#Arthur Kirkland I understand you

[tireditaliannsstuff]

The way I went from hating this haircut to being obsessed with it needs to be studied

[yawujin]

bwaaaah hetalia allies with s/o who's a virgin /// or, nsfw for their first time OUUUGGH!! also, what's ur limit for how many characters u write? I'd ask for both allies n axis but don't wanna bombard that many on u !! ^^

don't worry about that, i got youu ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ) enjoy!! 🤍

hetalia allies & axis | first time 💭 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

type | nsfw , smut , they/them pronouns used , established relationship , light hearted , first time trope

author's note* part two is here 🤍

allies ♥︎

america/alfred f. jones

he's really excited and is prone to getting carried away.

it will take direct communication from his s/o to get him to calm down and take things slow. he can respect that, so he does.

he's making sure to be careful in everything he does, tracking his pace so he goes slow enough to not overwhelm them but fast enough to not bore them

he really really wants their approval...so he's doing the best he can (he wants that sweet praise after all is said and done)

england/arthur kirkland

he's like really anxious so if they're able to help him through that, that would be really great

he just has this fear that he'll hurt them so he is really gentle, it's an expectation that he's aware of so he just automatically does it

he's very encouraging and accepting towards mostly anything his s/o does during sex. he's the type to urge them to let it all out if they want to moan but are holding back. he also really wants them to grab onto anything of his, really. but only if they want to

he'll want to hurry and get them cleaned up as soon as they both finish, so they don't have to feel uncomfortable...especially after their first time

france/francis bonnefoy

he makes it very sweet, very loving, and makes sure that they feel comfortable before they even begin.

he'll give them words of affirmation, and letting them know they're free to back out at anytime. "if you want a break, just say the word and we'll have a break." france kisses their cheek

he's very vocal, complimenting them on their expressions, sounds and on their figure.

afterwards, he'll want to lie down and hold them. he'll tell them just how much he appreciates them and say what his favorite parts were. he'll ask them what theirs were, too.

canada/matthieu williams

he's shy but not anxious. being gentle is in his dna, so it comes to him automatically

"i never want you to feel uncomfortable..." he says. his voice is soft and sweet.

he's the type to guide them through it, putting his hand on theirs and placing it somewhere on his body. it's especially helpful if they're the type to not know where to touch.

i feel like he'd want to kiss them a lot, but he understands if they don't want to or get overwhelmed.

russia/ivan braginsky

first of all, he puts in effort to not look scary because he knows he can be intimidating

and since sex can be intimidating to some, he really tries to get them to have fun with it

he tries to do the same, and not take himself too seriously

he saves the sweet talk for after they both finish. for now, he wants to savor the moment with them and moan into their ear, watching how they react to all of it, all of him. he likes the fact that it's brand new to them, but he'll like it even more if he can please them...so he focuses on that.

china/yao wang

he's very well versed in helping people feel relaxed, especially during a moment that can be so overwhelming for some.

of course , it helps that he's experienced, too. that way he can reassure them and promise that he's going to make his s/o feel great

he's already prepared the essentials (i'll leave it up to the readers to guess what those are winkk)

he knows already that he's going to need to take things easy at first. it's really fortunate that he's good at tracking his pacing, and reading expressions. he keeps asking them if they feel alright, and if it's okay for him to continue. if they consent, he'll give them a quick kiss on the forehead before going back to what he was doing.

axis ♥︎

north italy/feliciano vargas

he's all smiles. he's just happy that he gets to be their first.

he's excited!! but he respects them completely, so he asks what exactly they want to happen.

italy is here to fufill their wishes. and that he does.

he can't help but hold them tightly in the heat of the moment, going in for a quick collection of kisses before pulling away for some air. he's getting desperate but he asks for permission before doing anything else.

germany/ludwig beilschmidt

he's nervous ngl but he knows what to do so he approaches this *situation* practically

he prolongs the foreplay just so he can give them a taste of what's to come also so he can get an idea of what they might like or dislike

he overthinks a lot of what people say and what their body language is so he takes that into account before they begin

he's the one to ask: "can i do this?" "is this okay with you?" before going any further. if they didn't know any better they'd think it's his first time with the hesistant way he goes about this (it's kind of sweet, since he's usually so direct)

japan/kiku honda

he's very sweet towards them, now more than ever

he says it's okay if they're nervous, but he really wants to know how they want to go about this

he urges them to talk about exactly what they want, so he can give it to them just as they prefer

he delivers; making them feel cared for from the very moment they start making out to the final moments where he's looking at them, even if they're too shy to maintain eye contact

prussia/gilbert beilschmidt

similar to his brother germany, prussia is direct and he uses this as a guide for them

he gently asks them if they can do a certain thing, letting them ease into it and letting them take the lead without so much pressure. he reminds them they can say no if he unknowingly asks too much of them

he does this because he'd rather not risk coming on too strong (he doesn't want to let his eccentricity get the better of him and overwhelm or scare his s/o ☹️)

he's happy with whatever they want to do and gives them a little bit of praise to encourage them further

south italy/lovino vargas

he tones down his usual blunt and outspoken demeanor just for them, reminding them that it's okay not to take themselves so seriously

he uses touch as a way to soothe their nerves, constantly holding any, and every part of them in one way or another

he goes ahead with touching them in the typical ways most people like, but tells them that they should let him know if they don't like something right away

as he gets accquainted with everything they do like though, he'll tell his s/o how amazing they feel, on almost every part of their body.

[lolliepops-rox]

Hello 2024 Hetalia fandom. I want to talk about schizophrenic Arthur Kirkland.

Background: I myself is someone with psychosis, along with experience with schizophrenic family members. I'm not talking completely out of my ass. But not do I obviously speak for every mental ill person ever. Moreover, I am pulling on the way being a nation would affect his relationship with being schizophrenic.

I am extremely new to the fandom, but my best friend who has been here for a decade has talked with me about how the idea was handled in the past. I want to give this headcanon a genuine and sincere look at it, because I think it's interesting and I want to project onto Arthur a little.

One of the reasons he's a terrible cook is actually because of his schizophrenia. Disordered thinking means he struggles to follow steps in a recipe. The impact on his motor skills makes him even worse. Please do not give this man a knife. He will cut himself.

I think because of his own experience with cooking, he is prone to food related paranoia, things like it being rotten or poisoned, sometimes affected by the era/current events. During times of famine he's gonna lean towards rotten, verse maybe some civil unrest leading to him thinking his food is poisoned. Disordered eating is a huge problem for him. (We found out partly where Alfred gets it from lol)

Continuing with the food theme, smelling rotten food is a common hallucination for him. Olfactory hallucinations just make sense for him to me, so the smell of fire and gas is a common one too. (This is partly the effect of the many London fires throughout the centuries).

