#hw writes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ego-meliorem-esse · 8 months

Text

July 13th, 1917

Be it from a sense of paternal concern or simply patriotic duty, Arthur made sure to leave his soldiers in the charge of an older Corporal and made his way to the quite pathetic excuse of a medical section where his son was left to rot.

Arthur had heard about the attack. He had been informed the day prior.

He had seen war and famine and sickness, but never like this. Arthur wasn't young, in any sense, and what wonders and strong political oppinions young men had, had left him a long time ago like a ship leaving the harbour in a hury to claim new land. This though, had left shock echoing within his tired, millenia old frame. He wasn't used to this.

Arthur made his way through the trenches with soldiers from every corner of the globe instantly stopping whatever they were doing prior and saluting him as if etiquette and rank mattered in hell. As if it was more importaint to greet the Higher ups than to survive long enough to even write a letter back to family. Arthur did understand that though. Routine and rules were the only thing keeping these poor and wretched souls from being consumed by thoughts of an imminent death.

The path to the section where Matthew was held was quite straightforward and quite familiar. He had marched to and from it hundreds of times and had a sort of automatic rithm in his step. Arthur made his way to the small and damp room with a fast pace indicative of familiarity, only to stop in his tracks in the shabbily built doorframe at the sight that awaited him in the corner.

Matthew sat in the corner of the sad makeshift medical section of the trenches, his back firm against the cold, damp wall.

His once-piercing blue-grey eyes were now clouded over with milky white cataracts, rendering him completely blind. The newly used gas had stolen his sight. His skin, once tanned and healthy, now bore the sickly pallor of a much older man who had endured unimaginable suffering.

Matthew's uniform, discarded in favour of his worn down undershirt, was now a tattered and stained relic of his time in the trenches. The not-white-anymore shirt clung to his emaciated frame as if decency still mattered in hell. The physical toll of the war was clear on his body. Not that Matthew would have to worry about seeing that any time soon. His hands, which had once held a rifle with resolve, now trembled even while resting on his thighs.

Despite his physical and emotional anguish, Matthew remained seated upright, his back pressed against the unforgiving, stained wall. A testament to his resilience if there was any left, a silent protest against the horrors that had taken his sight and left him broken in body and spirit.

As he sat there, his spirit reduced to a hollow shell, Matthew's face bore a mixed expression of utter defeat and complete indifference. His lips were drawn into a thin, lifeless line, and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight of his suffering. His blank, unseeing eyes stared into the abyss, as if waiting for answers and also hoping they'd never arrive.

In that moment, Matthew was not a representation of Canada; he was a young man who had been scarred and broken by the senseless brutality of war. The trenches around him buzzed with activity, but he remained isolated in his silent world of darkness and despair. The young medics job was done. He had patched Matthew up and left him to his own misery. Matthew was grateful.

Arthur stood there silently under the doorframe for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. A strange and unfamiliar twinge of emotion plucked and pulled on his conscience. He hadn't felt guilt in quite some time. This feeling was reserved for drunken nights spent in solitude with the doors to the room he resided in firmly locked so that his sliver of self-deprecating emotion wasn't witnessed by any but himself, while he drunk himself to unconsciousness.

He preferred the emotional solitude to this.

Arthur had believed himself to be capable of most things. Especially conversation and confrontation. He was quite good at those as centuries of existence had proved. He believed himself quite skilful with words. Most of the time he knew what to say and when to say it without it resulting in unwanted and unforeseen consequences, while still making sure his opinion was heard.

Arthur had no words forming as he stood in that doorframe. If Arthur was a good man, his reasoning would be that he felt such strong empathy and sadness that words wouldn't be enough to express the sorrow he felt at that moment. If Arthur was a good man he'd run to his son, assure him that this wouldn't happen ever again and that he was safe. If Arthur was a good man he would fall on his knees in front of his oldest son and beg for forgiveness.

Arthur wasn't a good man.

He could admit to his shortcomings, but to act on them was not in his nature.

So he stood there for another 5 or 6 minutes watching his son shallowly breathe in and out, hearing the boys lungs struggle to keep up with his muscles contraction and need for air.

He must have made a noise, as Matthew's head tilted slightly to the left, almost looking at Arthur but definitely not seeing him. Arthur looked back at him.

The room was quiet, save for the desperate plea of Matthews lungs to be put out of their misery.

Sensing nothing after a few moments, Matthew turned his head back towards the blank wall ahead.

Arthur silently turned his frame around and slowly started walking the path he had taken to get here. As he took a few steps, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

How he longed for that whiskey bottle and that dark room where he could lock himself in and slowly drift out of consciousness instead of facing his own mistakes.

Arthur definitely was not a good man.

#ooof i had a field day with this one #father son drama ugh sighn me the fuck up #arthur is def not a good man im sorry to the england stans but he isnt #he lives his kids but he is not a good man #he would take a bullet for his kids bur he is not a good man #hetalia #hws england #hws canada #myart #my art #historical hetalia #my writing #arthur kirkland #matthew williams #hetalia fanfiction

1K notes · View notes

thewisestdino · 6 months

Note

Cloudtail 75 for the Spotify wrapped thingy :3

Leah you're breaking my heart and I'm letting you Oblivious beauty I'm betting you don't even know what you're doing to me

#cloudtail #brightheart #warriors #warrior cats #wcs #ms paint #spotifygame2023 #my hw watching me work on these 0.0 #im sorry ms paint warrior cat doodles r more fun than the paper i have to write AAA #anyway i feel like brightheart would have a shirt that says “i love my dramatic hubby”

649 notes · View notes

apersonwholikeslotus · 9 days

Text

I think something that isn't addressed enough when pulling the parallels between Ludwig and Alfred, is Ludwig was raised to be an empire, Alfred was not.

