Since we got some head cannons about Ireland and Wales. Can we get some hc's about England and Scotland?
Why of course! I got a few of headcanons for these two idiots. I’ll go in general, can’t think of a specific topic lol
Basically, they act like an old married couple but brother editions. They argue over the littlest of things and they always need to have the upper hand over the other. However, despite all the insults and vicious jabs, they care for each other... just in their own weird way. And when they need to work together, they're eerily effective and in synch. Can hold a whole conversation just by one look.
As a hobby, England does flower arrangement and he’s quite good at it. He got lots of practice with his garden and will flaunt his skill whenever he hosts a dinner. He would even help in preparing the decoration for diplomatic meetings or other governmental events. His brothers often tease him he would make a great wedding planner (though little did they know he did lend a hand a few times to his human coworkers in the Parliament for their weddings)
Despite having great survival skills from having a rough childhood mostly spent in the woods/forests, England shamelessly love going ‘glamping’. The comfort of knowing you have shelter, warmth and food for a few nights lift a weight off his shoulders. There’s no need to be worried about dangers, though he knows he can deal with it if it comes to, but now, he’s just here to relax and enjoy (which is a rare thing for this workaholic idiot).
England claims to be a gentleman in public (and he is, most of the time), but he will go absolutely feral during the Nation 6 championship, as well as the rest of his brothers (and the others). They may be living in peace in modern times, but whenever rugby is involved, they’re one hair away from starting a war between them. The Parliament is well aware of this, so for the next few weeks, they keep England from having meetings with the winner nation as a precaution.
He’s the kind of guy who uses a 13 in 1 shampoo, but somehow, against all odds, he has the softest hair known to mankind. It’s hard to know at first because Scotland rarely let someone touch his hair, but when someone does, they’re mesmerized by it. France always laments of the waste potential of having such fine hair because Scotland puts no efforts in styling it.
When he has time outside his nation duties and part-time job as a paramedic, he works as a rock-climbing instructor. Mainly because he loves rock climbing in general, but also because he finds it hilarious to watch the newbies flail around in the air. It fills his schadenfreude heart, but he balances it out by giving well thought insights and making sure they’re always safe.
Because he loves going on day long hikes in the Highlands at least once a week, Scotland often gets sore feet. So, once a month, he gets a foot massage (and full on face mask treatment as a treat because why the hell not?) at the local salon. It was strange at first, seeing a six-foot-or-so tall man with broad shoulders and a resting bitch face asking for a foot massage. But the regulars (mostly old ladies) were all charmed by his dry humour and take no shit attitude. So Scotland knows all the local gossip and secrets of everyone in town (who cheated on who, the new promotion by bribe, the neighbour’s dog that was buried in someone else’s backyard, you name it). He may claim he doesn’t like gossip, but the group of old ladies eagerly spilling the tea on the latest scandal and him not stopping them at any moment says otherwise.
The polyship anon has taken residency in your walls now and she is back to being a wall creeper.
Here is a literal polycule, Norway x England Romania x Japan x Belarus.
This has a lot of nsfw potential as well as a lot of emotional angst, because we have two tsunderes, a possible yandere, whatever japan is, and the ball of chaos that is Romania
Also they all get topped by belarus, I do not make the rules here, this ship exudes bottom energy with the most topping top imaginable.
Also Nyo Austria x Hungary x Nyo prussia, frying pangle but they're all girls, and now though Prussia looks like a top, she gets railed by Austria and Hungary.
They do so much kinky stuff that its unbelievable and Hungary usually conceives it.
Bonus if Japan is either in the polyship or is their mutual homie who set them up in the first place.
*sprinkles walls with holy water *
anyways! Do you have a magic wheel or do you draw papers from a hat because some of these ships seem SO RANDOM I don't know how you come up with them but YOUR MIND
magic trio polycule itself is already good and then throw in one of the most beautilful girl either of them has ever seen.. and I dont know how you thought of japan but it works??
Bela is definitely topping the boys but also they would adore her either way so she doesnt have to do much to get them where she wants them. except later into the relationship they test the limits (looking at all of them here) by being brats. and occassionally she deserves a break and let the guys take care of her 💕
Japan always seems so prude, but I think he would be the one to suggest some v kinky stuff for them to try out. He and Romania seem like the type of person to watch porn and actively search for new positions, toys, kinks,.. 👀 England is probably the one who thinks hes prepared for anything but his partners always succeed in surprising him with new ways to pleasure him and themselves.
Also just style and look wise they would be one of the sexiest ships I think. Norway and Belarus have great taste and would make their polycule look like models who walked right off the runway! and they also pick out cute underwear for everyone
Lesbian frying pangle? Another great thought. I think nyo Prussia would be more confident and relaxed about sex than her male counterpart so she tells her girlfriends exactly what she likes and how could they not have a great time like this? They dont have many different toys, but the ones they have are being used frequently.