In terms of visional hallucinations, I don't think he'd be very prone to it. Reality checks for them he'd have to rely on his British Isles brothers for them, due to being able to see actual mythical creatures. This is made hard by the fact he's often not on speaking terms with his brothers. This has resulted in an incident where Arthur had assumed a creature following him was a hallucination, that turned out to be real and was HIGHLY offended at being ignored for so long.

In terms of delusions, being a public figure makes discerning reality difficult at times. He is super prone to delusions about being hated by everyone, or being the most popular person ever. This can be hard to reality check because well, he is famous, and sometimes the public does hate him, and people have tried to kill him. My poor man's ego can NOT handle being a public figure with schizophrenia.

England, circa. 2003, on the phone to his PA: Can you send someone over? Either someone is trying to kill me, I'm having another episode, or both. I am not leaving my house until this is resolved. Thanks.

In terms of disordered movement, he would get slapped with that very 'childish' label. Arthur holds himself and moves in a way that looks weird to others. He moves way too much, everything has more motion and steps than necessary, overly fluid. It often leads to people getting accidentally hit by a stray hand from Arthur.

Arthur is NOTORIOUS for his word salad. I feel like Francis over the years has adjusted to understand a lot of Arthur's word salad but still sometimes it's like

Arthur: -gibberish- Antonio: uhhh what did he say? Francis: Don't look at me, this is even beyond my understanding of England.

Alfred is the worst of the native English speaking countries when it comes to understanding Arthur's word salad. Like Ludwig is better at guessing what Arthur meant than Alfred is.

Anyways, that's some of my thoughts <3 I would love to hear other people's ideas & feedback. Thnx xD

[inkcoffinz]

A brief (yes, this is brief) collection of my thoughts about Scotland- Or Alasdair Kirkland: his motivations, backstory, personality, and all that jazz! I will be taking from both a historical and comic canonical aspects mixed with my own headcanons and interpretations.

Enjoy the read~

Starting off strong with a basic understanding of Alasdair’s personality. While he doesn’t have a lot of screen time, we have enough to gather a basic understanding of what he is like. On the surface, Alasdair is a seemingly stoic individual, often carrying a neutral face and reacting to things with an impassive demeanor. This is only really half true though, as a lot of the times we see these kinds of reactions are almost always strictly with his brothers alone. When he is around people he’s less comfortable with, especially one’s he desires a bond with, Alasdair takes on both a more outwardly aloof personality, but also a noticeably more stressed one.

This leads me to my assumption that Alasdair likely has some sort of social awkwardness or social anxiety. It’s likely that he doesn’t interact with other nations outside of his brothers (especially since England is the only one of the four who go to world meetings). This leaves him with a sort of stunted social understanding and a struggle to be in control of his emotions in situations that he is unfamiliar with.

Alasdair is also likely autistic. Not only does he have this struggle with his emotions and anxiety around situations he has less experience with, but he also shows a lack of understanding of social cues on a few occasions. A good example is when Macsen (wales) starts proudly talking about King Arthur and his pride with how he was welsh and Alasdair interrupts him with an article of how King Arthur was actually Scottish. He continues talking about it even with Macsen being visibly upset at the thought and having such an attachment to King Arthur. You can see in Alasdair’s expression and mannerisms that he truly meant no harm sharing the information but didn’t notice the cues around him to not bring up such a sore subject around his brother. This is also more evidence on Alasdair’s struggle with social interaction.

Against popular belief (and fanon headcanon), Alasdair is a very sweet and loving man, caring for others outside of himself- especially his brothers. While, yes, he does pick on Arthur (England), he honestly has very good reason to. In fact, Alasdair loves his brothers so much that he actively gives up his own desires and wellbeing for their happiness and safety. In the Brexit arc, Alasdair wants to leave the uk because being in it is actively hurting him, yet he gives that idea up when faced with the thoughts of what his younger brothers would do without him.

He loves his brothers more than anything- even if he lovingly makes fun of them from time to time. (But who doesn’t do that with their siblings.)*

*this is especially why I hate the fanon idea that Scotland is some sort of abuser- especially toward England- because in actuality he is the complete opposite.

((I will be getting more in detail about Alasdair and Arthur’s relationship later))

I will now shift my thoughts over to his backstory and how Alasdair’s childhood- teen years helped shape him into the man he is today.

Alasdair is a really interesting dude in the fact that, similar to Scottish history itself, he’s full of contradictions. He was raised practically in war- being likely born during the Roman invasion of Britannia, his teenage years being filled with Viking raids, and his adulthood of wars against England (and to an extent- internal disputes). To put it simply, he was raised a soldier. From the way that he acts in the comics- being very quick to act for the group’s self interest rather than self preservation and the fact he is prone to quick violent defense when threatened, it’s likely he still keeps a lot of the mindset that he would’ve had on the battlefield with him. He yearns for his freedom from his brothers and is aware of how much it hurts him staying with them, yet at the same time doesn’t want to leave them to fend for themselves and takes their happiness and safety into his own hands.

Canonically, he is the eldest. He was the one who had to help raise his brothers and watch what they all grew into with his own eyes. With this intense desire to keep them safe, I think he carries quite a lot of unshown guilt over a lot of things. I see a few people writing Alasdair like he is in denial of the monster Arthur became and doesn’t want to see the truth, which I think is actually the opposite of what’s likely happening. Alasdair out of any of them would be the most aware of Arthur’s descent and likely have a lot of guilt over it that he tries not to dwell on. I think his bullying of Arthur is both as an act of defiance to him and also an outlet for him to relieve his anger about how things turned out. He can turn that guilt into anger and direct it at England.

On the topic of his relationship with Arthur, combined with the topic of Alasdair’s contradictions, we come to the British empire. Do I think Alasdair hated what Arthur and the British empire were doing? Yes, do I think he was lowkey a coward and never really stood in true defiance against him? Also, yes. When it comes down to it, Scotland benefitted from the British empire- they helped create it and Scottish people also caused a lot of colonization by their hands (Northern Ireland being a good example) Alasdair wanted to stand up to Arthur.. but why didn’t he? I think to an extent he did.. but I think that lowkey.. Alasdair is just a pushover. I think he is. We can even see it in the brexit arc- he was very outwardly against the idea until they all said they wanted to and he went along with it because he didn’t want to split up the family. He loves his brothers to the point where he inadvertently ignores their mistakes and atrocities because he doesn’t want to truly hurt the only people he calls his family. His cowardice is also important because along with it comes his denial of that aspect of himself. He doesn’t want to be a pushover and a coward- he wants to be the strong warrior that he wanted to be when he was younger and had to fight for himself. He wants to protect people and the ones he loves and hates how easily he folds into negativity.

