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#SO MANY APHS
royaltea000 · 1 month
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Two young knights
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renonv · 7 months
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Got inspired by @doodlin-moons recent work and had to get it out me system 👹
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i am of the intense opinion that none of the nations are good people. i mean this in the most sincere way; they're manipulative, they're assholes, they're cold, cruel and heartless and every label in between. they're not outright, evil villain llike bad people but in a more subtle way, the same way they could look at cruelty and injustice and look the other way. they are very much enablers in a sense. what i do think is that they weren't this way to begin with. perhaps if the world had been kinder to them then maybe they would have been kinder to the world. honestly, i dont even think they are trying to be bad people. they're just fucking tired.
#whenever im expanding this particular headcanon i'd always get an idea of a scene#where for the first time they (perhaps its alfred or perhaps its any nation) silently sitting under the stars and the it is emphasized#in the description/dialogue that they look incredibly tired#because i think that sums it up the best#they are victims of the situations they've been in but not all victims develop into good or scared people because of their trauma -- i thin#like theyre not actively even trying to be assholes is what im saying#its the feeling of just being done with it all that leads to this detachment where it seems they dont care about other people because at th#its the feeling of being a person who understands that ends justifys the means or the inevitable sacrifice or the uselessness of niceties#and to everyone else it might seem like a jackass move or thing to do but its what they either learned throughout the centuries or its what#they realized needed to be done#aphverse#hetalia#hws#nations revealed au#aph#the biggest difference between them and humans is the fact that i think the nations believe things have to be done a certain way#that there is an inevitable sacrifice to pay or that you cant be a good person#whereas from a humans perspectives -- a human who compared to the nations is naive seems to think that you dont have to follow the rules#humans arent afraid to build their own path -- to think outside the box and change all that is unfair or unjust#whereas the nations have walked the same path -- the same choices so many times that they dont think any other path exists
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keiksy-cake · 3 months
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Hetalia Poll Results pt 3: character who you'd want as a best friend
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I started this one back in October lol. Sorry, I was busy with college and work but I am now a free man!
all collezione pages
[Please note, I’m an amateur in Japanese and have to use various resources and translation machines to help me. If you notice a possible mistake or want clarification, please bring it up to me *politely* and not aggressively or hostile.]
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romeavethinker · 3 months
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mystreet ro'meave brothers vs diaries ro'meave brothers
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bloodyselfshipping · 1 year
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(Hetalia Main 8 x Reader) How they talk about you!
(Gender Neutral) Headcanons ~
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Most people around Alfred would probably not realize you two are romantically involved. The way he talks about you is less like a partner and more like a best friend.
But that said, everyone would know who you are. It’s immediately obvious how close your relationship is. He seems to know everything about you.
He won’t bring you up constantly, but your presence is around him in some way.
“Who are you texting during the meeting?!” “Oh, Y/N! Right now they’re-”
“Who are you inviting?” “Y/N! I really think they’d have fun coming along-”
“Are you free tonight?” “Mm, sorry dude. I’m with Y/N tonight, just like last night, and the night before we-”
But if anyone asks, he loves talking about you. You make everything more fun, so even thinking about you makes him feel so much better!
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He doesn’t bring you up much, but when he does it’s so obvious how much he loves you. Always looking in the distance longingly…
Doesn’t share a lot of personal details, probably doesn’t even mention your name. He always calls you nicknames or just “my lover.”
Arthur prefers to keep you his little secret.
“Ah, I have to go. I have an engagement with… someone special.”
So it's usually very stilted and formal, but not because of a lack of affection. He thinks that PDA and gushing about romance in public is tactless, so he refrains.
You’re like royalty to him so he always makes sure to make his respect more apparent than anything. No one is more special to him than you <3
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The second most normal out of any of them. Although he always refers to you very romantically, that isn’t very out of line for how he normally is.
It seems as if he sees you as perfect, above others in every way. He always praises you and everything you do, to an absolutely absurd degree.
Always has very specific things he calls you in front of others.
“Ah, this reminds me of my S/O. They are like poetry in motion…”
“Every day I am inspired by Y/N, even the most impressive works of art are nothing compared to them.”
“My eternal love, they are calling to me… I must go!”  “Just say you wanna get outta here!”
He can’t help but gush about how perfect you are. He would say you are nothing less than soulmates.
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Yao is a very traditional man. From the start of your relationship, he’s always referred to you as if you were married.
Sometimes he’ll refer to you like those old men who hate their wives, but only because he doesn’t realize the full implications.
“”Aiyaa! Have to go tend to the ball and chain, see you later!”
Except when he says that, he means it affectionately. By “tending to the old ball and chain” he means laying his head in your lap for two hours and telling you about how stupid his friends are.
He’d love nothing more than to just talk to you and you alone, he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks of you two.
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Ivan CANNOT stop talking about you! Seriously, everyone is very annoyed by it. But he just can’t hold himself back, he needs everyone to know about how much he loves you.
Anytime anyone brings up something that reminds him of you, he has to go on a whole tangent. God forbid someone brings up an interest of yours, then it goes on forever.
They probably won’t even know your name because he just always uses some adorable pet name for you (:
When he misses you, it’s even worse. Anything just immediately results in,
“My darling used to call me that…” “Because it’s your name!”
If he could, he would bring you everywhere with him. So, he’ll do so in his own way (: (telling everyone who breathes in his direction about you)
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Everyone is immediately aware of your existence. He LOVES bringing you up at every opportunity. All his friends need to know about his lovely S/O right now!!!
Definitely tries to show you off.