I have an unfinished frying pangle fic where hungary sits on prussias face and a little later austria joins them and sucks prussia off and actually this position would work for lesbian frying pangle too, tho a little different.. I was thinking nyo austria sitting on nyo prussias face while hungary rails her with a strap on? Idk just a thought ^^
adding japan to this ship is interesting.. he would be so done with all these girls flirting with him (because I cant see them being very discreet about their intents too. maybe nyo austria, but shes overshadowed by her girlfriends in this regard) but they would treat him really good. taking turns riding him and when he cums they get it on with each other during his refractory period before continuing with a second round.
For @sea-fiddle something short and sweet — holding hands while walking home from the shops. (And if I get carded every time that I try to buy a painkiller well then, so does Arthur nation or not.)
-- -- --
The couch in the living room is a relic from the seventies. No, by far, the oldest piece of furniture they own, or even the finest. Fact is it is probably the single ugliest thing that has been dragged into this living room, save perhaps Sean on a good Thursday.
(He makes the comparison once, in front of him, and has the stool he is sitting on promptly kicked from underneath him. It’s still sitting out in the garden, missing a leg and waiting to be fitted with a new one. Scotland will find time for it this weekend. Or better yet, let Sean fix it.)
But despite it’s sagging cushions, despite the horrendous floral print and the hideous decorative pillows, it is without a doubt the best couch Alasdair has ever had the pleasure to sit on. He’s fond of the old thing too, and that means that he’s taken good care of it; found the perfect fabric match to patch it up over the years, re-stuffed it. Levelled it back up whenever it’s been broken in during a scrap. He has even come to love the pillows. Garish wee things with the corners torn to bits and restitched because Arthur lets the cat chew on them. Dai embroidered them while he was down with a bout of influenza in the thirties and they had finally found a home in the living room after the last time they cleaned the cellar.
It’s an odd arrangement that they have between them—have had, since they banded up, for convenience at first and now… They have an arrangement, and as a result the house is an amalgamation of their lives, mismatched furniture and all. Clothes, keepsakes, odds and ends. Most of it fair game. But they have unsaid rules and boundaries set out. To keep the peace.
One of them, and a very fair one, he thinks, is that once Alasdair’s settled down on the couch that’s that. He refuses to move, not for grief. If they’re watching a footie match and he’s sprawled on the couch, they can sit on the armrests, pull up a chair. Sit on the ground for all he cares. If Alasdair is feeling generous he might even shuffle over, on caveat. It is not like he minds sharing so much as it is just the principle of the thing.
Which brings them to now.
Alasdair looks up at Arthur from where he is comfortably lying on the couch with his feet propped up on the arm rest.
Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to the other under Alasdair’s impassive glare and repeats what he just said as though there was a chance that Alasdair could have misheard him. “I need you to come to the shop with me.”
“Aye,” he answers slowly, after letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “I heard you fine the first time.”
“Alright then, come on.”
Arthur’s coat is buttoned up from when he walked through the door not five minutes ago. “Didn’t you just come back from the shop?”
England rolls his eyes. “Just throw on a coat.”
Alasdair crosses his arm over the hideous cushion resting on his chest.
Scotland refuses to budge. “There are not enough words to express how much I cannae be arsed to go to the shop, moppy.”
Wales chooses that moment to pop his head into the room. “Is Arthur back?” He smiles when he spots him. “How’s your head, mush?”
Arthur cringes a little. “Better now, ta.”
Dai grimaces in sympathy. “Tea?”
“Yes please, love.” Arthur turns back to Alasdair when Dai disappears down the hall again.
“No.” Alasdair interrupts him before he can ask again.
“No.” He sinks stubbornly deeper into the couch, bending his knees. “Take Dai.”
“Dai is busy. And I’m asking you.” Arthur is starting to sound a little exasperated. “Get up.”
“Who’s getting up?” Sean comes padding in, bare footed and with a sleeve of paracetamol in his hand. “Catch.” He tosses it to Arthur, who grabs it out of the air. “Mind, I think they’ve gone off.”
Arthur turns the packet in his hand to look at it closer under the light and groans, tossing them down on a side table. “Thanks anyway.” The furrow of his brow seems tighter than a minute ago when he glares down at Alasdair. “You know what? Fine. You'll do,” he says to Sean. “Put on your shoes.”
“Going to the shop.” Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose and turning to head for the door without waiting for an answer. Ireland shrugs, patting his pockets to check he has his wallet on him before stepping up to follow.
Alasdair groans to himself.