Ludwig, whether he acknowledges it or not, was born with a standing, with a reputation. The Heir to the Holy Roman Empire, and by proxy to Heir to Rome. Ludwig is used to being treated like he is important, most of his power came without him personally having to do much work. Roderich and Gilbert took care of everything, he was just their figurehead.

The closest thing Alfred had to a reputation was "Arthur's son", and even then for the longest time he was the backwater colonies. Alfred gained his independence and even then was used to being treated like dirt, no one thought he would actually make it that far. he has the 'i pulled myself up by my own bootstraps' mentality.

And I very much enjoy the idea of this being a point of conflict between them; an off hand comment can spark the biggest arguments between them because of this. Ludwig will insist he worked for everything just as hard as Alfred did, and it pisses Alfred off to no extent. and when it comes out as part of a larger argument it can ruin their relationship for months.

#I got to write alfred tauntingly saying “oh the little prince is mad he got handed everything?” and this thought has been haunting me since #hws america #hws germany #hetalia

227 notes · View notes

sideblogdotjpeg · 2 months

Text

sol bufo is not an anime protagonist he is a SHAOLIN SOCCER PROTAGONIST!!!!!!!

#naddpod #ba2mia #ba2umia #solum bufo #cough cough. anyway #...... so like im normal guys i promise. cough cough #anyway. procrastinated aoo much hw to do this #i had to finish this then inmediately write an analysis on platos allegory of the cave. thats where im at #posts by me dot com

314 notes · View notes

harmonysixx · 2 months

Text

They're talking shit about the 'authorities'

The 'authorities':

219 notes · View notes

minnieminshi · 3 months

Note

Hii

So what about boyfriend Seungcheol who gifts reader books from her wishlist and then she realizes that conveniently he always knows the book she wants

Like she suspects that it isn’t a coincidence but still she doesn’t know how he knows 🤭

Stop bcs that's such a cute little thing to do :((( Warnings: none besides one mention of getting tackled lol

Wishlist Love

Wc: 534

“Another gift? Cheol this is like the third one this month,” you pout as you take the bag from your boyfriend’s hands, already knowing what’s inside. He simply smiles as he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sorry about that, but you know I love spoiling you,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your lips.

You roll your eyes but there’s no malice behind it, you know how Seungcheol gets when you try denying that you don’t deserve everything that he’s bought you over the months you’ve been together. The one time you said that you didn’t deserve all that he’s gotten you he gently tackled you onto your couch, smothering you in kisses until you recanted your sentence, finally accepting your fate of your boyfriend coming to your apartment, gift in hand.

As of late, however, you noticed a trend in the gifts he would get you. Originally they were normal things, like your favorite treats from the cafe near your apartment, maybe some jewelry he thought would look nice in your collection, or some outfits he’d thought would look pretty on you. Lately, he’d buy you books, which you loved of course, it’s just after the fifth book he’s bought, you realized something.

All the books he’s gotten you were all on your wishlist of books you wanted to read, and that’s all great, except you never shared the list with Seungcheol.

You never shared that list with anyone in fact, so how he knew which book to get you, was beyond you. He even buys you the book you’re especially wanting to read that month, putting a star by its name on the sticky note you keep on your desk of all the books you want to read. Hell, half the time you forget where you keep the sticky note, so if he knows where it is, he does a better job at remembering than you do.

You open the bag to see the book you’ve been wanting to read since the author announced a sequel in the works a year ago. You let out a small gasp before looking up to see him watching for your reaction, a bashful smile on his face.

“I know you’ve been waiting for the sequel for a while and when I saw that it was finally out, I knew I had to get it for you,” he muttered, his cheeks an adorable shade of pink as you ran your pointer finger through the pages of the book, still in a bit of awe of having the book in your had as well the fact that he remembered.

How he always knows what book to get you doesn’t matter to you, all that matters to you is the fact he knows you so well, and he wants to treat you like this just because. You put the book down and wrap your arms around his neck, “thank you Cheol, I love you.”

He smiles, wrapping his arms around your waist, “of course, I love you too.” And he hopes you don’t mind him always checking your desk to see if you’ve updated your wishlist so he can keep surprising you like this.

#scoups x reader #seungcheol x reader #choi seungcheol x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #svt imagines #svt scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #minshi writes #asks <3 #this is my first request so I hope you enjoy it anon <3 #also I wrote this while avoiding my poli sci hw lol

193 notes · View notes

fatuismooches · 7 months

Text

There's just something really cute about being the segments' firsts. Their first hand-holder, first kiss, first hug, first date. They all have memories of you from which their creator imbued into them, but they didn't actually do those things with you. It's not their specific memories. It was merely Prime's memories from that stage of his life with you. So, in reality, they're all kind of... sad little clones who haven't felt the touch of love in their entire lives. Solely fulfilling their duty as one of Prime's segments. The affection they remember never actually being experienced by them personally. The feelings never actually felt by them.

The younger segments especially get more worked up about it. Especially when they see you being so blatantly affectionate with Prime. Oh, how they wish that could be them. That you could give them the time of day too. It ends up frustrating them to the point where they nearly break equipment in the process. The older segments are more aware of their place, so they don't show their urges much outwardly, but that doesn't mean they aren't disappointed.

When you finally get comfortable enough around them, they're tripping over themselves to figure out how to persuade you best so that you'll spend them with them instead of the other segments. So that they'll receive lots of kisses and your attention will solely be on them, for the first time since their creation date. (Would you care to join me in dissecting a body, dearest? No, [Name] would much prefer to examine Ruin Guards with me! As if. They would much rather help me out in the lab instead.)

Once you give them a taste of what you have to give, there's no going back. Because the thing about being their firsts, is that they'll demand for you to be their seconds, thirds, and fourths as they truly can't be enough. They might suffocate you, but you'd like that, wouldn't you? You have two hands, shoulders, a lap, a back, and more for a reason!

