#I got……….carried away | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thathetaliablogg · 2 years

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I’m thinking a lot again about my university fruk au and idk if I’ve talked about it much here so im gonna talk about it - I call it the university au because the first half of it takes place there but it actually extends beyond that into their adult lives too :) LOOOONG TEXTPOST INCOMING

But basically it follows Arthur and Francis in their lives as uni flatmates living in halls, going to a university located in britain somewhere. Arthur is a 1st year music student and Francis is a final year fine art student! They’re both undergrads and were just randomly assigned flatmates, which is how they met in September! They initially hit it off pretty badly. Arthur thinks Francis is annoying and pretentious, the way he actually cooks in the kitchen, the way he paints in the living space like a posh artsy weirdo. To him, Francis seems to have everything right; he’s a good artist, he seems to have lots of friends, he seems to have a stable amount of money, and he seems to have won the genetic lottery as far as his looks go. Arthur hates him. On the other side of the coin, Francis thinks Arthur is rude, loud, and unnecessarily mean. He plays his guitar loudly in his room, opting for metal riffs most of the time, and he often comes home almost dangerously drunk at five in the morning, slamming every door he goes through and waking Francis each time he does. Arthur seems to have it all wrong; he’s messy, he never does chores around the flat, he’s rude and rejects any and all of Francis’ attempts to be friendly, and he seems to be a danger to himself with his constant nights out. Francis doesn’t like him, but he tried, at the very least.

It’s only as Francis begins to overhear some things that he starts to see a bigger picture to the issue. In a way, he was almost jealous of Arthur in the beginning. This boy had a rebellious nature, and didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him. Francis, who would admit that he worries too much about what others think, definitely envied that quality. Even more so, Francis was jealous of the fact that Arthur seemed to be in a committed relationship. I mean, really, how was it that rude, mean spirited Arthur could have a boyfriend to always be hanging out with, and Francis, who was a hopeless romantic with a lot of love to give, could never get anyone to stay? It drove him mad. That was, until, Francis started to notice the cracks. At around the end of November, Francis removes his headphones to… yelling. A lot of it. There is a door slam, and presumably, it was Arthur’s boyfriend, leaving after a fight. Francis puts his headphones back on. After all, it’s none of his business and it is not unlike Arthur to be starting arguments - at least not in Francis’ experience. But then Francis notices that this is becoming an increasingly common occurrence, and the fights sound like they’re getting worse. Since Arthur’s room is next door to his, he hears almost everything, but Francis feels his stomach drop for the first time when, after several door slammings, he hears Arthur crying. Presumably, all alone, in his room.

When Francis thinks about it, he hasn’t really seen Arthur much for the past couple of weeks. It’s early December now, and Christmas is coming up, so Francis had put it down to that, but…. Something doesn’t feel right. He knows for certain that he hasn’t seen Arthur come to the kitchen at all for a day or two, and the only times he’s heard him, are when he comes back drunk in the middle of the night again. When Francis goes out to buy himself some ingredients and some snacks, he can’t help himself from picking up a couple of instant noodle packs, and a bottle of lemonade. He puts them in a separate bag to his other food, and after putting his own shopping away, he stands outside Arthur’s door, hesitating. Francis was sort of nervous, expecting Arthur to be angry with him - that’s how he always seemed. He might slam the door in Francis’ face, and maybe then, Francis would never try to befriend him again. It felt safer not to. After consideration, Francis knocks anyway, and waits for few seconds as some shuffling occurs. Arthur opens the door with a tired look on his face and, after an awkward and short conversation, Francis offers the bag to Arthur. Arthur takes it hesitantly, peering inside before he looks up and meets Francis’ eyes. A lot goes on in that short and wordless exchange.

Things go on the same for a while, until the Christmas holidays roll around. The other flatmates leave, and as it turns out, Francis and Arthur have the flat to themselves for a few weeks. Francis opted not to go home since it’s expensive to travel, especially around the Christmas season, and Arthur does not specify why he didn’t go home. Francis is sort of enjoying the Christmas holidays, since he mostly has the living space to himself, it’s easier to paint or sculpt in that area. Arthur comes in occasionally, to get some food, and usually leaves - but he is not hostile anymore. Suddenly, there seems to be some sort of understanding between them. Francis is sculpting in the living area one day, when a sudden voice makes him jump.

“What are you making?”

