Story Title: Arthur and the Frog
Rated: R for sexual content and France abuse
Status: Complete // 1400+
Summary: [Francis/Arthur][Alternate Universe] Arthur kisses a frog who—most unfortunately—does not turn into Prince Charming.
Steve's Notes: This story ended up being less about the porn I've been promising and more about the reason Why Steve Shouldn't Try Her Hand At Humor (or Why Steve Should Stay Away From Double Entendre). On Another Note: WHY CAN'T I CONCENTRATE ON WHAT I SHOULD BE WRITING? /is shot
Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia © Himaruya Hidekaz

"I am," the frog tells him with all the seriousness a green amphibian the size of a fist can muster (which is to say, very little), "—a prince."

If Arthur weren't used to this sort of thing—"this" meaning odd, supernatural occurrences and not specifically frogs claiming to be princes because that's actually never happened to him before—he would most likely laugh himself silly. As it is, he asks the frog, "And how did you end up in this state of being, then?"

The frog ribbits in what is unmistakably embarrassment. He's handsome, for a frog, with smooth, chartreuse skin, a soft lime underbelly, long and compact limbs, and perfectly formed webbed feet with spindly toes in the shape of stars. "It was a most grievous misunderstanding," the frog begins. "I politely declined the company of a humble woman—she was not to my specific tastes, you see, though I am sure she was palatable to others—for another's company, and in her jealous grief she saw it fit to turn me into a frog."

Arthur is left with the distinct impression that the small creature might have deserved his rather unfortunate fate, but releases his suspicions as a quick cough into the crook of his elbow. The frog, despite having little to no control over his facial expressions, manages to look peevish.

"So, then, what is to be done about your condition?" Arthur asks.

"I require a kiss," the frog replies, and Arthur promptly loses it.

Several minutes later, after Arthur has succeeded in spilling his afternoon tea over himself and nearly fallen from his stiff-backed chair, he reigns in his mirthful laughter. "Excuse me," Arthur says as sincerely and apologetically as he can with a grin splitting his face in two. "—but is this not the sort of problem that is more suited for a princess to solve?"

"I suppose it would be," the frog huffs. "Yet for all that I am a prince, un homme parmi les hommes despite my current appearance, the specifics of a curse prohibit my transformation back to my human form if that kiss were bestowed upon me by one of the fairer—and, doubtlessly, more romantic and willing—sex."

Then the frog levels him with a stare that leaves no doubt in Arthur's mind as to why he's hopped onto Arthur's tea table and not another, more lacy and perfumed tea table. Suddenly, the frog's dilemma is less funny than it is downright the most hilarious and ridiculous tale that Arthur has ever heard. This time, he really does fall from his chair to the cool, stone patio.

"If you are quite done," the frog snaps once Arthur composes himself enough to haul his body back into his seat and pour himself another cup of Earl Grey into his fine, blue and white china teacup. "I should like my kiss and be on my way."

Arthur very nearly tells the rude frog that he can be on his merry way without a bloody kiss, but for as much as the frog's plight amuses him, Arthur is not truly mean-spirited. "Alright," Arthur replies after the long pause it takes him to finish the last dredges of his tea. "One kiss."

"Merci beaucoup," the frog breathes in relief, and hops into Arthur's outstretched palms. "Your generosity shall not go unrewarded."

Refraining from rolling his eyes (though just barely), Arthur presses a quick, dry kiss onto the seam of the frog's wet mouth—

—and feels quite ridiculous when nothing happens.

"Peut-être," the frog croaks weakly, "Perhaps the kiss needs to be longer, or perhaps, avec plus de passion—"

Before the frog can finish his statement or Arthur can fling the delusional amphibian across the yard, there's a flash of light, a loud pop of displaced air, and Arthur's vision is suddenly assaulted by a very, very naked man—or, more appropriately, a very, very naked man's indecent bits.