#smooches talks #dottore love notes <3 #gives them all a little kiss #haiii guys i spent all evening doing math hw. so am tired #im going sleep now <3 #i have exams again soon ... but ive been working on my fic here and there #its erm... already 12k+ words and i have sm left to write. i hope u guys like super long fics #pls send help

346 notes · View notes

rhys-writes-some-shit · 3 months

Text

A Long-Awaited Conversation

Alastor x Reader (QP)

A/N: This was initially a very different fic, but I'm not upset with how it turned out. A little bit of angst to make the day better, right?

It was a slow day. Neither you nor Alastor had much to do, so the two of you were sitting in your room, just enjoying each other’s presence. Jazz was playing quietly from an old radio by Alastor, who was doing some paperwork. You were typing away on your laptop, much to Alastor’s dismay. At least it wasn’t VoxTek, he had to give you that.

“Do tell me, my dear: when is a door not a door?” Alastor asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Oh dear,” you sighed, knowing exactly what was coming.

“Oh deer is right!” Alastor replied brightly. “Now then, when is a door not a door?”

Playfully rolling your eyes, you humored him. “I don’t know, Al. Do tell.”

“When it’s a jar!”

You couldn’t deny the snort that the corny joke elicited. Alastor knew you enjoyed his jokes, but it had been a while since he’d gone out of his way to tell you any.

“Well, maybe you know why the cemetery was so popular.” Alastor’s grin was bright and genuine. Setting your laptop aside, you focused on him, smiling fondly.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“What a surprise! Didn’t you know people were just dying to get in?” Alastor proceeded to laugh at his own joke.

“I missed this,” you said after a moment. “You were gone for seven years. I really missed this.”

The lighthearted mood turned serious. Alastor’s smile lost some of its light. “My sabbatical was… necessary, dearest. I do regret that you were unable to accompany me.”

You noticed how the music was turned up a bit, masking the sound of your conversation. While it was doubtful anyone was listening in, you knew that Alastor wanted to cover his bases.

“You didn’t even tell me you were leaving.” There was a clear edge in your voice. “I had no idea where you were or how long you’d be gone…” The anger, frustration, and sadness started bubbling in your chest, ready to overflow, out of control. “Seven years, Alastor! Seven fucking years, I didn’t know where you were! I thought you’d left me, Al! Or worse, you died!”

“Dearest,” Alastor tried, but you cut him off.

“No, you don’t get to ‘dearest’ me,” you snapped. “I was alone for seven years. We’re partners, Al. We’re supposed to communicate with each other. I don’t even care what you were doing, I just wanted to know you were alright.” You paused. “Did it have to do with your deal?”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”

You matched his gaze. “Husk told me. He used to check on me weekly, you know. Thought I deserved to know. Which I did.”

“You don’t get to decide what I should and shouldn’t tell you,” Alastor said sharply.

“No, but you should tell me when you’re going to abandon me!” You were shouting now, standing and staring him down. “You have no idea how much I struggled while you were gone, how much I suffered! You are everything to me, Al! You are my fucking world, and what the hell was I supposed to do when my world up and vanishes?!”

The sound of static filled the room, Alastor gripping the armrests of his chair, leaving deep claw marks.

“I was a fucking mess! All your souls, all your territory, went to me! I’m not an Overlord, Al! I don’t want to be one! Having all that power scared the shit out of me! I was forced to do your job for you, a job I didn’t want to do!” Tears pricked at your eyes as the memories came back in full force. “And then you return suddenly, take up an impossible project, and just expect me to be okay with it? Well, I’m not okay with it! You haven’t been the same since you returned and you won’t fucking talk to me!”

You were gasping for breath when the tears started to fall. You messily wiped them away, still fuming with anger that had built up over the seven years you’d been alone.

“Are you quite finished?” Alastor asked, his smile forced. Standing, his papers vanished, and tucked his arms behind his back. “Clean yourself up. I refuse to talk while you’re being hysterical.”

“Hysterical?! Hysterical?! What the fuck, Al?!” You yelled. “You are such a selfish, pretentious piece of shit!”

With a hum, Alastor disappeared into the shadows, causing you to scream in frustration.

The jazz music had stopped. You were standing, alone, in your room, gasping for air as you stifled sobs.

The day had been going so well. You had to go and fuck it up.

Ten minutes later, you wandered to the lobby, still pissed off, but feeling a little better after crying the most you had in years. Silently, you took a seat at the bar. Husk was there, like always, and immediately started to make you your favorite drink

“Finally give him a piece of your mind?” Husk asked.

“That obvious?” Your voice was hoarse from the shouting.

“I could hear the screaming.” Husk gestured up. “Also, you look like shit, and the last time I saw you like this, it was also about him.”

The drink was placed in front of you, but you just massaged your temples. “I don’t know why I put up with him.”

Husk grabbed a bottle and drank it straight, whatever it was. “Love fucking sucks.”

You sighed, “Husk, we’ve been over this, I don’t love people like that.”

“Sure, maybe not romantically. But you still love him. And it still fucking sucks.”

“That's something, coming from you.” You took a drink, reveling in how the alcohol warmed your body. “Don't think I don't see how you look at Angel.”

Husk glared deeply at you, not denying it. You smirked, taking another drink.

“How do I get him to understand?” You asked quietly, half to yourself. “He’s so fucking narcissistic, I bet he didn’t even think twice about leaving me behind.”

“I couldn’t tell ya’.” Husk shrugged. “I will say, though, that you’re the only person who can actually get through to him. You have that power over him.”

You scoffed. “Like Hell I do.”

“If anyone else speaks to him like you do, they’re dead before they get a chance to think.” Shelving his drink, Husk began to busy himself behind the counter, cleaning some glasses. “Last I checked, you were still kicking.”