“Wait,” he calls out, bidding a silent, mournful goodbye to his spot on the couch. “Arthur, wait. I’ll go.”
Sean makes a dive for the couch the moment he heaves himself up. “Bring me something back!”
Alasdair at least has the satisfaction of slamming the pillow he was holding on his face before he goes.
Alasdair swipes a basket by the door and passes it to Arthur, expecting they’ll end up grabbing a few things on top drinks and whatever’s on the short, cramped list Dai wrote earlier. The first thing Arthur grabs is a packet of painkillers.
They look a right pair, with Arthur in his handsome peacoat and Alasdair in his joggers, Sean’s slippers, and a leather jacket he’s owned since 1983.
While Arthur is busy going on a purposeful track to get milk-eggs-flour-butter, Alasdair wanders about a little aimlessly. Amuses himself by sneaking things into the basket to see when Arthur will notice. A packet of strawberry laces is easy to slip in, light and thin. Chocolate buttons for Sean. He shoots in a cream egg from across the aisle while Arthur is bent over to grab a can of something-or-another and thinks he’s been had for a moment before Arthur just adjusts the handle on his arm and keeps walking.
What gets him caught is the packet of crisps that hits the back of Arthur’s shoulder instead of the basket.
Arthur looks back, startled, and puts it together with a look down at the basket. He shakes his head with a snort and steps into the next aisle before Alasdair can toss another.
He’s glad to see Arthur grabbing the good cider and a pack of beer to go with whatever awful movie they end up watching.
“Give here,” he steps up behind him and takes them from him. “How’s yer head?”
Arthur shrugs. “It’s fine.”
Alasdair hums and presses a quick kiss behind his ear before heading for the till.
The first thing the nice lass at the tills says to them as she’s ringing them up is ”Sorry about that,” as she shoots Arthur a sympathetic smile. It strikes Alasdair as odd, but he doesn’t think much of it, just passes her their things and bags them while Arthur digs for his wallet.
“It happens all the time,” Arthur reassures her, smiling politely the way he does when he’s talking to someone who doesn’t know him any better.
“Is your head a bit better?” she asks next, theme of the night, and that is what brings Alasdair up short, an inkling of something forming at the back of his head.
Arthur is tapping his foot the way he does when he’s been caught in a fib or wants to leave a conversation and cannot. “A bit, yeah.”
“Still not found your ID though?” And oh, oh, if this isnae a hoot.
Arthur’s smile twitches like he can hear what Alasdair is thinking. “‘Fraid not.”
She looks up at Alasdair as she hands him their last bag, smiling a little impishly. “Well that’s alright. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
Alasdair steps subtly closer to Arthur after taking it from her and not-so-subtly nudges his nose against his temple. She looks quickly away smiling still, eyes a little wider.
“Yes, please. A pack of… what is it you’re smoking these days?” Arthur looks over his shoulder to ask him, oblivious.
Alasdair tells her and she rings them up after grabbing a carton from the back shelf. She sees them off with a cheerful little wave and they step out into the chill of the night to a chorus of ‘cheers’ going back and forth.
Arthur seems to be trying to out pace him, walking briskly down the street with the carton of cider under his arm, but Alasdair has longer legs and it only takes him a couple of steps to catch up.
“Arthur...” he starts chuckling.
“Come on, then. Get it out.”
“Did she card ye?”
“Yes,” Arthur grouses. “Yes, she bloody carded me for the fucking paracetamol.”
“How did it feel?”
Arthur’s glare is answer enough. Alasdair laughs a little more at his expense.
“Where’s yer license?”
“And you didn’t bring Dai because?” Alasdair pauses. “Didn’t you drive down from London?”
“He’s not got a license, just now,” Arthur answers, conspicuously ignoring his second question.
“And looks a bairn.” Alasdair bumps his shoulder against Arthur teasingly. “Just like you, bonnie lad.”
“Fuck off,” Arthur finally laughs.
They’re walking close enough to each other that their fingers brush lightly. Arthur pulls his hand back, apologising instinctively under his breath and taking a half-step away. Alasdair looks at his profile against the bright streetlights and with a fond shake of his head grabs his hand outright, tugging him closer again. “Do you know what we’re watching?”
Arthur looks at him, a little surprised. “Something god awful,”—there is a small smile playing at the corner of his lips—”I imagine.”
Alasdair hums and gives his hand a squeeze. Considers the centuries when this would have been impossible. Thinks about taking Arthur upstairs, and letting him rest his eyes properly in a dark room; if he’d rather stay with the lot of them, pulling him down to rest his head on his lap while the telly plays in the background so he can run his fingers through his hair—
If he can kick Sean’s arse out of the bloody couch first.