A really important relationship that I want to bring attention to (and often do a lot on my page) is Scotland’s relationship with Northern Ireland. A really interesting thing about Alasdair is his implied affinity for Logan (Northern Ireland ). I have a few explanations for this- an obvious one being that Northern Ireland was mostly settled and colonized by lowland Scots so ofc he has affection towards him, BUT I like to take another approach with the fact that Northern Ireland is likely the one brother that Alasdair really has a connection with. Arthur and Macsen are obviously quite close and are often seen agreeing with eachother or having a general connection that you don’t really see with Scotland. Alasdair is lowkey the outlier of the family and likely clings to Logan cause he’s the other ‘weird’ one.

Tldr- Alasdair is lonely. I really think he is. Even amongst his brothers, he has a loneliness that he can’t really fill. I think this is why he tries so hard to make friends in the story and why it lowkey upsets him so much when it fails

It is 3 in the morning currently so I will end this here, but I will likely have more soon. Thanks for reading!

[helianskies]

would you consider some engport for the winter prompts? :3

always.

Warmer

“That is not a snowman.”

“Snowmen… Snowwomen… Do we have to label these things?”

“Okay, let me reiterate: that is not any kind of snowperson, João, that is a duck.”

João’s smile drops. He stands there, serious in his salmon-pink mittens, and says, “It is literally Barcelos.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Very!”

Arthur pulls a face—that sort that says ‘hmm, well, if you say so’—and he goes back to sipping the hot drink in his cup. João in turn huffs, then goes back to patting bits on snow into his chicken-duck-demon effigy upon the garden table, his latest masterpiece, and his first snow sculpture in years. Though to be fair, it’s also Arthur’s: white Christmases are a rare phenomena!

Of course, he’s just winding the other up. He could tell what João was making when he first looked out of the kitchen window about ten minutes ago, but sometimes, it’s amusing to watch the other work hard away, a pout on his face, a frown at his brows. The fluffy earmuffs he’s borrowed from Arthur’s collection of winter-wear add to the patio scene. 

Taking another sip of his tea, Arthur continues to observe. A small ball of snow is scooped up from the table and gets smushed down onto the head. Time to make the comb!

While João continues, Arthur asks, “Want a hot drink?”

“I’d rather have some help,” the other duly responds.

“The mighty Portugal seems to be doing a fine job on his own, though,” Arthur remarks light-heartedly, from the comfort of the conservatory, whose warmth he can still just about feel behind him as he stands in the doorway.

João stops, mittens on snow, to look at him. “I don’t think you understand.”

The words are said so seriously—so harrowingly—that, actually, Arthur is inclined to agree with him. He doesn’t understand. So he steps down onto the patio in his slippers and he wonders, “What do you need me to do?”

“Something you should have done a long time ago, Kirkland,” is his stern response.

Now concerned he’s forgotten to do something that was asked of him, or that he’s forgotten a date (I swear that’s in January, though!), or that he’s just being an idiot in general and that’s disappoint João which is the last thing he wants and—

“Coat, scarf and gloves,” João instructs him. “Put them on. Find your shoes. Come outside.”

Panic dissipates like steam. 

“Oh, you—” Arthur gives a nervous laugh. “You actually just want me to help.”

“Yes!” João cries. “In your own damn time! My hands are freezing, but Toni sent me a photo of a snowman he made, all proud and stuff, and now I want to show him how much better my snow sculpture is!”

More amused than anything, Arthur promises he will help, and he retreats inside to wrap up warm. Within three minutes, he’s slipping on some boots and is back outside, ready to help João achieve his goal for the day: to outshine his brother.

(Something he does every day in Arthur’s book, but… that is beside the point.)

Arthur first tells João to swap gloves with him. It means that he hasn’t got the cold, wet mittens continuing to freeze off his digits, and Arthur, willing to endure for him, can power on and follow his instructions while João takes a break.

Together, they manage to finish the comb and carefully make its swooping shape. After that, João directs Arthur through some touch-ups, wanting to perfect his creation before he dares take a photo to send to his brother. 

Anyone who listened would perhaps think João is bossy, but that’s not the case. He’s an occasional perfectionist, and only when it involves competition of some kind. Arthur knows what that’s like. He has that same streak when it comes to his brothers. It’s one thing that makes him and João kindred spirits, in a way.

“Hey.”

Arthur lifts his gaze to find João next to him. With a blink, before him is a completed Snowcelos (a name João does not approve of, but oh well!) and he realises… they’re done. Wow. Finished! When did that happ—?

A chilly kiss lands on his cheek. Yet, it brings him the warmth of home.

“Sorry for making you come outside into the cold,” João says.

He loosely wraps his arms around Arthur from behind, resting his head upon Arthur’s shoulder. There’s nothing else he says—he simply gives him a hug—but the way he rests makes it seem like he’s tired. Ready to stop.

“I’m just glad we finished,” Arthur tells him, regardless. He puts his arms on top of João’s. “Are you happy with your snow duck?”

“Snow Barcelos.”

“Same difference.”

“Yes,” João determines. “I am.”

Another kiss meets Arthur’s skin, and João then slowly withdraws from the embrace. Instead, he takes Arthur’s hand, and suggests they go back inside before they both start to freeze. 

“What about Snowcelos? Aren’t you going to take a picture?” Arthur questions as the other starts to gently pull him back towards the house.

“I will do,” João responds, “but I think he can afford to sit there and wait a little bit.”

“Wait for what?”

“For us to warm up a little.”

“Oh?” So much for being tired!

“‘Tis the season for showing thanks, no?”

Arthur’s face changes hues. “W-Well, I mean—”

“Don’t worry, Kirkland,” João smiles that teasing smile of his. “This won’t take long.”

[ winter prompts here! ] [ ficlet collection on ao3! ]

[doki-doki-imagines]

Hey there! Can I have a headcanons request of Germany, England and France who have darlings that are quite, calm, introverted and composed most of the time but during their game/fight. Their darling can be very intimidating and dangerous as their rival would be afraid of them (If you know KNB. They are like Akashi Seijuro)

Ludwig Beilschmidt:

-He is so surprised. Like, shocked.

-You have always been so cute and nice…totally didn’t expect that and at first, he thinks it is a joke.

-But Ludwig can’t say he isn’t intrigued by this new side of your personality…unless you get violent. That is a big no-no for him.

-He’ll try to bring that side of you out, not often, but mostly to understand when and with whom it comes out.

-Yeah, he will study you lol. A way to understand every shade of you.

Arthur Kirkland:

-He worries a lot!

-Not for you, for the rival obviously.

-He can recognize the aura around his partner, he and Francis often get it when they meet.

-Gonna kiss your forehead after you destroy your rival and go back home.

-He had to reprimand you in front of others because he is a gentleman, but his true self is so proud of you.

Françis Bonnefoy:

-As Arthur, he recognized the aura around you immediately.

-He has to admit that he prefers your nice and more introverted side of personality.

-Mostly because he doesn’t want you to get hurt.

-Like, it is hot how good you kick ass, but please don’t get hurt, Françis likes to wear his nurse outfit for entirely different motivations.

[icebear4president]

Short angst fic I wrote in an hour!