Silent, you contemplated Husk’s words. He had a point. If Alastor cared about anyone, it was you. Finishing your drink with another sigh, you stood. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You had to finish this.

“Stick to your guns, kid,” Husk assured. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you’re probably older than him.

“Thanks, Husk. See you soon.”

You remained quiet as you walked up to Alastor’s radio booth. Out of respect for his boundaries, you hardly ever went up there, but this was important. Radio static filled the air the closer you got, confirming that he was indeed in his booth, but the lack of his voice told you he wasn’t recording.

Before you even got the chance to knock, Alastor’s shadow opened the door for you.

“You can come in.”

Alastor was hunched over his desk, writing notes on what was likely a script for an upcoming radio show. His recording booth was a mess, with papers scattered all over the place and claw marks littering every piece of furniture that wasn’t nailed down. The feeling of Alastor’s radio static was heavy, but barely audible as Alastor wrote.

“I would apologize for shouting, but I don’t really feel sorry,” you opened with, arms crossed.

“As you shouldn’t,” Alastor agreed, not even turning towards you. “I will say, I’m surprised you stopped when you did. I’d expected you to go on for much longer.”

You couldn’t help but snort at that remark. “Oh, trust me, there were many versions of that conversation where I went on for about half an hour.” You left out saying that you had seven years to formulate them, thinking that would only make the situation worse.

“I don’t doubt you.” After a moment, Alastor sighed, setting down his pen and sitting back in his chair. You can see the reflection of his face in the glass. His smile is still there, but barely, and his eyes seem tired. Husk was right, you did make an impression.

Alastor turned towards you, leaning his head into one hand while he tapped his fingers along his microphone staff. He still never met your eyes. “You… are correct.”

Silent, you waited for Alastor to continue, watching him closely.

“I should not have left you without saying anything. I regret not speaking with you before I left.” You could tell he was struggling to get his words out. Emotions were hard for him, be it by nature or by choice, so you remained patient. “I left… to keep you safe.”

Hoping your surprise wasn’t evident on your face, you found a chair and pulled it up in front of him. The tension in your shoulders lessened when Alastor took your hand, holding it gently.

“Had I not taken my absence, you would’ve been in danger. Danger I’d be unable to protect you from. I could not take that chance.” Alastor finally looked up at you. He was still guarded, still holding himself back, but there was something warm in the way he looked at you. A soft side, that only you had the privilege to see. “If something happened to you, I would be unable to live with myself. So I left, because it was the only way to ensure you would remain safe.”

A hand reached up and grazed your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t even realized was on your face.

“It was the only way, my darling. I wish it hadn’t come to that. And I am ashamed that I hurt you so much in my absence.”

You were at a loss for words. Alastor had never, never, opened himself up like that. It was a little scary. Part of you wished he’d just brushed off the argument and pretended it had never happened. At least that would’ve matched what you’d expected. This… this was not at all what you’d expected.

Blinking, your heart rate picked up against your will. “Al, I… Th-thank you for the apology, I… This… is scaring me, Al. You’re scaring me. Are you okay? This isn’t like you.”

Alastor’s hand left your face. “You are correct in saying that I am not the same man I once was. I continue to hope I will revert back to who I was, but I can see now that that’s impossible. You, dearest, are the only thing making that revelation bearable.”

As your heart beat against your chest, you struggled to evaluate your next move. You wanted to scramble away, to beg for the old Alastor back, but you knew that wasn’t the right move. You knew this was the actual, real Alastor in front of you and not some sort of imposter. The idea that the old Alastor had vanished the day you were left on your own did not sit well with you. Frankly, it made you sick.

But now was not the time. Right now, Alastor needed you, as fucked up as it seemed.

Exhaling forcefully, you took hold of Alastor’s hands this time. “Thank you for coming back. Whatever it is that’s going on, we’ll deal with it together. Like always. I’m your partner, Al, and I’m not leaving anytime soon, got it?”

Alastor nodded, closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, his spark had returned. His smile grew once more and he stood, pulling you to his chest.

“Well! Now that that’s settled, how about a dance, my dear? It has been quite a while since we’ve had the chance to cut a rug together.”

With the snap of Alastor’s fingers, some jazz filled the room and the disheveled furniture was shoved against the ways to make room. Mustering your own smile, you placed your hand in his and allowed him to lead you around the room in time with the music.

It was nice to dance, you had to admit, but the abrupt change left a bad feeling in your stomach. Something was not right. In fact, something felt wrong. But now was not the time for that. Hiding behind your smile as skillfully as Alastor himself, you went along with his antics.

But the sinking feeling of dread remained.

#hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor the radio demon #alastor x reader #rhys-writes #alastor x reader queerplatonic #hazbin hotel alastor #2k words what am I on?#wrote instead of doing my hw again oops #alastor has a mental breakdown off screen #queerplatonic #queerplatonic x reader

223 notes · View notes

tojisun · 4 months

Text

camgirl au wherein simon pauses the video (#homemade #solo) because he swears he knows the poster….

what are the chances it’s his neighbour he’s watching? the pretty one he's kind of obsessed with; what, with her dimpled smile and twinkling laugh. totally not old man peterson a house over.

#sun rambles #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader #crap i wanna write this so bad but i have sm more hw

242 notes · View notes

unhetalia · 2 months

Text

I want... Arthur protecting Alfred from a physical threat in a way that demonstrates that despite Arthur mellowing out and prefering tea and biscuits to battle and conquest he has Not Lost His Edge.