If asked about the incident later, Arthur would claim that he reacted in a calm, sensible manner befitting a gentleman of his stature. If asked, the prince would swear up and down that Arthur had swooned over his Very Impressive endowments and fallen into his outstretched arms, whereupon they proceeded to make passionate love there on the terrace. The reality, however, is this: Arthur releases a shriek that is not quite what one would term "the epitome of manliness", one of his flailing limbs jabs sharply into the frog's more sensitive areas, the tea table with all it's polished silver and antique china is overturned, and when the servants come to investigate the loud commotion, the frog is curled—whimpering—around his injuries and Arthur is screaming shrilly about his poor, defiled retinas and compromised innocence.

It is, most would agree, the beginnings of True Love.

The Frog Fiasco, as Arthur cleverly dubs his temporary lapse of common sense, refuses to become the simple matter of a bad memory. Whether this condition is hindered by:

a) the lavish, entirely useless gifts the frog (who apparently is the prince of some pompous region or another) showers upon him
b) the sidelong glances, stifled giggles, and speculative gossip of his servants as to what indecencies are really transpiring between their lord and the frog prince
c) the fact that every single time Arthur closes his eyes, the image of a sharply defined abdomen, pronounced hipbones, a thatch of dark gold hair, and a Very Impressive—

Ahem.

Well, whatever the cause, the effect begins to wear on Arthur's nerve (singular, because the rest have already committed pre-emptive suicide). Between the frog's ever increasing visits and unwanted affectionate overtures—"Oh, mon cheri, forgive me, but there was a most unseemly (insert random object) attached to your (insert most readily available/unguarded body part)!"—and Arthur's polite attempts to let the frog know that he Is Not Interested—"Oh dear, that tea was near boiling!/normally I'm much more careful with my billiards pole!/I seem to have developed a most violent twitch!"—Arthur knows he is acting as though he were a few mince pies short of tea time.

Yet for as much as Arthur is purposefully doing wrong, he must also (against his conscious will) be doing something right. Perhaps it is the rare smile that the frog coaxes from him—the frog is, unfortunately, very handsome and charming—or perhaps it is the occasional peaceful silence that settles between them when the frog forgets to be arrogant and Arthur forgets to be vindictive—a situation which is quickly fixed when the frog takes the momentary truce as the perfect opportunity to assault Arthur's person. Perhaps it is because Arthur catches himself wondering what the frog's stubble would feel like against his skin or how he would peel the expensive, fashionable frock coat away. Perhaps it is the weakness he allows when the frog leaves, when the other man's gloved hand catches Arthur's bare hand, kisses the knuckles and then the inside of Arthur's wrist, the faintest hint of teeth against his pulse.

Perhaps it is because, when the frog says, "Until next time, mon cheri," it is as though he leaves without his heart, as though the seconds they are apart stretch into a painful, empty eternity. Arthur is baffled by the sting of a blush that lingers on his cheeks as he watches the frog's fashionable carriage roll out of sight—

—and then, wonders at the frog's apparent inability to take a hint and die.

There is, Arthur concludes, something incredibly disturbed about a man who falls in love with another person who regularly commits excessive and potentially fatal acts of violence upon his person—and then goes as far as to misconstrue these acts of violence as unorthodox displays of affection. This is why, one early afternoon when Arthur and the frog are engaged in a friendly game of croquet (the state of the frog's shins notwithstanding) Arthur turns to the other man and asks, "Are you quite sure that you aren't mentally deficient?"

"I assure you," the frog replies smoothly. "—that I am not deficient in any manner."

The frog then proceeds—paying no heed to Arthur's verbal and physical protests—to prove his argument right there on the lawn underneath the cool shade of the willow trees, and as he curses and sweats and begs beneath him, Arthur eventually concedes that the frog has a Very Impressive point indeed.

And this is how Arthur and the frog live Happily Ever After:

"Mon dieu, cheri!" the frog croaks as they engage in rigorous congress on a rather undeserving table in the parlor. "Je m'appelle Francis!"

Or as happy as two men with the combined emotional capacity of teaspoon could be, in any case.

Translation Notes:
un homme parmi les hommes: a man among men
Peut-être... avec plus de passion: Perhaps... with a bit more passion
Je m'appelle Francis!: My name is Francis!

end.