Characters: Canada and America

Word count: 903

"He never loved me."

Matthew eyed the empty bottles thrown haphazardly across the room, and back again to his brother slumped against the wall. It was an unusual sight to say the least. Alfred didn't get drunk. Or least to the point where he was barely functioning. He had always been the more paranoid of the two, the one who talked about the dangers of letting his guard down.

It was sad in a way, really.

“He likes me, sure," Alfred continued, talking more to himself than anyone else. Matthew wasn't even sure he knew he was there. "Likes who I am, likes the man I turned out to be. Likes the idea of me as a son."

Matthew's eyebrows shot up in surprise at that. He thought his brother was talking about a friend, a lover maybe. Not...this.

"I think he liked raising me. I think he liked-" Alfred sighed, banging his head against the wall. "Liked the earlier days, being my big brother, liked how it felt not having to be alone anymore. Having someone to take care of, you know? I think he liked the thought of saving me from the same loneliness he felt or some other bullshit excuse like that."

Alfred nudged a piece of glass on the floor, idly swishing the liquid in his bottle back and forth. "I think he needs me, but I don't think he loves me."

What was the right response to that? 'Sorry you feel like that' or 'Grow up and stop whining about the past'? Both sounded right and horribly wrong at the same time. This was something deeper, deeper than Matthew could possibly understand He wasn't really sure how he felt about that.

Another thing Alfred and Arthur shared that he would never get to be a part of.

As for now, the only thing Matthew could really think was 'holy shit'. He'd always known Arthur hadn't really cared about him, or at least loved him deep enough, in a way that never had to have excuses for it to be known. But he'd thought...he'd thought if Arthur could find it in his heart to ever love anyone, that, well, it would be Alfred.

"But I can't hate him," Alfred said. "I mean, I love him. He's my dad. But he doesn't, doesn't, love me back."

Alfred finally looked up at Matthew, eyes glazed over, but still analyzing Matthew in a way that made him squirm. "Don't think he ever loved me back, but you. I think he loved you at some point. Maybe still does. You're Matthew after all. Sweet, wonderful, perfect Matthew, the golden child," Alfred spat. "Everyone loves you, and they hate me."

And suddenly Matthew's throat was so painfully constricted, he briefly wondered if he swallowed glass. It was unsettling seeing his brother look at him with so much anger, borderline hate. Except that wasn't right, it was Matthew who should be angry, not the other way around. Alfred didn't have that right. Alfred who had everything.

Right?

Ignoring his brother's internal turmoil, Alfred continued his rant no longer paying attention to him. "He loved that damned pedal stool, the one he put me on, show me off to the world as his best creation." Bitter smile hard with empty amusement, he raised a half-empty bottle. "Alfred Kirkland, best damn soldier there ever was."

Matthew wanted to sock him in the jaw, or flat out run away. He did neither.

Alfred tried to take another swig, but his hands didn't seem to want to cooperate with each other, and he fumbled with both hands until he dropped the bottle altogether. It was sad, really, to see him reduced to this.

And Matthew watched, helplessly, as his little brother started to cry.

"I just don't get it, Mattie." Alfred rubbed a hand against his eyes in an attempt to stop the tears. “Why doesn't he love me? What did I do wrong?"

Alfred was much, much too out of it to care about platitudes, which was a small mercy since Matthew had none to give. So instead, he sat on the floor besides his brother. And before he could even attempt the hesitantly reach out with an awkward one-armed hug, Alfred tipped over and slumped against him, clumsily grabbing at his jacket.

"I love you, Mattie," Alfred muttered into the fabric. "Love you so, so much, and I'm sorry Arthur doesn't love us."

Matthew wrapped his arms around him in what had to be the weakest, shittiest hug ever. He couldn't even remember a time when they'd properly hugged each other. They were more the type to insult each other, hit each other, or maybe awkwardly say they loved each other before conveniently having to leave at the same time.

"Hey," Alfred said, face brightening. "At least you got other people who love you. Got the whole world. Lucky, lucky you." He chuckled. "You're not the only one who wants to switch places."

Matthew choked on a laugh-sob. "Sure, Al, if you say so."

Alfred looked troubled for all of three seconds before he forgot his train of thought completely. "This jacket makes you comfy. Like a comfy leather couch. I'm gonna take a nap and you can't stop me."

"Okay," Matthew said, for lack of a better response.

It was only after he heard his brother's soft breathing that he let himself begin to cry.

[ego-meliorem-esse]

ELABORATE

If you insisttttt <3<3<3<3<3<3

i assume you are asking about the clinical breakdown by the Admiral Lord

Alfred is born in 1631, the settling of the colonies is still uncertain. Having said that, it's def more stable than in the late 1500. It took a long time for his son to be born. Lots of tries and failures. I do hc that Alfred and other countries are BORN. In the human way, to humans, to countries, it does not matter. They are spawned in a very human bloody and painful way. Alfred was born when Boston was established. He does have a mother ( i like to mix the old 2014 hcs that there was a country in that region specifically before the english but having done any kind of research will show that so many different cultures and languages and frankly ways of life existed in the now united states and then "13 colonies" that its straight up and down right unethical to have a single "Native America" representing those vast cultures. Now forgive my balkan-ness for keeping this part short but getting into his part of my hcs is not in my interest or my forte. I just like to humanise these beings, especially Alfred as much as possible) and that mother gave birth to him. Colonisation and settlement in the 1500s and 1600s is cruel, abhorrent and unspeakable to those living on these lands prior to the arrival of the english and for a while dutch. As many nations opposing the empires do, she dies in silence and solitude. Alfred is left in his father's care.

Boston is stable when Alfred first dies. The babe has weak lungs and Arthur doesn't understand. Alfred dies again a year later from the same illness. This time Arthur is aware of an outbreak of illness near the bay. The boy will strengthen and come back to him. He does but only for 2 months before he is ill again. There were difficulties in finding potable water in that part of the colony. Arthur is perplexed, this isn't the sort of thing nations fall ill for and die over. He starts to worry severely, keeping the boy physically close by and under care at all times. Just to make sure the boy, the personification, is in perfect health at all times. Maybe this way, Arthur thinks, his baby will stay with him. It seems that he was right because Alfred lives healthily for more than 2 years. He is fed, he is warm, he is happy. Alfred doesn't wake up one morning. He is still in his crib. He doesn't cry for attention. This time Arthur cries audibly yet carefully, alone in his study. Exiles, brutality and deaths of settlers seem to be the cause. His baby is in London and the order is set for the child not to set a small and wobbly foot in the colonies. His flame is extinguished not even a week later. Arthur is numb at this point. He cannot take it anymore. His guts and throat are in a state of constant clenching. He is vomiting and in pain. England is thriving, Arthur is in a state of misery.