#ukus #usuk #hetalia #aph #hws #hetalia world series #hws england #hws america #aph england #aph america #i might write a short fic tho life is SO BUSY #i have some ideas but its nearly midnight #m: hetalia #hetalia: fic plot #s: england/america #.txt

113 notes · View notes

ego-meliorem-esse · 8 months

Text

Stormy Eyes

The 7-year-old looking boy with boundless energy, stood atop the hill, looking down at the small church where a somber funeral was taking place. In his small hand, Alfred clutched a single flower, a blue daisy. The daisy, a simple tribute to his best friend, Davie. Alfred had returned from London with excitement, eager to share his discoveries and stories, only to discover the devastating news of Davie's passing. His young heart ached, and the weight of grief hung heavily upon him.

Throughout his short life, Alfred had always been a whirlwind of activity, his mind racing from one thought to another, his body in constant motion. His father, Arthur, had observed these tendencies with a watchful eye, understanding that his son's boundless enthusiasm often came with moments of restlessness and broken vases.

As Arthur approached his young son, he saw the boy's restless fidgeting, his hands twisting the flower stem, and his gaze darting in all directions. He knew with how much enthusiasm and excitement Alfred carried and took care of the flower on his long journey to Boston. So, having Alfred bend and break the stem was a certain cause for concern. He recognized his boys fidgeting and what it stood for. An understanding that had developed over years of being Alfred's father and mentor.

"Alfred," Arthur said sternly, yet without a hint of annoyance. His voice carrying the weight of centuries of history and responsibility. Arthur looked down from the hill to the quaint church where a crowd of silhouettes gathered, and with an almost inaudible "Ah." understood the weight of the situation. He looked down at his son, his eyes softened with concern. "I'm sorry lad."

Alfred's response was not in words but in frantic fidgeting. His young mind was trapped in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, rendering him staring down at the destroyed flower stem he seemed to cherish only a few hours before.

Seeing his son's distress, Arthur's concern deepened. He slowly kneeled down, reached out and gently held Alfred's face in his hands, physically anchoring the restless child and forcing their eyes to meet.

"Alfred," Arthur said firmly once again, his voice breaking through the chaos in Alfred's mind. "Focus, my son. You must."

Alfred's tear-filled eyes finally met his father's, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Arthur could see his son's eyes trying to suppress more tears from welling up. The effort was unsuccessful, because as soon as Alfred took a breath, all the supressed tears fell all at once. Through all that his boy didn't make a single sound.

Arthur's words continued, his voice carrying the weight of wistom obtained by blood and violence. "My boy, your life will be a lonely but fulfilling one. You will meet many people, nations, enemies and friends along the way. Each one will leave a mark on your heart, just as your friend here did." Arthur didn't dare look away at the funeral for the friend he just mentioned in fear of loosing Alfred to his own mind once again.

Arthur's voice almost quivered as he spoke of Alfred's lost friend. "Remember them, Alfred. Remember them all, and carry their memories with you. Your existence, my dear boy, is both a solitary journey and a shared one. You are not alone in this world of nations."

He paused, his grip on Alfred's face unwavering. "Your restless spirit is a part of who you are, Alfred, and it's a gift. Use it to carry the torch for those who have gone before us and for those who will come after. You have the strength within you to focus when it truly matters. Because, my son, when you do, miracles will happen."

He released his son and instead of going back to fidget with the plant, Alfred stood still and kept looking at his father.

As the funeral procession continued below, father and son remained standing on that grassy hill. Arthur's words seemed to echo back and forth in the young boys mind, his ocean eyes finally resembling calm waters. In that moment Arthur was reminded of stormy nights at sea and the calm morning that followed.

He was always good at sailing through the storm.

#hetalia #hws england #hws america #meli speaks #myart #my art #historical hetalia #i hate hate hate the anatomy here pls dont focus on that im begging #will i ever let these two live a non dramatic life #no.#my wriring #meli writes #hetalia fanfiction #alfred f jones #arthur kirkland

856 notes · View notes

itstokkii · 3 months

Text

Broke: Turkey is 4000 years old and existed in the form of the Turkic Khaganate

Woke: Turkey is, at oldest, the Ottoman Empire because that was when the identity of the Turkish nation, culture, and people became set in stone

Bespoke: Turkey was a tiny pipsqueak running around for a bit as one of the many Turkic tribes that migrated west before eventually inheriting the power of Seljuk and becoming the Ottoman Empire, so he is old, but he doesn't stretch as far back as the Turkic Khaganate since that's the origin of all Turkic nations and making Turkey the single sole representative of the Khaganate ignores the other Turkic identities and groups that developed from the Khaganate as well. The Turkic Khaganate also does not completely represent the ethnic makeup of Turkish people nowadays, as well as the ethnic makeup of other groups like Tatars and Kazakhs due to interactions with Persia, Mongols, and other Europeans. The reason why Turkey's perceived to be old is most likely his "old man fit" which is really just how any Turkish dude in Turkey dresses

#hetalia #hws turkey #aph turkey #sadik adnan #tokki writes #here's my take on the “TURKEY IS OLD!!!” vs “HES NOT THAT OLD!!” opinions lately

124 notes · View notes

peonycats · 1 year

Text

Buy your local Chinese lingerie today! Support the fatherland!

#did india get a vpn just comment this? maybe #historically inaccurate hair is historically inaccurate #hetalia #aph china #hws china #also I cant believe I forgot but thank you to luyous for writing this description ❤️

936 notes · View notes

oumaheroes · 2 months

Note

[8] + fruk? idk, it sounds like something they'd hardly tell each other but I figured it's a challenge you could enjoy solving. :) i love your writing btw. Thank you for sharing it with the world. <3

[8] 'I love you'

Both of these asks are so so old but I enjoy a challenge, Anons! Took me a while but I got there in the end. Hope you like!

Characters: France, England, FrUK

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Love Is...

'You're not entirely intolerable.'

England says this to him in warm candlelight, yellows and orange hues dancing gently on his cheek and across his nose. On his back, no less, looking up at France with wine soft eyes amongst expensive coverlets and pillows of a borrowed palace bed.