Francis turns, and Arthur stands in the doorway with a can of off brand fizzy orange in his hand. Francis looks at him, and then he looks back at his piece.

“Well, it’s a sculpture, for one of my modules. It’s abstract, it’s meant to represent how I feel.”

“Hm.” Arthur stares at the piece for a little bit. “I never understood abstract art.”

“Maybe abstract art isn’t supposed to be understood. Sometimes abstract art is the only way we can present a complicated emotion.” Francis replies, and Arthur gives a single nod before he leaves.

After that, they seem to talk more. Not only is there an understanding, but there is an interest. One day, Arthur informs Francis that he has broken up with his boyfriend. Francis is really glad. Really, really glad. He’s just glad that Arthur is safe. Arthur becomes less of a cryptid and chooses to accompany Francis in the kitchen a little bit more often. Maybe abstract art is worth something after all, he decides. Maybe he understands some of the pieces now. Francis’ art is pretty. Like it’s maker. Francis finds out that Arthur’s family doesn’t exactly approve of his choice in degree. As an art student, Francis gets it. Arthur learns that Francis is trans too. Arthur is pre-everything, and notes how Francis always respected him without ever questioning his voice or his body. With a soft smile, Francis reveals he has been taking hormones for a year or so now. Arthur seems to show up in the living space even more. Francis decides he doesn’t mind Arthur’s guitar playing after all. He’s good at it, actually. Francis asks if he can sing as well. Arthur gets out his guitar, sits down with it, and proves it to him.

By the time the academic year gets into its second half, around mid-January, Arthur and Francis are comfortably friends, and their friendship only grows. Arthur reveals that he doesn’t like their other flatmates very much, so when they return from their Christmas break, the two start to spend time in each others’ rooms. Arthur’s room is not as disgusting as Francis expected. It’s rather messy, with eyeliner smudges and pink hair dye splatters decorating the bathroom, but Arthur seems to make an effort to at least have his sleeping area clean. Francis’ bedroom is pretty, with fairy lights hung up and satin sheets on his bed. It smells strongly of perfumes and body sprays, and Arthur wants to pinch his nose at first, but he gets used to it.

By the end of April, feelings too intimate to be called platonic begin to develop. The academic year will be drawing to a close in just under a month, and then they will have summer together. In August, Francis will have to leave, and, being in his final year, he won’t be returning. Francis tries not to think about it, Arthur can’t stop.

On a warm night at the end of May, the two are hanging out in Arthur’s room. The setting sun peers through the windows. Arthur sits on his bed, and Francis sits on a chair. They are just talking. Somehow, the topic has gotten onto relationships. Francis confesses that, sure, he’s hooked up with people before, but he’s never actually been in a real relationship. Francis says that he only seems to fall for people who are unavailable, or wouldn’t like him in that way anyway. Arthur asks him what he’d do if someone did like him that way. Francis hesitates. He says it would depend on who the person was. Arthur asks, what if it was me? Francis jolts and stares at him. Arthur repeats what he said, but with clearer wording.

In June, Arthur and Francis hold hands on their walk to the supermarket, under the beating sun. On another day, they go to a local dessert place together. Francis asks if this is a date. Arthur says it’s whatever Francis wants it to be. At night, Arthur lays on Francis’ chest and mentions that his ex never let him do this. He would just use him and then leave. Francis holds Arthur a little tighter that night, and makes sure he falls asleep first, rubbing his back to soothe him. On a morning, Francis makes omelettes in the kitchen. He makes two. Arthur hugs him from behind, and plants a kiss on the back of his neck. They are young, and their romance is awkward, and new to both of them, but they love each other, and that’s all that matters.

In July, Francis paints a portrait of a person, and Arthur writes a song about one.

Then, August arrives.

August is cruel, and the end of summer signifies a loss of warmth. The days are getting shorter, and Francis has left. The two try to stay in touch, but it is hard. With so many things happening in their real lives, sparing time to text and call becomes increasingly difficult. Francis has to find a way to survive, financially, and Arthur has to study harder as he progresses in school, and deal with the new people he is surrounded by.

One day, Francis goes to message Arthur. The message won’t go through, and it makes Francis cry. He wishes he had stayed. He couldn’t have afforded to. Arthur didn’t want to have to change his phone number, but his old ex wouldn’t stop harassing him, and he was desperate for peace. It hits Arthur suddenly one night, that he hasn’t heard from Francis in months, and he knows it’s his own fault. He finds Francis’ number, and tries to text it. The number is out of service.

