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.
America has to get a little creative when running away from his Civil War related problems. Fortunately, Canada is there to aide and abet in his escape Westward. A Historical Hetalia fic written for the 2022 @HistoricalHetaliaWeek.
Did my dumb ass watch the season finale of Our Flag Means Death and immediately want soft pirates in all my fandoms?
You know I did.
…E/R pirate AU. Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me.
The young sailor in His Majesty’s Royal Navy tentatively set his empty tankard on the polished wooden bar of the tavern his crewmates had insisted they go to on their first stop off the ship. “Thank you,” he told the grizzled barkeep, not yet broken of his genteel ways.
The barkeep just grunted, not looking up from where he was wiping a glass, but the sailor’s eyes caught sight of the man’s tattoo, just peeking out from his shirt sleeve, and his eyes widened. “You’re a pirate,” he blurted.
Now the barkeep did look up, something almost like amusement crossing his creased face. “Well, at least I used to be,” he said before nodding at the empty tankard. “Can I get you another?”
Dumbstruck, the sailor nodded, watching as the barkeep filled his tankard and accepting it without comment, slinking back to where his crewmates were waiting. “What’s with you?” one asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“The barkeep,” the sailor said, his voice low. “He– he’s a pirate!”
The other men all glanced at the bar, instantly relaxing when they saw who it was. “Oh, him,” one said with a snort. “He was, once, but he’s nothing to worry about now.”
Did my dumb ass watch the season finale of Our Flag Means Death and immediately want soft pirates in all my fandoms?
You know I did.
…E/R pirate AU. Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me.
The young sailor in His Majesty’s Royal Navy tentatively set his empty tankard on the polished wooden bar of the tavern his crewmates had insisted they go to on their first stop off the ship. “Thank you,” he told the grizzled barkeep, not yet broken of his genteel ways.
The barkeep just grunted, not looking up from where he was wiping a glass, but the sailor’s eyes caught sight of the man’s tattoo, just peeking out from his shirt sleeve, and his eyes widened. “You’re a pirate,” he blurted.
Now the barkeep did look up, something almost like amusement crossing his creased face. “Well, at least I used to be,” he said before nodding at the empty tankard. “Can I get you another?”
Dumbstruck, the sailor nodded, watching as the barkeep filled his tankard and accepting it without comment, slinking back to where his crewmates were waiting. “What’s with you?” one asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“The barkeep,” the sailor said, his voice low. “He– he’s a pirate!”
The other men all glanced at the bar, instantly relaxing when they saw who it was. “Oh, him,” one said with a snort. “He was, once, but he’s nothing to worry about now.”
Did my dumb ass watch the season finale of Our Flag Means Death and immediately want soft pirates in all my fandoms?
You know I did.
…E/R pirate AU. Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me.
The young sailor in His Majesty’s Royal Navy tentatively set his empty tankard on the polished wooden bar of the tavern his crewmates had insisted they go to on their first stop off the ship. “Thank you,” he told the grizzled barkeep, not yet broken of his genteel ways.
The barkeep just grunted, not looking up from where he was wiping a glass, but the sailor’s eyes caught sight of the man’s tattoo, just peeking out from his shirt sleeve, and his eyes widened. “You’re a pirate,” he blurted.
Now the barkeep did look up, something almost like amusement crossing his creased face. “Well, at least I used to be,” he said before nodding at the empty tankard. “Can I get you another?”
Dumbstruck, the sailor nodded, watching as the barkeep filled his tankard and accepting it without comment, slinking back to where his crewmates were waiting. “What’s with you?” one asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“The barkeep,” the sailor said, his voice low. “He– he’s a pirate!”
The other men all glanced at the bar, instantly relaxing when they saw who it was. “Oh, him,” one said with a snort. “He was, once, but he’s nothing to worry about now.”
“Aren’t we supposed to capture or kill pirates?” the sailor asked, a little worriedly. Their orders from the Royal Navy had been fairly straightforward, after all.
But his crew mates seemed distinctly less concerned. “He’s retired,” one crewmate said. “No sense killing a man enjoying the rest of his life.”
The sailor glanced nervously at the bar again. “But how do you know he’s retired?”