The final straw, final death comes 4 months later with no warning and no apparent causes. Arthur is hosting his brother Rhys in the drawing room. Arthur has had enough. The nurse brings in his boy, Arthur takes his baby into his shaking arms, without a sound. His brother is aware of his nephews struggles with keeping alive. He tries to talk to Arthur, he tries to get him to say anything. Arthur does eventually speak, his voice getting more and more hoarse. Rhys takes his nephew slowly. Arthurs last straw breaks. He is on the floor, he is mourning, sobbing, sorrowing, yelling. Rhys and no one has ever seen Arthur Kirkland like this. He is weeping. Arthur finally broke down.

Part 2 maybe when I pick myself back up from the floor?

[shachaai]

[Hetalia Version] The Lindworm’s Lullaby Chapter 1

Chapters: 1/14 Rating: Explicit (For Gore) Main Relationships: Arthur Kirkland (England)/Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal) Characters: Arthur Kirkland (England), Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal), Original Child Character(s), Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany), Julia Blumenschien (Fem Prussia), Kiku Honda (Japan), Lovino Vargas (South Italy), Assorted Others Other Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Human AU, FBI Murder Mystery/Thriller, Case Fic, Adapted from a Hannibal Fic, Baby Fic, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Gabriel Fernandes, Omega Arthur Kirkland, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Single Parent Arthur Kirkland, Violence and Gore Canon-Typical to Hannibal Levels, Cute Moments and Murder, Murder Scenes, Dead Bodies, Poisoning, Discussions about torture/infidelity/rape

The FBI is called in to investigate when a series of bodies shows up around Ohio: all of them alphas, and all of them skinned alive. With the killer’s motives a mystery, Ludwig Beilschmidt pulls Arthur Kirkland from the classroom and his vigil at the comatose Madeline Williams’ bedside once more to lend his insight to the case - with very little mind paid to the fact that the busy Arthur, omega and single mother to a six month-old daughter, might have some scheduling issues. Necessity - and pressure from Ludwig - drives Arthur into reluctantly asking Gabriel Fernandes for a favour at short notice. Gabriel is delighted to help Arthur with babysitting - once he has, of course, recovered from both the surprise of learning that Arthur Kirkland even has a baby to care for and, presented with the adorable armful that is a sleepy Lenore Kirkland, feeling a little skinned raw himself.

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Chapter 1: some late visitor entreating 1. A few important things to acknowledge before you read on: This is absolutely one of my Hannibal fanfics that I (lightly) filed the serial numbers off of just to reapply Hetalia details instead. It was a dare, okay. If you’re not into artistic horror and murder scenes of the kind Hannibal provides in abundance (or are simply not old or mature enough to watch that show in the first place), this is not the fic for you. Read at your own risk. 2. You don’t have to have watched Hannibal to understand this story, but it may deepen your understanding of the general universe if you have. (This story takes place between S01E2 Amuse-Bouche and S01E03 Potage.) 3. I won’t be posting this on AO3 (I changed a lot, but not enough for it to feel like its own thing to me), so feel free to copy and paste this fic elsewhere for ease of private reading; I don’t care. 4. No insult is meant to any country/nationality by the character assignments/roles; I just picked personalities that I thought might be the closest to my original portrayals.

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You are made of flesh and nerve and thought, of heart and love and wonder and grief, as I am. - Jeanann Verlee, For the Woman Who Loved the Predator More Than His Prey

But it is better to dissect than abstract nature… - Francis Bacon, Novum Organum

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Arthur Kirkland’s lecture hall is dark, its only true light the bare bald glare of the projector screen on his back. It reflects back on the eyes of his attentive students in the audience: on the white sclera, on the thin glowing rings of alpha red and omega gold. On the occasional flash of fangs when lips part and teeth chew down on lips, shadowy heads bending over the desks in front of them to type or scribble notes.

Arthur, front of room and frowning against a headache that is determined to rise even in a room hush with learning, leans back against his desk and resists the temptation to reach up and knuckle at his eyes. Monday afternoons drag on for everyone, and, if Arthur yields too visibly to his own tiredness, many of his students will take his cue and switch off to follow suit.

“Opisthokonta,” he declaims instead, pausing momentarily for the clicks of pens and keys to find themselves a new line. (Or the spelling.) A percussive response, mentally filed away as rote by the time Arthur has gotten to this, his third identical lecture of the day. “The large supergroup of eukaryotes - that would be organisms whose cells contain a nucleus - which includes both the animal and fungal kingdoms.”

Arthur taps a button on the projector remote in his hand, patient against the reactive flinch that goes through his audience as the screen behind him switches from plain white to the - primarily - black, intricate branches of a phylogenetic tree. “If we, humans - not-so-proud members of the biological kingdom Animalia, if anyone was in doubt -, trace back far enough on the genetic family tree, we discover our distant cousins in the Holomycota clade down the street: fungi, and those eukaryotes liker to fungi than animals.”

No pointing out of the relevant branches on the diagram is required; Arthur had highlighted Opisthokonta, Animalia and Holomycota in red on the tree before uploading his presentation.

Another tap of the remote, and the phylogenetic tree is replaced with a blare of technicolour: a photograph of a killer, and one familiar to Arthur’s class of FBI trainees at that. Another reactive flinch goes through Arthur’s students  - less pronounced than before as their eyes adapt -, the mingled scents drifting in the currents of the room sharpening with recognition.

One Berwald Oxenstierna, recently apprehended, stares out stoically from the projector screen, the look in his frozen eyes as strained as the smile failing to stretch his lips. The media had given the beta man many names when the details of his crimes had finally come to light - the Gardener, the Mushroom Man - and used just as many different candid shots as they could get of him, but Arthur, unwilling to slap garish and distracting headlines into his presentation, had snagged the photograph on Oxenstierna’s last work ID - now stored in Evidence - to use instead.

(It’s a terrible photo with the light reflecting blankly off of Oxenstierna’s glasses, and something small and cruel and petty in Arthur had picked it almost precisely for that reason.)

Arthur raises one hand, gesturing to the screen behind him and feeling each button on the sleeve beneath his blazer press firmly to his wrist. (The cuffs on omega sleeves are unforgiving bastards.) “Berwald Oxenstierna was interested in a family reunion. He used his position as a pharmacist to tamper with his victims’ medications, inducing diabetic comas in seven men and women of mixed dynamics before planting them in the ground. Still - however temporarily - alive, but highly unlikely to ever regain consciousness. Fertiliser.”

Tap. Pause. Tap. Pause. Tap. Arthur cycles through the crime scene photographs taken of Oxenstierna’s ‘garden’, waiting briefly between one image and the next to give his students time to absorb both the layout of the scene and what it might infer. The seven graves all in a row, and the gradual - and thoroughly documented - excavation of each. The decaying, fungi-ridden bodies of six of the victims in the arms of the on-scene emergency medical technicians: organisms raised from the earth more humanoid than recognisably human. The quickly-snapped shot of the - at that point - still-living victim being wheeled towards an ambulance.

