop," he groaned. "Please, god, don't stop."
A few more seconds, and he was finishing in your mouth. His hands ran through your hair, and he pulled you back up to lay in the bed with him. You climbed back up into bed with him as he held his arm out, waiting for you to lay beside him.
You turned to face him and you couldn't get the grin off of your face. You felt so whole and realized that you were happy where you were. Little did you know, but he felt the same way, too. You brought your hand up to his face and placed a light kiss on his lips.
"So, does this mean that I'm officially yours?" you asked him, rubbing your thumb across his cheek.
"You're mine," he smiled.
WOO! what a doozy! i hope you liked it, and please request more if you like! thanks for requesting! much love <3
Totally based on a roleplaying with a friend of mine. We both did an extense Pirate!AU and magic happened - She hates Arthur and she did the best Pirate I've ever seen and I'm doing Gabriel of course.
This was almost the beggining I guess? Arthur attacked a comercial spanish ship and take both iberians as prisioners; but Gabriel is very useful because he is a cartographer, so Kirkland decided to keep him, and to kill Antonio. Then a negotiation in some way was made and... this is an scene XD
💚💛🧡❤️💗💜💙 © Benzo T.
But we're neither in love nor in war
So let’s change that
Another farm store and another purchase on the Honor System. There are no cops, no cameras, and no internet. More and more this Life Bucolic reveals its charms.