“You know whose really attractive? My S/O! Look, see!!!”
“I just thought of something funny, one time Y/N did that! But like, they were super hot!”
“Cuore mio, everyone should see how wonderful you are. Don’t be embarrassed!”
When he gets drunk, he can’t help but talk anyone’s ear off about you. About how much you mean to him, about how proud he is of you, a lot of other stuff that seems way too sentimental for an easy-going guy like him.
Often ends up bursting into rooms just to bring news of you. He gets so emotional it can become unbearable for those around him.
He can’t imagine his life without you, and everything is just a reminder of that fact. Feliciano loves you more than anything!
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Ludwig wouldn’t not talk about you… but he wouldn’t go out of his way to do so. Not because he’s embarrassed of you, but because he’s embarrassed of how much he’s in love with you!
You make him so soft… and the thoughts of you are constantly distracting him! His darling (you) lives in his head rent-free, damn you!
“Oi Germany, is that a person on your lock-screen?” “N-No! Well… it’s my S/O… don’t make it into a situation!”
He thinks very highly of you, and trusts your judgment completely. Talking to you helps him think out his problems. That fact is so obvious that a lot of times, his friends will call you up for him when he’s panicking.
Not a fan of pet names, and can seem cold about your relationship in public. But don’t let that fool you, he doesn’t want to go a day without you!
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Very casual about you. You’re his partner, you matter a lot to him, and he’s not embarrassed about it. 
But he does use his experiences with you to help him relate to others, so you get brought up quite a lot with his friends. When he’s having trouble socially, he tries to remember everything you’ve ever told him and repeat it.
“My S/O had something similar happen to them. May I consult them on this?”
“This reminds me of something that Y/N said to me last week. Shouldn’t we just put the past behind us? They said it’s no good to dwell on these things.”
“Hm… maybe we should just go home and rest before making a decision. Besides, I want to talk to Y/N about this.” “Are you sure you don’t just miss them?” “That is a possibility.”
He acts as if you two are married, but just because you have become so important to him so quickly. You make his life so much better and easier, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
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senditothemoonn · 6 months
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I don't know if you've done other vintage outfits before, but your recent post just made me think of France in a 50s dress, maybe the Christian Dior style from back then with the cinched waist and the full skirt! He'd look so classy 😌🩷
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“It was as if Europe had tired of dropping bombs and now wanted to let off a few fireworks” 🎇 🎆
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ifindus · 19 days
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The Battle of Hjørungavåg - for the Mythtalia March by @hwsevents
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"Never have Danes held such a battle with Norwegians, not before nor since" - Fagrskinna.
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The battle of Hjørungavåg took place outside the Norwegian coast in the year 986, and was a sea battle between an invading Danish army and a defending Norwegian one. It was a battle of great national significance as the ruling Earl Håkon defended the country against the Danish King Svein Tjugeskjegg aided by the Joms Vikings, who wanted to take control over Norway and christen it.
The battle begun after some farmers tricked the Danes into believeing Earl Håkon only had 2-3 ships with him. They charged forth and got surprised by 50 ships lying in wait for them.
It was a fierce battle, and despite the element of surprise, the Norwegians suffered heavy losses early on. Most of the losses were with Earl Håkon, who fought against Svein Tjugeskjegg, a fight so intense that he had to shed his chainmail as it had become torn apart by all the weapons hitting him. Håkon's sons Eirik and Svein Håkonson fought against the Joms Vikings, Eirik saving his brother. This is when the battle turns.
Suddenly, a terrifying storm hits, with fierce waves of hail. The storm seemed almost magic and supernatural, and on the side of the Norwegians. Had the pagans used dark magic? It is said that Earl Håkon had sacrificed his 7 year old son Erling in a ritual for victory (probably false). The Earls of Lade had a connection to the female godess and spirit Torgerd Hølgebrud, who was called on whenever the family was in need. She came along with her sister and other valkyries on horses with bows and arrows, sending hail towards their enemies.
Torgerd is interpreted as an ancient fertility spirit, and these spirits are also connected with a warrior aspect. They protected certain families and are some of the oldest creatures in the pre-Christian Norse religion.
The supernatural warrior spirits was a convenient excuse for why Svein Tjugeskjegg fled the battle; it was impossible to fight against gods and trolls. It also supported the savage ways of the pagan religion.
As Svein flees, he leaves the Joms Vikings behind to be captured by the Earls. They were about to be executed by beheading, but one of them managed to get a hold of the sword and chop the head off the man about to kill him. Eirik Håkonson is impressed by this and grants them their freedom.
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corgifruityart · 1 year
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som ett stilla sommarregn gör frusen mark till sommaräng så väckte du min kropp och själ
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writernotyetauthor · 6 months
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Tolys and Gilbert get introduced to social media for the first time and immediately start cyber bullying each other
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kyuhu · 7 months
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I dug out the self indulgent EstPol AU again haha
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royaltea000 · 2 months
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This too, is healing my inner child U_U (11 year old who wore a rubber prussia bracelet everyday until the picture rubbed off)
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lindonwald · 16 days
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the new manga arc was literally made for them
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oumaheroes · 5 days
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[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
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[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
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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.
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'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.’
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‘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?’
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‘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.
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‘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.
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‘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.
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‘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.’
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‘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.’
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‘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.’
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‘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.
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‘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.
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‘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.’
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‘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.’
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biscuitmir · 7 months
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「好きだぞ ♡」
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tejennnn · 8 months
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March twt doodle! They would be chilling with each other talking about sheep ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶E̶n̶g̶l̶a̶n̶d̶
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