In the blanketing darkness of the lecture hall, someone audibly gags.

Arthur ignores them. The trainees will need strong stomachs if they hope to work in the field one day, and a few crime scene photographs is the very least they should be able to handle. (Crime scene photographs do not, yet, communicate smell.) “Decomposition was enthusiastically encouraged. The victims were all buried in high-nutrient compost and fed intravenously with a regular supply of dextrose, advancing both the growth of the local fungi and the gradual decline of the victims’ endocrine systems.

“Despite what you may immediately assume from these photographs, for Berwald Oxenstierna’s seven victims, death, eventually, came by way of kidney failure. Something almost entirely incidental to their killer’s greater vision.”

A new gust of air disturbs the room: the door to the lecture hall opposite Arthur’s desk has opened, and a familiar bulky silhouette slipped inside. Content for now, it seems, to loiter in the doorway with shoulders broad and grim. Blocking the exit.

Arthur’s headache picks up another irritable notch as glowing alpha eyes meet his own across the room, a slow and steady thud in his skull sounding in pace with his heart.

Arthur raises his chin and turns his gaze deliberately to sweep across his students instead, a challenge to the class. Someone needs to make sure the next generation of FBI agents can actually rub two brain cells together. “To Oxenstierna, the point was not that his victims died. His goal was evolution: for the fungi to grow, for his victims to join the vast, intelligent mycelial networks that can stretch for miles under the surface of the earth. Crossing the boundaries that occur naturally between organisms in life. And death.

“If you walk into a field of mycelium, they know you are there. They respond to your presence. They communicate.” Arthur switches back to the presentation slide using Oxenstierna’s work ID, the sombre visage of the killer behind Arthur matching his own flat glare out at the room around them. “Berwald Oxenstierna viewed his own actions as helping others to communicate - with nature, with each other, and with themselves. Connecting individuals into a greater whole. He was caught only because others finally stumbled onto his garden and because, after the FBI rescued his eighth victim before she could be planted in a new location, he was desperate to communicate with others himself.”

Such a pity certain people (an invasive species whose greatest attribute, if gossip is to be believed, is either their ability to wriggle their way out of libel cases or their outlandish choice in plumage) had decided to help Oxenstierna with that mission.

“To that end, the attempted abduction of a comatose patient from John Hopkins Hospital was Oxenstierna’s last bid for understanding from others before being caught. Rather than attempting to escape, he chose to make what amounts to a personal plea for empathy.” To Arthur. “To feel as he feels. To see as he sees.”

In another world, at another time, by a different method, Arthur might have listened to Oxenstierna’s entreaty. In this world, however, Oxenstierna had chosen the still comatose and incredibly vulnerable form of Madeline Williams to try and deliver his message: not a step but a whole leap beyond the pale for those already pricked in tender places by the abuse of innocents.

Arthur is ever-vigilant now of sleeping defenceless daughters: holding one by blood and one by guilt-ridden proxy as equal weights now against his heart. He had saved Madeline once already when her obsessed, serial-killing father, unable to deal with the thought of his little girl growing up and leaving him, had slaughtered her mother in front of her before putting a kitchen knife to her throat. Arthur would be damned if he let the likes of a fungi-focused wallflower take her before she even woke up into her new life free of her father’s chains. 

Arthur’s fingers still itch now, twitch, at the memory of that day in the hospital basement. Of Madeline’s hair spread like a long golden fan on the starchy hospital pillows of the hospital gurney Oxenstierna had tried to whisk her away on, and Oxenstierna clutching at his own shoulder, bleeding on the floor. The beta man’s pallor curdling like spoilt milk.

(What would have happened in a world where Arthur was a better shot?)

Arthur’s tongue flicks out briefly over his dry lips, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat between his brows. “The desire for understanding is a dangerous thing. Luckily for us, however,” another slow pass of Arthur’s gaze across his class, the darkness that renders one student almost indistinguishable from the next, “it is often the way we catch the supposedly uncatchable.”

The lecture concludes not long after that, Berwald Oxenstierna’s crimes only the tail-end of a much longer lesson, and the yellowed lights of the lecture hall buzz back to life overhead. The students blink back into animation with them, and cobwebbed dreams of blood and shadows flee away.

Arthur talks briefly through his students’ next assignment before everyone starts gathering up their belongings - and pointedly reminds the two hopefully querying hands raised in the audience of his office hours. Class is dismissed a few minutes shy of the Academy bell, and the tide of students streaming out of the lecture hall is a cacophony after the almost reverent hush before.

The silhouette by the door is a silhouette no more. Ludwig Beilschmidt, head of the BAU, had stepped to the side to allow Arthur’s students to pass him by but now, as the last of the stragglers make their way out of the room, approaches Arthur’s desk, his hands lax in his pockets with a studied casualness: affability that doesn’t quite ring sincere when Ludwig’s shoulders are so stiff.

Arthur is rapidly becoming versant with what that stance means when it is adopted by Ludwig Beilschmidt, of the warmer and bread-and-chocolatey notes of Ludwig’s alpha scent when the man hopes to be cajoling. Cedar and yeast: similar but distant to the woods that surround the Wolf Trap refuge Arthur calls home, life and death and the cycle of decomposition as the leaves are falling. Let’s not vex the moody omega before he performs his party trick.

“Do you think they followed?” Ludwig asks in lieu of a greeting, making no pretence that they both don’t know that Arthur had long since observed him by the door. Ludwig’s honesty is of the perfectly reliable kind meant for blunt force trauma: a crowbar, plain but useful.

Arthur keeps his head low but neck covered as he continues packing away his belongings: prey behaviour, hoping to be left alone. “I’ll let you know once I’ve graded their essays.”

Ludwig waits patiently, solid and immovable with his weight on his heels. Ever hoping for word of a new FBI Wunderkind.

Alas, to only have disappointment to provide.

Arthur sighs through his nose, shoving the last folder into his satchel with a little more force than may be strictly necessary. “A few of them still mistake understanding for condonement.”

“That sounds like an issue with objectivity in the field.”

“That what you’ve come looking for?” Arthur asks dryly, lifting his eyes to Ludwig’s chin. They both know this isn’t a social visit, for all Ludwig had the courtesy to wait until the end of Arthur’s class. Ludwig’s suit is still too sharp, not a strand of his blond hair out of place. “Objectivity?”

Ludwig nods, shameless about it. “And your particular type of understanding. We have a new case in Ohio, Arthur. Three are dead on-scene. The flight leaves shortly and I would like you to ride along, tell us what you see.”

“What, now?” Arthur baulks, seeing the immediate confirmation in Ludwig’s expression. Though his lectures might be over for the day, Arthur has other obligations. “No can do.” He finishes buckling the straps of his satchel closed, already shaking his head to Ludwig’s next protest as he knots a brown scarf around his nigh-bare neck. “My babysitter doesn’t work Mondays.”