France's hands are busy, one supporting him, one not, and thus he knows there is some bias to England’s words.

If it were darker, less candlelight and more masking cover, maybe they would be more true. England had always been gentler in the shadows, safer when he feels he can't be seen.

'Shame the same cannot be said for you.' France says in reply, and bites him hard on the shoulder.

-------------

'You can be useful.'

France sounds surprised.

England clenches his jaw. 'Fuck you.'

'I'm serious.' France twirls the pointed end of his share knife into England thick wooden table. 'There may yet be hope in regards to you being anything of value.'

It is France's own knife, at least, that he is blunting. Gilded- overly so, so it's almost more decorative than usable. Almost. France does so like to find those lines and tease them.

The remains of a meal are pushed aside, a map open and curling long between them instead like a dried up sea. England wants to grab the knife out of France’s hand and jab it in his eye but he doesn’t. He needs France, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, needs his help sweet talking the French nobility and keeping his King in check and so refrains from lunging across the table. Swallows bitterness down and looks from the maimed table to the map.

The French coastline looks alien upside-down but England doesn’t ask France to turn it around.

‘So.’ France’s voice is silky and low, ‘Can you deliver on your end?’

England thinks of his own King, thinks of his endless envy that is great enough to engulf his nation’s pride. He nods.

France clicks his tongue, ‘What a surprise.’

-------------

‘Where have you been?’ A nation who will one day be England pouts and crosses his arms across his chest, ‘I’ve been waiting here for hours’.

‘It wasn’t hours.’ A nation who will one day be France looks about the bank of the tree where England is sat in distain, ‘The ground is wet.’

‘You’re late.’ England insists, ‘You said you would be here by noon. And wet ground is better to write in.’

‘It’s still noon. Couldn’t you have picked somewhere sunnier? The ground hasn’t dried here; where will I sit.’

‘Are you stupid?’ England holds out an arm and gestures to the shadow it makes upon the floor with another. It is slightly longer than noon would provide, ‘Does that look like noon?’

‘Do you want me to help, or not.’

‘No.’

France sighs, ‘Fine. Do you want me to do this the easy way or the hard way.’

England kicks at a small stone and it bumps a little ways down the small pathway along the edge of the wheat field he’s been biding his time in. This France knows, because there’s chaff caught in his hair and dusting amongst the mud of the dampened hem of his cloak.

‘I already know how to write letters,’ England grumbles, ‘Rome made me learn his, and they’re exactly the same as your ones. Why do I have to do this all again.’

‘Because after Rome, you learnt some barbarian ones, and now I want to make you presentable. These are things any decent, proper nation should know.’ France dusts down England’s hair, ‘And it’s very hard to bring you up to par when you keep avoiding my visits and moving from castle to castle.’

England shakes his head and looks away.

‘You should stay with the King,’ France says pointedly, ‘Not move about the strongholds like a vagabond. You shouldn’t show your earls too much favour.’

France sees England hold himself back from speaking. He knows what England wants to say and is relieved when he keeps the several possible and difficult arguments to himself. An improvement, but maybe only because there’s no one else to hear.

‘Move.’ England says suddenly. He picks up a stick that France had failed to notice, propped up ready to go against a thick root, and waves him out of the way and off the flat dirt road. He begins scrawling in the ground in rigid, sharp strokes. ‘If I write “go fuck yourself” in Latin, Norman, and French, will you do so?’

-------------

‘I don't always hate you.’

France says this so quietly that England almost didn’t hear him. He wouldn’t have done, if he didn’t know France’s voice and his habits so well. He halts, the quiet palace yawning open unseen down the darkened passage ahead.

From the corner of his eye, England sees France shift where he leans in the archway. He was so still that England hadn’t noticed him as he walked, his dark shape held like a statue in shadows. Now that he knows he’s there, England can almost see the glint of silver threads in the moonlight, fine clothes on a man made just as much from the dirt as he.

A shift of fabric as France moves again. England stares ahead and does not look at him.

‘You may not believe that, but it’s true.’ France offers quietly. ‘I don’t like to think that you believe otherwise.’

‘I don’t like that you make me believe so.’

A pause. England can hear the sounds of the evening: distant footsteps on flagstones, the rustle of trees in the orchard beyond the stone courtyard walls. The smells of thousands of past summers on the warm breeze, blurring the edges of the era and turning the night endless.

The moment stretches, full and expectant. Then, a sigh.

It passes.

France does not reply, and England walks away.

-------------

‘Are you coming with me?’

France snorts. ‘I am offended that you would ever think that I would.’

‘Oh fuck off. Come on.’ England’s eyes are dangerously captivating, ‘You’re just as bored as I am.’

‘Unlike yourself, I am able to find joy in the finer things.’

‘Francis, this is the worst fucking ball we’ve been to in centuries.’

France winces, ‘Yes, but the food is at least good. And the people here are-‘

‘All over fifty.’

‘We are over fifty. And they’re-’

‘Boring.’

‘Important.’ France corrects, ‘They are important, my dear.’

England scoffs and looks across the lacklustre and lethargic dancefloor, couples with outdated clothes and dour expressions stiffly moving in their formations. He swirls his wine in his glass and points with it shamelessly, ‘Important for what, exactly.’

‘To be seen by. To talk politics with. To encourage away from silly decisions that will ruin my skin for the next decade.’

‘And the younger important people? Or heaven forbid, any fun ones? Where are they?’

France shrugs with one shoulder helplessly, ‘The Viscount is... particular.’

England raises and eyebrow and France shrugs, ‘Fine. It is dull. He is dull, and these are all his dull friends. What do you want me to say, the money is here but the life is gone. I’m not blind, Arthur.’