When Arthur is in his mid twenties, his band is doing small shows around the country. He’s happy - his bandmates are good friends, he’s had some decent relationships here and there, and his band, while not famous by a long shot and combined with his part time job at a warehouse, brings in just enough money to pay the rent and buy food. Really, that’s all Arthur needs. By now, he’s been taking T for a long time, and he was even able to get top surgery last year. Things are going great, in fact. When the vocalist and leader of the band tells him they booked the band’s first show abroad, Arthur is ecstatic. This is huge for the band!! If this show goes well, it could kickstart the band into stardom - at least, that’s what he hopes - and in Paris, too! Surely the venue would be stunning, or something… (spoiler alert it’s some shitty basement club). Arthur can’t wait.

Arthur and his band have just arrived in Paris for the weekend. It’s spring, the perfect season for new beginnings, and the band are having fun touring the city and sightseeing. They’ve been saving for months, and plan on making the most of this weekend.

It’s outside a cafe that Arthur sees him.

Arthur freezes up entirely, trying to process it. It can’t be, it can’t be, he tells himself, but it is. Sitting on a wooden stool, with an easel and a painting facing him, palette and brush in hand, with his long hair tied back in a bun, it’s unmistakably him. He looks older, but not by much. He’s even more handsome, having fully grown into his features. Arthur hesitates. Would it be weird to just approach him like this? Should he leave him alone? Arthur should leave him alone. He turns away, and then he stops. If he doesn’t say something now, the possibility of never, ever seeing Francis again is more than real, it’s almost certain. Arthur turns to look again. Francis is stunning, and Arthur swallows the lump in his throat as he tells his bandmates that he’s going to talk to someone. Arthur walks over through a crowd, and his whole body is shaking. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to open. He doesn’t know if Francis even wants to see him again.

“I like your painting…” Arthur says, and he can barely get the words out.

Francis turns, slowly, and meets Arthur’s eyes with shock on his face. He doesn’t say anything as he gets up from his seat, facing Arthur, who notices the tears welling in his eyes.

“I didn’t quite recognise your voice, I thought it couldn’t really be you-“ Francis replies, his voice shaking.

There is silence between them, before Arthur shakily offers his arms, and Francis throws himself into them. Francis cries, hard. Arthur bites back tears, holding him like the world depends on it.

“I missed you, I missed you so much.” Francis cries. Arthur responds that he missed Francis too.

That night, Arthur doesn’t join his band for post gig drinks. He rushes outside and into the taxi that’s waiting for him, to be driven off to an apartment he has never been to before. Someone special is waiting there for him. He throws himself at Francis, who somehow lifts him and spins him around. They hug and kiss and stay up all night together, talking and cuddling and loving each other. Francis introduces Arthur to his cat, who seems to take a liking to Arthur right off the bat. Francis comments that she usually doesn’t like strangers like that. They dance and play and talk some more, exchanging their new numbers, email, addresses for physical letters, anything to make sure they can’t lose each other again. Francis makes sure that Arthur knows that the loss of contact wasn’t actually his fault, it just happens. Arthur makes sure Francis knows he will do anything in his power for it to never happen again. Within hours, they are so close again it’s like they were never apart, and except for when Arthur is playing gigs, they spend every hour of the weekend together. On Sunday night, Arthur begs Francis to come back to England with him, even if it’s just for a week or something. Francis drops his cat off at his sister’s, and goes with Arthur. They spend more time together, inseparable for the entire week, and at the end of the week, Arthur surprises Francis with a ring. It’s not an engagement ring, or an expensive piece by any means, but Arthur says he saw it and couldn’t help himself. He hugs Francis tightly as Francis bursts into tears again, leaning on Arthur’s shoulder as Arthur kisses his cheek.

Francis needs to go home again for now, but this time, they do not fall out of touch. They will find a way to be together permanently, somehow. The ring is a promise of that. When Francis was younger, he painted a portrait of Arthur. It hangs proudly now, as one of his many original works. It even got to be part of an exhibition. When Arthur was younger, he wrote a song about Francis. He gets to play it now, at his gigs. The vocalist never sings it quite right, but Arthur lets his electric guitar be the one to really sing the song, the way it was meant to be.

They both know they will find a way.