Ludwig huffs sharply through his nose, his scent turning to something exasperated, peppery and hot on the tip of Arthur’s tongue like chillies and burnt coffee. Arthur prefers tea but is growing unfortunately familiar with the taste of caffeine served this way - though Ludwig at least, still, has the decency to keep the heat of his disapproval on Arthur’s face rather than on the obviously unmarked slope of Arthur’s neck that Arthur’s scarf fails to conceal. If you won’t talk to your family, you should at least have a mate to take care of this.

It’s easy enough for a mated alpha with no children of his own to pass comment. Alphas with absolutely none of the manners their mothers ever taught them always pass judgement with their eyes long before the stereotypical bullshit comes tumbling out of their mouths, and there are plenty out there that have something to say about an omega being unmated at Arthur’s age, no claiming bite or collar on his throat, especially when that selfsame omega is newly a mother.

Ludwig would have an easier time of getting his way with things if Arthur had a mate or family he actually tolerated to drop his baby off with - but, oh, woe, tragedy indeed, Arthur’s private life and personal decisions fail to revolve around the self-proclaimed needs of one Ludwig Beilschmidt.

“Is there a problem with the services the Academy’s crèche provides for your daughter?”

“The crèche closes at 9, Ludwig,” Arthur points out as he slings his bag over his shoulder and rounds the desk, keeping his tone extraordinarily reasonable, he believes, for a man with a bad head half dreaming of getting home with his daughter sometime soon, half calculating when he can take his next dose of aspirin. “When all the sensible students and professors have head home. Can’t get to Ohio and back before then.” Even assuming all their flights will be on time.

The 9 o’ clock close of the crèche at Quantico is later than most places of business with crèches on-site choose to close, the increased hours only a result of the FBI Academy’s presence on a military base. Gender, dynamic and family rights have progressed in - comparative - leaps and bounds since the Stone Ages in which the Academy was first founded, and the safety and security of the nation cannot be endangered by single parents unable to find adequate childcare.

“If you’d like to bring her along -”

“No,” Arthur hisses, sudden and vehement enough that Ludwig startles back away from him as Arthur’s eyes begin to prickle - undoubtedly bleeding gold. “I am not bringing my baby to a crime scene, Ludwig.” The thought is unconscionable, a boundary blurred into something monstrous.

Ludwig’s instinctive retreat had only been half a step, and half a step alone, but that half a step had been much further than Ludwig had been expecting to go. He pushes back now, failing to see that the line Arthur has drawn lays in concrete rather than sand. “It would be no trouble to get an agent to look after her while you’re occupied-”

Sure, the nameless agent would love that.

Arthur bares his fangs, letting his irritation spill out into his own scent, the lightning-struck forest more dangerous than any burning tower. Ozone and pine: a flammable mix. “You think I’d trust her in the care of a stranger? She’s six months old!” He turns to stalk away.

“What about Dr. Bonnefoy?”

Arthur pauses, caught before he has managed to leave the hall. “What about Dr. Bonnefoy?”

“She’s the child’s godmother, isn’t she?” Oh, Ludwig is finagling now. “Unofficially.”

Unofficially. As most arrangements Arthur has with Marianne Bonnefoy are. Especially when she’s been carefully avoiding him and his questions about the new arrangements for Madeline Williams’ care after the events at John Hopkins, still wary of Arthur’s attachment to the omega girl he had orphaned.

Arthur purses his lips. “I wasn’t aware Marianne had a lecture scheduled this evening.”

“She pushed back her morning lecture today.”

Huh. “Looking to see what consultants you had on-site to grab before you left?” Arthur asks, his voice bordering on scathing - but bites his tongue at Ludwig’s immediate forbidding look in reply. Ludwig is only willing to accept so much of Arthur’s bad temper.

Lines, boundaries and connections. The give and take of favours and affection, work and home, death and delicate daughters who, outside the adult concept of time, are either sleeping or young enough to immediately forgive their mother for all the time he spends away from them.

Arthur considers, gathering up ideas like wet pebbles from the bed of the stream that runs through his mind. Feeling the weight of each before choosing which ones he wishes to discard. “...I’ll go. But only if Marianne is able to babysit.”

Ludwig is triumphant. Ludwig’s triumph dies in its nascency, because, when he and Arthur make their way over to the lecture hall assigned to Dr. Bonnefoy for her lessons, Marianne is unable to babysit. Marianne is not there.

Instead, a small handful of adoring students remains clustered around the podium at the front of the room, and the one fielding their questions is -

“Dr. Fernandes.” Arthur stops short.

“Arthur.”

Breaking off mid-whatever he had been discussing with the trainees, the unexpected figure of Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes looks, first, surprised and then pleased to see Arthur darkening his - borrowed? - door. His smile seems to be a real one; even a few metres away Arthur can see how it creases the corners of Fernandes' eyes - though some of the pleasure fades as Fernandes' gaze slides past Arthur to Ludwig coming up on Arthur’s heels.

“A moment please,” Fernandes says to both of them before he turns back to the trainees, clearly - and efficiently - wrapping up the last of the group’s questions despite how they appear to be desperately trying to prolong the conversation. Hanging on his every accented word, drawn in (or at least not dissuaded) by the - very - tight charcoal and cream plumage the alpha has chosen to peacock around in today. Little birds clustering in the shade of a broad, tall tree, chirp, chirp, cheep.

Ludwig advances even as the trainees - reluctantly - depart, towing Arthur forward with him by the sheer force of his presence. “Dr. Fernandes, good evening.” Apparently Ludwig uses the same forced joviality with Fernandes as he does with Arthur. “Please forgive the intrusion, we were searching for Dr. Bonnefoy.”

“Ah, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” Fernandes informs them, gathering up his own paperwork on the podium. “Dr. Bonnefoy asked me to replace her in her classes today.” His expression is suitably sympathetic for the occasion, his scent of musk and petrichor by the sea as soft as the dusty shade of his charcoal suit. Beckoning others in with an offering of - not unattractive - alpha security, with a flirt of something rich and bitterly citrus when he moves and fabric brushes against the glands at his throat or wrists, the overworked buttons of his shirt straining over his chest. “She has flu, and is very cross about it.” Hence the rescheduled class.

“Generous of you,” says Arthur shortly, trying to figure out if he’s disappointed by this development or not. It would have been useful to talk to Marianne and coax the woman into a more agreeable mindset by depositing an adorable baby into her arms - Marianne favours both Arthur’s dogs and child -, but now, with no babysitter available, Arthur gets to go home.

“A small favour is nothing for a friend, yes?” is Fernandes' smooth, sincere-sounding reply - before his mouth curls upwards with a spark of intimate, invitational, mischief. One of his long brown curls dangles boyishly in front of his eyes. “In truth, I find it an interesting change to my usual affairs.”

As though Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes does not dictate the direction of the majority of his usual affairs.