England adjusts the lace of France’s collar, straightening it from where a point has curled under itself, ‘Well, I’m going to the inn on Perry street. That’s where the kitchen boy told me-‘

‘The one with the hair, or the one with the funny leg?’

‘The one with the teeth.’

France shakes his head, ‘Poor boy. Sugar is a terrible thing, I wonder when people will pick up on that.’

England rolls his eyes and downs his wine. France winces, ‘That was expensive.’

‘Good. I’m off.’ England kisses his cheek quickly, the powdered hairs of his wig tickling France’s neck, ‘Have fun somehow being the most interesting thing in the room for a change.’

‘Ha ha.’

France watches England carelessly drop his very expensive glass onto a passing waiter’s tray and tuts at him, ‘You’re too over-dressed for a common inn, you’ll get mugged.’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘I’m sure you will. When I find your naked corpse in a hedge tomorrow, don’t tell me I didn’t tell you so.’

‘I tell you your make-up makes you look like sun bleached fish every day, and yet you still wear it.’

France huffs and turns away. He hears the clip of England’s shoes as he slips behind a curtain until his steps soften, sights fixed on the dancers. The crowds in the edges of the hall, in the dark corners where candles cannot find them, have a low murmuring buzz that heaves itself above the orchestra enough to give life to the odd word of two. None of them give France any hope.

Once he is sure no one noticed England leave, France downs his own wine and pushes himself away from the wall to join him.

------------

‘Be careful.’

England blinks, confused.

It is dark, moonlight all they have to go by, and they are watching British soldiers pour out from and over French beaches into hungry, waiting boats. Months of planning, countless sleepless nights and hours held stressed and tense in the wait for scraps of coded information has lead them here, to this. To men running through waves, to home so close and yet so far, and a flight through the dark to get stranded soldiers home before France falls.

England feels hollow. His chest feels concaved, an empty feeling of something like relief rotting and curdling there at the thought that this momentous victory is in the grand scheme of things, nothing at all. A huge success merely only for how difficult any small victory is. And still a failure because... because-

France’s hand brushes his. England swallows and entwines their fingers together.

‘You’re the one who should be careful.’ He says.

France squeezes his fingers. ‘If-‘

‘Don’t.’

‘-If.’ France’s grip tightens, ‘If, Arthur. Just be careful. I’ll be fine. It’s you who-‘

France breaks off.

‘I won’t.’ England says. He takes a deep breath in. ‘Not me. Not yet.’

‘I would be deeply embarrassed for you, if you do. It’s shameful. To a child, and one raised by Gilbert, no less.’

England snorts and smooths his thumb over France’s knuckle before he breaks them apart. He tugs down his uniform, wishing for gold trimming and a deep red coat, and smooth wood of a longbow.

D-Day unfolds in the muddied, darkened shallows of Dunkirk beach, and two empires watch the world turn over and into something new.

------------

‘Move over.’

France wakes to a knee in the small of his back. ‘A.. Arthur?’

‘Francis, move.’

Bewildered, France obediently shuffles over and there’s a gasp of cold air as England lifts the covers to climb inside. ‘What are...?’

‘Shh!’

France hears the heavy drapes around his bed being rearranged, then gets another knee in his back as England burrows down next to him.

France turns over. In the darkened room and behind thick curtains, England is nothing more than a source of warmth and the feeling of being watched. ‘What are you doing here.’

‘This is my castle, isn’t it?’

‘It’s one of your King’s castles, yes.’

‘Well then.’

‘But you weren’t here.’ France whispers, When we arrived. ‘He is very upset. He says you shame him.’

‘He shames me.’ England’s cool hands find themselves under France’s back, ‘The grandson of a usurper has nothing to do with me.’

‘Arthur.’ France cautions, but then stops. It is not the time, nor place. Nor, he knows, his place, really, to say anything at all. He places his hand on the cool skin of England’s arm and squeezes it, ‘I’m happy you’re here now. Apart from all the dirt you’ve likely tracked into the bed.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘I can smell it. You smell like outside.’

‘Outside doesn't have a smell.’

It does. Brought in to a human space where it doesn’t belong, the night air that clings to England’s hair and skin is earthy and cool. Fresh and foreign amongst wood fires and the fresh thresh on the floors.

‘I changed.’ England insists, seemingly having taken France’s lack of answer as an argument, ‘I do have nightclothes, you know. I’m not a savage.’

‘Hmm.’

England wriggles his fingers under France’s back to the soft parts of his sides and France can’t help but yelp as they tickle.

‘I was in York but heard you were leaving.’ England says, ‘Did you want to go riding before you go?’

‘We go Tuesday.’ France whispers, conscious of the servants littered about the room asleep. How England crept past them all or even got into the castle so quietly in the first place, he’ll never know. ‘We’re almost ready.’

‘So, do you want to go riding, or not.’

It is Sunday. There will be a lot to do before he goes back to his own lands, lots of packing and planning and then talking to people and France is exhausted just thinking about how much of it he will be needed for, let alone the voyage back across likely windy seas.

‘I don’t want to share. I want my own horse.’

‘Fine.’

------------

‘Here.’

England looks up from his laptop to find a cup of what might be soup held aloft before him.

France waggles it, evidently deeming England too slow on the uptake, ‘Take it.’

England does, cautiously, and moves his laptop aside to safety. ‘What’s this for.’

‘You.’

‘I could infer that.’

‘Could you? I never want to assume.’ Before England can tell him not to, France settles himself in the seat opposite. The booth England has hidden himself in has a wide table down the middle which takes up most of the room, but France moves himself into the tight space far more dramatically than is needed.

The soup is hot. England pops the lid off- carrot and coriander. His stomach clenches at the smell, he hadn’t realised how hungry he was. ‘Where on earth did you get it? They stopped serving dinner hours ago.’

‘I know. You missed it.’ France shoots him a pointed look, ‘I went to a café down the road.’