#hetalia #fruk #hws england #hws france #university au #long post #like really fucking long #I got……….carried away #and went into more detail than I meant to #anyway this au isn’t finished I’m still working on it but I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently and I wanted to share

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lovelyghst · 3 months

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craving consensual somno with (slightly intoxicated) simon riley and his (extremely heavy sleeper) girl. take this as ur warnings.

just him coming home late at night as usual, the bourbon in his system keeping him loosened up and tranquil, yet ever so cognizant as he enters your shared bedroom. those familiar creepy-crawlies invading his stomach with boyish excitement to see you, and quickly turning towards his dick when he lays eyes on your pretty body.

it’s nearly a routine at this point; you purposely fall asleep in these skimpy, two-piece pajamas, usually some sort of small berries, cherries, or flowers adorning the thin, white fabric that leaves little to the imagination, knowing it’ll get him all worked up. the curtains are left pulled and the door cracked open, you kick the covers off and lay with a pillow hugged tightly in your arms beneath you to give him the best view; infinite signs telling him you want it just as bad as he does. it is routine, but it gets so him riled up, each and every time.

he trudges over, as quietly as the tipsy man can manage to the end of your bed, and with tunnel-vision on your exposed thighs. even his jaw fallen slack just a bit in hunger. desperate to get his hands on you after being apart for so long, and wanting to soothe that ache in his cock he hadn’t even realized he was palming through his jeans.

you barely stir when he kneels on the foot of the bed, and neither when he crawls above you and places a kiss right behind your ear.

he presses a cold palm to your shoulder, attempting to urge you onto your back to give him a visual of your features. to let him see your curves in the raw moonlight, how the dainty material of your pajamas becomes a tad bit see-through around your tits and incidentally rides up past your bellybutton, endless thoughts running through his dazed mind as he eventually manages to flip you over successfully.

though, your sleepy hum suddenly alerts him to a standstill, his worst nightmare being to wake you from your serene rest. not now, anyway.

“shhh, sweetheart,” he gently coaxes you, and he can’t help the grin spanning his lips when you mumble the first syllable of his name in that questioning, dreamy tone. he clears fallen hair from your face, slipping his pillow from your grasp as he mutters, “yeah, dovie, s’only me. you’re okay, you’re safe… jus’ go back to sleep for me, now.”

your unconscious mind obeys like clockwork, the smallest of smiles curling your lip corners in contentment, and it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s returning to his endeavors.

kissing all across your exposed collarbone, thoughtlessly slipping a finger or two beneath the strap of your little pajama shirt and carefully allowing it to glide down your shoulder as he repeats the process on the other side. peppering kisses to your soft skin, before rolling the fabric upward from the bottom so he can properly pay attention to the rest of your chest and tummy.

lips grazing your sternum with short, controlled breaths fanning your sensitive parts; aware of how easily ticklish you are and attempting not to light that fuse, equally straining himself in not turning too feverish as he takes your hardened nipple in his mouth and paws at the other in his hand.

he works his way down slowly but surely, until he’s pulling your shorts off with tender hands and unveiling your bare, soaked pussy, and he can’t even think to suppress the low groan pushed from his lungs at the sight in front of him. he inches forward with nearly crossed eyes, taking incisive ministrations in lifting your legs up and over his back.

your breathing hitches a bit in your slumber when he licks an almost reluctant yet long stripe from your hole to your clit, unable to give himself a moment to savor it before he’s diving back in for more.

“missed this pretty, little cunt on my tongue, baby… christ,” he chuckles lightly to himself, “good girl’s gonna be the death o’ me.”

he sloppily makes-out with your pussy, any and all devotions of rhythm and precision thrown far from his intentions. he only gets to be selfish when he has you like this, and he’d be damned if he doesn’t take advantage of the opportunity as it’s laid out on his bed. moaning at your wetness and taste, how your pussy drools for more and coats his chin with a slick he devours like a madman deprived.

the small whines you make in your sleep are nothing but precious to simon, burning them into his brain like any other occasion he’s pulled them from your lips. saving them for the later times like when he’s a thousand miles away, locked away in some office, and can’t possibly bring himself to bother you with a pestering, horny phone call.

you turn your head to the side with a hum, empty hands reaching for any semblance of comfort on your abdomen, which rather concerns him for a moment until he realizes just what you want.

he gives you one of his hands and you blindly accept it, wrapping your smaller fingers around his wrist and thumb to pull the appendage closer. resting just below your ribcage, satisfied and holding it close like you would a teddy bear.