“Don’t you know?” another crewmate asked, incredulous that he had apparently not heard the story. “He served on The Barricade under the Red Angel himself.”
Despite the serious way he said it, the sailor couldn’t help but giggle at the name. “The Red Angel?” he repeated, though he quailed under the glares his crewmates gave him, some looking at the bar as if worried the barkeep had heard him.
“Do you not know who the Red Angel is?” one asked, his voice low and urgent. “He and his crew—“
“Les Amis,” another crew member added helpfully.
“Right, them – they terrorized the sea for years. Killed more men of His Majesty’s Navy than any other crew. One sight of their red flag on the horizon caused braver men than you to abandon ship.”
“They were known for only ever attacking the richest ships,” a different crew member added. “And they could never be caught because they’d give half their takings away whenever they made landfall so no one would dare report them. It’s how he got the name Angel, too, or so I heard.”
The sailor looked at the barkeep with new respect. “Wow,” he said, taking a pull of ale. “But then shouldn’t we definitely arrest him?”
A crewmate shook his head. “Nah,” he said dismissively. “Ship went down at sea years ago, lost to cannon fire. The Red Angel and all his men perished.” He paused. “Well. All but one. Figure he’s no danger by himself.”
“How’d he survive?”
The crewmate shook his head. “No one knows for sure, but I heard he fell asleep below deck with the wine and grog, and when a cannon hit the side of the ship, it blew them and him out to sea, and he wound up drifting on a barrel of wine.”
“Good riddance,” another crew mate interjected haughtily, his manner and accent indicating someone of higher birth than most of them. “I wish the sea had taken him along with his pirate brethren, scum that they were—“
“Aye,” a low growl of a voice interrupted and all the sailors froze, staring up at the barkeep, who stood behind them, smiling down at them with a horrible, twisted smile, “but then who would be here to pour your ale?”
The high born crew member let out a squeak and fell backward from his stool, scrambling to his feet as the rest of the crew laughed, though their laughs faded when they saw the barkeep was still standing at their table, still smiling that terrible smile.
“Sounds like you gentlemen have some questions,” he said gruffly. “Seems I should answer them for myself, don’t you think?”
Suddenly, no one seemed able to look him in the eye, everyone glancing down into their drinks. But the sailor swallowed nervously before asking, “Are you truly retired from your life of piracy?”
The barkeep looked at him and the sailor shrank back against the ferocity of his glare. Then he laughed, a full belly laugh that made him look years younger than he was. “Do you know, no one’s ever asked me that one,” he said, and some of the crew’s eyes darted between him and the pirate.
Then the barkeep shook his head. “Truth is, I have no need to pirate, lad,” he said evenly, pausing before adding, deliberately casual, “Not when they’re still out there.”
He nodded toward the window and the crew members shared confused glances before someone asked slowly, “Do you mean your crew?”
Another crew member gasped. “The Barricade?” he whispered, his eyes wide.
Murmurs broke out between the sailor and the barkeep just smiled slightly. “Oh, aye,” he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a knife. “What, you think a mere cannon should sink that ship?”
“But – but we’d’ve heard of The Barricade attacking someone, right?” the sailor asked, his eyes wide. “It’s been decades—”
“And how many ships have gone missing in that time under mysterious circumstances, with no crew left alive to tell their tale?” the barkeep interrupted, his lip curling. “The Red Angel hunts still, haunting the waters that they would claim him, and they say—” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “They say the last thing a sailor sees before he dies is his red flag.”
He straightened and shrugged. “Of course, it could just be a myth. But then again, you have to ask yourself, how’d I survive the sinking of The Barricade if not for a little something mythical at work?”
Most the crew stared at him, pale and quiet, and he smiled at them. “You’d best be heading back to your ship now. You wouldn’t want to be caught around these parts when night falls.”
They didn’t need a second warning, leaving their coins and their half-drunk tankards on the table and scurrying almost as one to leave the tavern and make it back to their ship. The barkeep chuckled, shaking his head as he gathered their coins.
He glanced up to see the sailor lingering in the doorway, staring at the barkeep with open curiosity in his expression. The barkeep let him stare for a moment before looking up at him and winking.
The sailor gulped and disappeared. “Oy, Grantaire, give us a drink!” someone called from the bar, and Grantaire shook his head once more before turning to head back to the bar and serve the rest of his customers.