England looks down and swirls the soup around the Styrofoam. It’s thick, good quality. ‘I’m not paying you for it.’

‘Ah yes, because that is why I went.’

England glances at his laptop. France shuts it. ‘Now, whilst you’re eating, listen to me. I have a story for you.’

England takes the spoon that France offers and stirs. He wonders if France has any chocolates in his pockets, ‘Is it about the look Antonio gave-‘

‘Yes.’ France leans forwards eagerly, ‘But shut up. Let me talk.’

-------------

‘It’s... it’s large.’ The scientist at the front of the room looks shrunken, weighed down and wizened. He runs a hand through his hair, glasses glinting in sterile, overheads lights. ‘It’s large.’

France looks up and catches England’s eye. He looks tired, old.

Scared.

Question lights flash on around the room, every national and political delegation with something to say or ask. The scientist seems to freeze, overwhelmed by where or who to turn to first, and then people start shouting all over each other, nations and their politicians alike.

‘What the fuck is this?’ France’s president holds her hands to her mouth and shakes her head slowly from side to side, ‘This cannot be happening.’

‘There is nothing we can do!’ France hears the scientist say over the braying clamour, ‘It’s too late, it’s-‘

‘Francis.’ England is there, at his shoulder. ‘Come on.’

-------------

‘What the fuck have you done to yourself?’

France sniffs and turns away, ‘That’s none of your business.’

England snorts and hangs his hat and coat on the stand, ‘You look like you’ve fallen off a horse.’

‘You look like an unkempt vagabond.’

England looks down at his finely pressed suit and trousers and then back to France. He is on his sofa, studiously reading a book and not looking at England making himself comfortable in France’s livingroom. His leg is before him on a padded stool, swollen at least twice the size, and there is a purple bruise blossoming upon one cheek.

England comes around the back of him and brushes soft golden hair away from France’s shoulder. ‘I could do better.’ he says, gently thumbing the fragile scabbing of France’s bottom lip.

France swats at him, ‘Go away. I don’t want you here.’

‘Wrong place wrong time? Or did you try to speak sense again to someone who actually has some.’

‘Arthur, stop.’ France catches England’s wrist and kisses the inside, ‘You’re too unsympathetic to understand.’

‘Hmm.’ England kneads at France’s shoulder and then heads to the kitchen, ‘Would it help you to know I’m planning on telling everyone you fell ice skating?’

France lets out a bark of laughter, ‘Oh? And who on earth would you tell.’

‘Anyone who will listen.’ He collects a glass and a bottle of wine, along with some bread and some of the expensive cheese that he knows France always squirrels away in his pantry whenever he can, and takes them back to the living room.

-------------

‘If you could be anywhere, where would you be.’

Soft music from a Spanish restaurant down the road, warm ocean breeze. Anywhere and everywhere, all at once.

Besides him, England sips warm ale from a can he smuggled through customs and shrugs, ‘Home.’

‘That’s a boring answer.’

‘That’s the truest answer.’

‘And where again would Arthur go, if he could leave England behind.’ Francis watches Arthur from the corner of his eye, sees the fragments of him outside of all else that they always are.

‘I can’t leave England behind.’ England says, ‘So there’s not much point entertaining it.’

‘I’m trying to have a serious conversation.’

‘Then don’t ask a hypothetical question.’

Francis sighs, and retreats. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and watches the smoke drift away into the dark.

‘But if you’re asking time.’ England tilts his head, considering. Behind them on the seafront, students between bright club front lights in loud, drunken clusters, ‘Now, I think. Maybe a hundred years ago, at most.’

‘Really?’ France is surprised, ‘I would have thought-‘

‘Boring answer,’ Arthur says, and the rest remains unfinished.

-------------

‘Don’t you fucking die on me.’

Of all the places England expected to die, this was actually what he’d considered the least likely. In Calais, oft contested, right by the sea, and entirely calm. No war or battle to take him, no disease or crop failure to push him along. He can see Dover in the distance, his white cliffs so close he can almost feel them in the bones they represent.

But above them, burning and close, the sky roils.

France lies in his lap on the grass of his garden, eyes wet and smiling. ‘That’s not fair, you can’t say that to me. That’s what I was going to say to you.’

‘I’m serious.’ England swallows down something bitter and painful in his throat, and brushes the hair from France’s face, ‘You’re not allowed to go first unless I’m given that honour. Keep yourself awake.’

France freezes, eyes wide, ‘What-‘

‘I know you too well,’ England says, and dips his head to kiss him. There is a golden chain around France’s neck, old and reliable. On it hangs a much-used pendant, once again filled and ready. Still full, he hopes.

England fiddles with it in the hollow of France’s neck and sees the burning heavens reflected in his eyes. ‘We’ll go together.’

-------------

‘I love you.’

On a nameless bit of a terraformed Earth that might have once been a small kingdom in the northern sea, a man called Francis pauses at the hydro sink, half washed cup in his hands. A man called Arthur stands next to him with a dish cloth and when Francis turns to him, Arthur stares back, face inscrutable.

Arthur does not mince words. He has always spoken his mind frankly, regardless of how offensive or tactless his thoughts may be. He has never tailored himself to a situation, never presented himself as anything he is not. But softness and open vulnerability is not a texture he can wear upon himself. Not because he doesn’t have any, Francis knows, but because he expects that Arthur doesn’t know how. Some core part of his personality that gets lost from his heart to his tongue, or given spikes along the way.

Maybe that was what caught Francis’ attention in the first place, all those years ago on the transport ship to Earth. The parts Arthur kept to himself more than the parts he did not. Arthur spoke kindness and care in actions, not words, and words were what Francis had heard far too much of.

Francis looks away and makes sure to keep his face just as blank, just as unconcerned.

‘I love you too.’

97 notes · View notes