Time for the,,, monthly?? Uhm- once in a while (?) sketch dump! This time with digital sketches!!
Have a good variety- specially witht small redraws of England from the manga and some of the anime xd also some from old MapleTea drawings!,,, then some random Luka, Italy and Feli in Danganronpa AU-
Don’t really have much else to say- so, enjoy them! nwn
I wanted to get something done for Christmas as I haven’t been that active on here recently, life’s been a bit difficult and I’m getting ready to start college in January.
A morning chorus of shrills, beeps, and long, lonely coos filters through the seam of unconsciousness. Dreams melt like heated wax, grim images of war bubbling and spilling away to nothing. The melody of birdsong signals a new dawn, another step by Saturn, putting evermore distance from the terrible past.
Sleepily, France blinks and peers at the curtained windows, dim sunlight stubbornly peeking around the fabric edges, broken by the small, darting shadows of wings. Truthfully, it is his own fault for feeding the feathered animals every morning; now, they have grown accustomed to the luxury of farm seed for breakfast.
He should slip out from under the shelter of his sheets and feed them, but his bed is so perfectly warm, and England’s arm, a soothing weight over his hips.
Rolling over, the bedroom’s alabaster ceiling blurring into pillows, he looks at England, whose face is half sunk into the duvet. His breath comes softly.
France drags a finger across his forehead, brushing aside his messy, haybale bangs. “Are you awake?” he whispers. After a moment, England sighs and mutters something unintelligible, his words muffled by cotton. “Would you mind doing me a small favour?”
England cracks open a drowsy eye. “…You want me to attend to your adoring public?”
“Mm-hm.” France curls an arm around his bare waist, knuckles tracing circles along his spine, glancing over the odd scar or two. “It is important for me to get my beauty rest.”
“They’re your birds,” England murmurs.
“I can make it worth your while.”
Leaning in, France kisses his neck, and the alluring smell of sex swirls through the air. It would be very nice to stay like this for a long time, floating gracefully in oblivion, right on the shores of sleep and lust. His lids flutter shut, tasting the skin of England’s throat, but just as he is ready to forget the birds entirely, a thumb and forefinger find his nose and pinch it. France blinks.
“You’re daft,” England says with a smirk, “if you think that will work on me.”
Hello everyone! From all of us here at Historical Hetalia Week, we’d like to thank you all for participating in our event! We enjoyed seeing what everyone created and spreading everyone’s wonderful content.
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Warning: This fic deals with the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. It will contain blood, smoking, and descriptions of a battlefield. Reader discretion is advised.
Inspired by the phrase: “Buddies in Bad Times.”
Mars at Rest
Waterloo, Belgium; 18 June, 1815
Cracking against flint, a match sparks and burns, breaking the deathly silence.
Prussia brings the flame to his pipe, lighting the tobacco, watching it glow red before he inhales that woody, calming scent, letting it fill his bloodstream and permeate his mind. It doesn’t do much to dull the throbbing ache of his muscles, bruised and overtaxed, pricking in sour protest of every shift and gesture, but it quells the final itch of caution, a nagging leftover from the battle, dying out at last. Shutting his eyes, he exhales, long and slow, then turns to gaze upon the shattered countryside.
The field of victory is never a pretty sight.
Belgium’s rolling hills are riddled with bodies, military uniforms dotting the landscape in navy, crimson, and black. A few fires are smouldering here and there, dark smoke billowing off of charred grassland and wool fabric, torn flags rippling from the heat. Among the dead, like phantoms, riderless horses stand quiet, their heavy heads hanging low; sad statues lost without their masters. Dusk soaks the scene in a strange, muted haze, with clouds catching the sunset and blazing as they sink below the earth.
It’s a familiar view and Prussia idly wonders how many battles he has witnessed in his abnormally long life. Hundreds? Thousands? The uniforms and weapons may change, but in his memory, the conflicts all blend together in a sea of blood, a churning stew of grisly images stretching back to the Crusades. The shock and horror long ago morphed into tepid acceptance, better suited for survival, because when staring down a brigade of stampeding dragoons, there is no time for doubt, and the field of failure is a far worse sight than this.
Turning his back to the sullied terrain, Prussia puts his hand on a short, crumbling brick wall, barely more than a fence now, and hops, throwing his boots over the side to perch atop it. His tendons sting, a mild jolt of pain shooting up his wrist, but he ignores it; he rarely listens to his body, anyway.
