master_questing
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Ref To World Series: Episode 5 (Episode 57) where England was sick and France says "Ohoho, now is my big chance!" So I wrote a fic about what would happen if America didn't interrupt him! ENJOY<3
Bookmarked by master_questing
21 Jul 2026
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The time has come for England to experience his first heat cycle in several years, after surviving off of almost triple the recommended dosage of heat suppressants. His body wastes no time catching him up on his missed cycles, and while France is away on an important business matter, surprisingly accompanied by Austria, he ends up catching onto the first few symptoms in a panic.
He is reassured that he will be taken care of, no matter what.
France is put to the ultimate test when he returns home and he is suddenly overwhelmed by the unfiltered, heat induced pheromones of a extremely sexually irate version of the very omega he's devoted his life to.
Series
- Part 6 of Imposter Syndrome
Bookmarked by master_questing
21 Jul 2026
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With war looming, England worries for France.
When war is here, he can't help but feel as if France has given up.
And when France is gone, why shouldn't he just give up?
Bookmarked by master_questing
18 Jul 2026
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Twice before, this question had ended them; to think of a third attempt was madness.
But two thousand years of it all - the wars, the treaties, the confessions swallowed, the chances squandered, and the memories of cypress trees - refused to stay buried any longer.
With Dover's white cliffs at his back and Cap Blanc-Nez before him, Arthur's endless stubbornness finally found its end.
[ This is the extended version of 'Between the Cliffs, Pour Toujours' from the 20th Anniversary Zine ]
Series
- Part 5 of The Making of England
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 6,542
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 4
- Kudos:
- 20
- Bookmarks:
- 7
- Hits:
- 146
Bookmarked by master_questing
18 Jul 2026
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“I came to see you.”
The words left him more quietly than he intended. They hovered in the air between them, fragile and strangely intimate— Like a confession disguised as duty. France’s eyelids lowered, a faint scoff escaping him as he leaned his head back against the arm of the couch. “How sentimental.”
It wasn’t said with his usual lightness. The sarcasm was brittle, exhausted, as if he no longer had the energy to sharpen it into a proper blade.