“sweet thing… always loved this perfect pussy,” he mumbles right up against your warmth, quiet as to not disrupt your blissful obliviousness in your sleep. he’s utterly drunk on you and your taste, and the alcohol he had beforehand certainly contributes to his filthy, forward language.

“how easy y’get on my mouth, ‘nd yet how tight you are around my cock… fuckin’ hell—”

he watches intently as the tips of his fingers delve between your folds, gradually disappearing whilst your chest begins to heave a little heavier; a faint, broken noise of pleasure omitting straight from your throat. tightening around his digits as he pushes them further in, just as you do wrapped around his cock when you’re conscious.

he’s not thinking straight; he’s merely experimenting with you as he curls his fingers upward, prodding at that gummy spot in your cunt and greedily sucking on your clit to push you over. toying with you, rather, because the face you make when you’re first emerged from your slumber with a mind-shattering orgasm is truly priceless.

your eyes snap open as you come around his digits, squeezing his hands tight with your vision going blank. the high is strong but you don’t allow it to last very long when the dots in your brain are connecting, turning you all excited for the implications of it all.

erratically catching your breath with a huge grin on your face, matching his as he comes up to greet you. he’s stupid, shamelessly drunk on your taste, and it radiates from his expression as if he just witnessed a star being born right before his muddy eyes.

you haven’t a clue what just happened, but you fucking loved every sober second of it.

and before you know it, he’s coming back up to meet your lips with his own, which you graciously accept, taste of slick and alcohol and all. humming as he slips his greedy hands upward and behind your back, giggling when he impatiently flips over on his back and hauls you with him. til you’re curled up by his side, halfway on his chest whilst one leg slips between both of his bulky ones.

“i‘m glad you’re home…” nearly a pout, “really missed you, si.”

you’re the first one to speak, quietly, sincere as ever as you examine his pretty face. the faint bags beneath his lids, the wetness that sticks to his dirty-blond stubble. his rough and gruff exterior that hides behind it a boy who’s absolutely and utterly whipped for you.

“that right?” he taunts, eyes remaining shut. “and my tongue, i bet?”

you shy away with a laugh. he won’t remember these words in the morning, but you’ve always loved how cocky and brazen he gets with a couple of drinks running through his blood.

“i missed all of you...”

his eyes barely have to open for him to effectively, and lovingly, judge you with a mere glance. it’s one of his talents.

“some parts more than others, clearly.”

“that’s not true,” you contest, but the humorous hesitancy and sheepishness in your voice tells him otherwise.

“sure, baby, sure.” he takes a moment to breathe, overtly proud of himself. “y’missed my mouth, n’ my hands. even with how rough they are with ya sometimes, yeah?” you hide your flushed face in his neck with a groan, praying this embarrassment is short-lived though preparing for the worst as you feel his lips inch closer to your ear.

“prob’ly missed me fuckin’ my cock into that tight, little cunt—”

“okay, fine!” you finally admit and pull away defensively, slapping his chest but only earning a laugh from him. “but i definitely don’t miss that dirty brain of yours, you big dog.”

“you love me anyway,” he states, matter-of-factly.

you give a big smooch to his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, and then down to his lips, which he returns.

“i do. a lot,” you add and he hums, feeling fulfilled.

and, oh, he’s so fulfilled with you. you take care of him by allowing him to take care of you, and it’s a two-way street. you ground each other whilst never forcing one to tether themself to earth.

you sit up to fix your top, smoothing over the fabric and shrugging the straps back into place. shimmying back into your shorts when you catch a glimpse of the large man’s dark jeans contrasting your light sheets, belt buckle glimmering in the corner of your eye.

“simon, honey, you need to change before you—”

you look over and are suddenly forced to stifle a giggle when you discover that the poor man has fallen asleep, a droopy smile still ornamenting his slick-covered face. taking your hand and swiping the apple of his cheek with your thumb, you’re pleased when he doesn’t budge one bit. dragging it downwards past his muscled chest and abdomen, landing just beneath his leather belt.

your fingertips trace his hard-on over the jeans, knowing you can’t just leave him like this, all aching and pent up and too exhausted to do anything about it himself.

maybe you could do him a favor and return the sweet gesture? <3

#i got carried away #cod mw #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x female reader #ghost x female reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut

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