“You look like shit,” Prussia tells his exhausted ally.
Barely upright, England is sitting on the ground, leaning against a broken cannon wheel that got stuck in the rubble. Coat draping his shoulders, he holds his bandaged side, red seeping through, and still manages the strength to glare up at Prussia, putting those impressive eyebrows to good use.
“And whose fault is that?” he grunts, voice dry and hoarse.
“My best guess would be France,” Prussia teases, popping the pipe between his teeth.
matthew & alfreds first hangover was much like arthur constantly giving them lectures and quite a bit mad (not on a serious note tho) while francis made them breakfast, made sure they both had water with them and some medicine and then made sure arthur wouldn’t burst in every 20min
Portugal wanders his way over to England’s desk, watching him hold open a book with one hand as he scribbles furiously into a notebook with the other. Stacked around him are little towers of other tomes and papers, some of which look like they could be from the 20th century or later — most of which don’t.
Portugal lifts one with a finger to look at the spine. “Are these all Voltaire?”
“Yes.” England answers shortly, then shushes him when Portugal opens his mouth to ask his next question. Portugal obediently closes his mouth and waits, amused, as England pinches the bridge of his nose and grimaces at the ceiling like it has offended him. After a moment, England scrawls something on his paper again, then clicks his tongue and tosses his pen onto the table. Portugal takes that to mean he can talk, and asks, “Why Voltaire?” Then, teasingly: “I thought you didn’t read French.”
England looks up to give him a baleful stare from where he has begun rifling through his piles. “Its research. I’m trying to win an argument against Francis. We’ve also got one going on about integration, but he’s clearly wrong about that so I’m focusing on Voltaire right now.” He pulls out Traité sur la tolérance and flips to a page he’s bookmarked with a pink sticky note.
Portugal grins. “I see you two are still very much in love.”
“Yes, I am going to crush him.”
“That’s not what I said,” Portugal laughs. He shifts a couple books onto one arm and replaces it with his neatly wrapped offering. “Well, take a break to eat first. Can’t wage war on an empty stomach.”
England looks up, then at what Portugal’s placed on his desk. He frowns. “What is that.”
“A bento!” Portugal taps the top of the fabric wrapped box with a finger. “I bought the fabric and the box last time I went to Tokyo. Isn’t it adorable?”
The fabric is decorated with red and white camellias and a white snake. It is pretty, England admits to himself. If incredibly embarrassing. The thought of anyone finding out that Portugal had made him a packed lunch makes England want to bludgeon himself to death with his hardcover copy of the Principia.
Portugal is smirking at him. The bastard knows.
England sighs and closes his notebook. “What is it?” he asks.
“Squid ink pasta! I got the recipe from Romano, thought I’d try it out. Have some.” His eyes betray the hope he deliberately left out of his tone.
“I’ll eat after I finish this.”
Portugal immediately frowns at him. “You need to eat.”
“I said I would, after—“
“Did you have breakfast?”
A slightly guilty silence. “I had tea.”
Portugallooks at him, and England hates him. Hates that he can go from mocking to pleading to admonishing in half a breath. Hates that he made squid ink pasta, like that’s a normal thing to have for lunch at work. Hates that he’s actually hungry.
Hates that the camellias on the box are really damn pretty.
I feel like Arthur’s centuries old manor has become something of local legend around the area. He certainly doesn’t frequent it as much as he used to but he allows some of the fae or other ghosts to reside there while he’s away.
The local kids all dare each other on Halloween to spend the night there, which, Arthur is more than aware takes place.
He scares the shit out of anyone that try to brave the haunted mansion by the sea cliffs. It’s all good fun really. He appears quite ghastly before them on top of the creatures he’s hired as help and really takes this chance to get theatric. He’s likely died once or twice, on years where the trespassers have really gotten on his nerves and need a proper fright.
He’ll be in the shops the next day and the teens are pointing at him that they just saw his head rolling down a staircase just last night and he’ll just laugh it off, saying something along the lines of them best not sticking their noses where they don’t belong and how they should carry salt on their person for the next week or two.
It’s all in stupid fun at this point, however, he’s only confirming the fact he lives in a haunted house and thus, attracting more and more people as a result.