— — — — —
Grantaire yawned as he let himself into the house that evening, grateful that the housekeeper had lit the lamps for him. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt as he headed automatically to the library on the far side of the house, facing the sea.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching with fond eyes as the man sitting at the desk scribbled carefully on a piece of parchment. Just as Grantaire’s hair was more salt than pepper these days, so too was the gold of the man’s hair fading to silver, tied back with a sloppy bow, though in the light of the setting sun, it still appeared as gold as it used to.
Suddenly, the man paused, lifting his head without turning around. “Grantaire?” he called, just a little hesitantly, and Grantaire smiled.
He could only imagine that if ever he were to hear the sirens like Odysseus, they would sing with Enjolras’s voice.
“Here, my love,” he said softly, and Enjolras turned, smiling as well.
“Well, are you going to come kiss me?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or are you going to make the blind man find you?”
Grantaire didn’t hesitate, crossing to him at once and pulling him up from his chair to kiss him properly. “Hello,” he murmured, his lips brushing against Enjolras’s.
“Hello yourself,” Enjolras said, kissing him before looping his arm through Grantaire’s. Grantaire led him over to the couch just as he had done for years now, and they sat down together, Enjolras automatically leaning back against Grantaire. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” Grantaire said with a shrug. “Mostly uneventful, save for putting the fear of ghosts into some young Navy recruits.”
Enjolras shook his head affectionately. “It’d be easier if you just poisoned them,” he said.
“They’re practically boys,” Grantaire said, a little stubbornly. “It’d be wrong to just kill them. Besides, this way some might desert and go on to spread the story of the Red Angel.”
“And with any luck, the rest will run into Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s ship,” Enjolras said, with a bit of grim satisfaction.
Grantaire just shook his head, reaching out to brush a strand of silver hair out of Enjolras’s unseeing eyes, running his fingers with gentle reverence over the burn scars that crisscrossed Enjolras’s face, the most lingering evidence of the cannon that had destroyed The Barricade and taken Enjolras’s sight with it.
Enjolras reached up, tangling his fingers with Grantaire’s before drawing his hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. “Do you ever miss it?” he asked, his voice low.
Grantaire rested his cheek against Enjolras’s head. “Miss what?”
“The sea,” Enjolras said, before adding, with a wry twist of his lips, “Piracy.”
Grantaire considered it for a moment. “Some days,” he said. “But I’d miss you more.”
Enjolras made a face. “Be serious. I know what you gave up for me. When I lost the ship—”
His voice broke, and Grantaire knew he referred not just to the ship, but to the lives they had, the friends they’d shared, and the mission that had driven Enjolras for most of his years.
Some days it was hard to say which Enjolras missed more.
“When I lost the ship and my eyes,” Enjolras continued after a moment, “I had no choice but to leave the sea. I couldn’t captain a ship anymore, not that there was a ship left to captain. But you—”
“There was never a choice for me,” Grantaire told him simply. “As much as I love the sea, I can live on land. I cannot live without you.”
Something tightened in Enjolras’s expression, and Grantaire knew that he was thinking that if their positions were reversed, he wouldn’t be able to say the same. Grantaire knew what he was thinking, because he’d had the same thought.
Once, it might’ve hurt him, to know that Enjolras didn’t feel that way, would choose the sea and piracy over him. But they’d had years together now, from stolen kisses underlight moonlight on the ship’s deck when neither man had silver in his hair, to quiet nights like this, tucked up on their island, watching crews come and go over the years.
Grantaire knew without question that while Enjolras might never have chosen it, he’d found a way to love their life, and to love Grantaire.
And to Grantaire, that would always be enough.
He nudged Enjolras companionably. “Besides,” he said, his tone turning brisk, “there are some perks to living on land.”
Enjolras barked a surprised laugh at the abrupt change in tone. “Like what?” he asked, smiling.
“Well, for starters, there’s more wine on land,” Grantaire pointed out. “Plus I can bathe with surprising frequency.”
Enjolras mock-scowled. “Grantaire.”
Grantaire laughed. “But most of all, I get to leave the tavern every day and return to you waiting for me,” he said, suddenly serious. “And as far as exchanges go, that’s one I’d take every time. Over any ship, on any sea, for any treasure. Coming home to you will always beat out.”
Enjolras shook his head but he didn’t argue further, instead leaning in to kiss Grantaire, a soft, sweet kiss. “On land, you get to come home,” he whispered, with an understanding that only could have come from their years together.
“Aye,” Grantaire said, turning to kiss Enjolras’s temple. “I get to come home.”
I wanted to draw my version of Dr Stanley in my post-canon fix-it AU!!
He was scarred from the carnivale fire, he lives in Scotland (no reason ) and works in amphitheatres but many ppl won’t talk to him due to the mysterious rumours surrounding his disfigurement
EDIT: this design directly coincides with my ‘what if Dr Stanley made it to ep10’ design that I sketched up HERE:)
it’s summer which means it’s mosquitos-eating-max-alive season and i currently have like ten bites. i’ve managed to control most of them (i am highly prone to huge swollen welts), but i have one rn that is just a beast on my ankle and has filled with fluid and become really painful this happens to me every summer i hate mosquitos
you blink slowly as you let the words fully sink in, wondering if all the painkillers were starting to make you a little woozy. last time you checked, you aren’t married and your love life is as exciting as the blank white wall that currently stared back at you. the nurse nods and offers a small smile before exiting the room, leaving you completely and utterly confused.
looking down at your left arm, now encased in a cast, you wince as memories of the past couple of hours come flooding back to your memory. the bright hospital lights allow for a headache to creep into your temples, and you close your eyes from some sort of reprieve.
the peace doesn’t last for too long as the sound of hurried footsteps grow louder and louder until you hear someone bolt through the door.
“yn! are you okay?”
“is that my alleged husband?” you keep your eyes closed, not needing to look towards the door to know that kuroo is the one standing there.
“hey! you’re the one who set me as an emergency contact.” he chuckles, shaking his head and sitting by your hospital bed. “they only allow family members for visits so i had to improvise.”
“but did you have to be my husband?” you groan, finally opening your eyes only to be greeted by the sight of worry plastered on his features, “wipe that look off your face. i’m fine.”
he ignores your statement and rests a hand on yours, “what happened?”
“i slipped and fell wrong, it’s not that-” you attempt to fight off a yawn but fail, exhaustion slowly seeping through your veins, “deep.”
“go rest, yn. i’ll still be here when you wake up.” kuroo manages to keep his voice both gentle and teasing, an emotion you can’t quite place flashing in his eyes. is it admiration? concern? longing?
regardless, you’re too tired to figure out, “you don’t have to stay.”
“what kind of husband would i be if i didn’t?”
“shut up, i hate you.”
kuroo smiles, watching the way your eyelids flutter shut. he waits until he’s sure you’re asleep, taking in the steady rise and fall of your chest and the barely visible smile on your lips, before replying. “but i love you.”
from elle ! ngl, ive never broken my arm so idk how accurate this is but I just got brainrot about the whole ‘only fam can visit’ rule that hospitals have and I know kuroo would just straight up say you’re married </3
Janus carefully shifted his grip on the thread, sliding down a few more inches to stop just above the countertop. Today was just a routine borrowing trip, though he was beginning to think ahead and keep an eye out for special things he could give as presents to his younger brother, Logan, whose birthday was coming up in a few weeks. Perhaps borrowing supplies. He’d be ten, and despite Janus’s reluctance to allow him out of the walls, he’d need to learn sometime.
Janus scanned the room one more time, making sure that it really was dark and still, perfectly empty other than himself, and then dropped the last inch to the counter.
“Perhaps a pack,” he murmured under his breath, too quiet for any but the smallest ears to hear. “If I get him a hook and a string he’ll be trying all manner of dangerous stunts. And the safer borrowing trips for practicing will be floor level anyway, behind and under dressers.”
The counter was all cluttered, courtesy of the resident human, Roman, and his son Patton. Patton was about Janus’s age, seventeen, and both he and his father were loud and a bit messy, the perfect humans. Any movement from either of them would be announced with some kind of talking or singing, or music carried around with them. The kitchen counter was regularly laden with packaged snacks, and it made it easy for Janus to sneak in at night and grab one or two without the loss being noticed.