Arthur snorts. “We’ll let you get back to those then. Ludwig -”

“Perhaps Dr. Fernandes could assist us instead,” says Ludwig.

The casual presumption sticks to the back of Arthur’s teeth and he is just. So tired. “Pretty sure Dr. Fernandes has had a busy enough day already,” says Arthur. His head is still throbbing.

Dr. Fernandes is still radiating a wearying amount of amusement for the end of the general Academy day, damn him and his tight suit and straining buttons. The teeth in his smile. “I still have some energy left to spare. What is it that I can help you with?”

“I don’t,” says Arthur.

“How are you with children?” asks Ludwig. Alpha to alpha.

Naturally, Fernandes only hears the most intriguing remark. “Children?”

“Child. Singular. Infant, actually.” Arthur finally yields to the temptation that has been plaguing him for some time now, reaching up with one hand to knuckle at his eye. Pushing back against the pressure pounding in his head.

“I dealt with many children - including young children - as a medical doctor,” says Fernandes, “though paediatrics was never my speciality.”

Though he keeps his own eyes fixed on a point between Fernandes' nostrils and the sharp wings of the doctor’s tanned clavicles, Arthur is not unaware of the weight of Fernandes' gaze as it travels back and forth between Ludwig and himself, the doctor deeply curious and waiting for elaboration. None is immediately forthcoming; after neatly backing Arthur into a corner of social politeness, Ludwig is waiting on Arthur to offer up his daughter as sacrifice for their travel plans, Iphigenia reborn, and Arthur is. Struggling. To imagine asking a favour of such magnitude. To work out if he even wants to.

Ludwig might be happy to deposit Arthur’s offspring into any set of arms that will hold her long enough for Ludwig to get Arthur out to Ohio to look at his crime scene, but Arthur has to put a little more thought into the matter. Conscious, especially recently, of the weight of trusting daughters (in mind, in heart, and tucked up against one’s shoulder), and the responsibilities of guardianship.

“Do you have a case involving an infant?” Fernandes inquires at last.

Arthur cannot help the way his mouth twists wryly at that. Inevitability - driven along by the determination of Ludwig Beilschmidt - bites in deep. Despite all their conversations about Madeline since they had saved the girl’s life together… Arthur had never told Dr. Fernandes he was a mother. “Ludwig has a case. I have an infant. This is apparently a scheduling conflict.”

“...I see.”

Oh, when the sound of recontextualisation is just two little words. Pebbles dropping, said so delicately. Arthur is accustomed to delicate little words that are said one way and meant another, and has had more than a few of them slung his way ever since his pregnancy first started showing. (Used goods. Whore.)

Arthur lifts his head again. Defiantly. If killing makes God feel powerful then the reverse must also be true: God giveth and God taketh away. Destruction is balanced by the act of creation, and Arthur had laboured nine long months and several longer bloody hours to bring forth his daughter into the universe. He looks at her still, sometimes, doing nothing more than breathing in her cot by his bed, and his heart burns fiercer than any heat he’s known.

There are pinwheels of golden green in Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes' hazel eyes, light and darkness both that shine with the doctor’s interest and curiosity. But not a trace of judgement. No hint of scandal or reproof.

The corner of Fernandes' mouth quirks back at Arthur in the most minute of smiles, and the breath Arthur hadn’t even realised he’d been holding shudders, startled, out of his chest.

Delicacy is not an oft-used tool in Ludwig Beilschmidt’s arsenal, not when a problem can be presented immediately to the solution. “I realise it is something of an imposition, doctor, but would you be able to watch her for the evening?” The bitter coffee-pepper taste of Ludwig’s impatience is a heavy reminder of his presence. The clock is always ticking, and it gets stuffed up Arthur’s nose. “There is a new case out in Ohio, and the team could really use Arthur’s eyes on the scene while it is still relatively fresh.”

“A girl?” Fernandes asks Arthur quietly, and Arthur looks back at him a little helplessly.

“Ludwig, you can’t just steamroll people into babysitting. Dr. Fernandes -”

“I would be happy to help,” says Fernandes, and Arthur really begins longing for some aspirin.

Ludwig nods, pleased. “Then it is settled. Thank you, doctor.” Arthur chirps, irritated again - perhaps Ludwig would like to double-check this arrangement with the infant’s mother? -, but Ludwig is already back to ignoring him, marching out of the room with one last commandment: “Arthur, I need you to be ready to go in 20.”

20? 20 minutes is barely enough time for Arthur to turn his head - never mind his arse - around, not when he has a thousand and one different important things he now has to impart to Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes.

So he frowns at Fernandes. He could have gone home. “You didn’t have to do that.” Amends - “You don’t have to do this.”

“And leave you - or should I say Ludwig - without a babysitter?” The click of Fernandes' briefcase as it closes sounds like more than one thing being shut. “Arthur, you never mentioned that you are a parent.”

“It wasn’t relevant to our conversations,” says Arthur. Adding a stubborn, “I find it best to maintain certain boundaries between work and home,” to Fernandes' raised eyebrows. “Where possible.”

“Boundaries can be healthy, they say,” Fernandes observes, making a great show of reaching for his overcoat and sliding it onto his arms. Look at him, so theatrically busy and paying Arthur no mind. “Or isolating.”

Arthur just snorts again, already expecting the sting in the tail.

It isn’t like Arthur believes Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes is the sort of alpha, from more barbarous days of yore, who would either kill or drive off the offspring of alphas other than himself if children were placed into his care. Dr. Fernandes, paediatric speciality or no, has a careful touch with the vulnerable.

Snapshots of the Williams’ kitchen are seared into Arthur’s mind now, each an ever-fixed mark, the mingled smells of wet iron, sour fear and sharp gunpowder all tangled up with the sense-memory of the tiled edges of the kitchen floor biting into Arthur’s knees, the sticky wet pulsing of heartblood over his hands. When the night’s gloaming stretches out dark and dreadful Arthur remembers his own fingers - cold, white under all that blood and trembling - useless on Madeline’s throat as the girl juddered and quaked beneath him, drowning on dry land in that ever-growing river of red - and then the confident touch from Fernandes, stepping in, taking over, his palms warm and fingers sure and steady as he held the last of his patient’s precious life inside of her.

Fernandes had kept Madeline alive long enough for the EMTs to arrive, and then escorted her to the hospital. In the days that had followed, he had been just as much of a fixture in Madeline’s ward as Arthur himself. Falling asleep at Madeline’s bedside, Madeline's hand clasped safely in his own.

Take away the knife, the blood, the floor, the injury - Fernandes has hands tender enough to curve around a trusting infant’s head, long-fingered and sure, and he is strong and intelligent enough to defend her. But - take away the death, the comatose girl, the psychiatric evaluation, the talks of God and power - Arthur has still only known the alpha in front of him for a metaphorical five minutes. A few weeks.

And Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes doesn’t seem like the sort of man who would deal well with having baby spit-up on him. He looks sweet and smooth and easy-going, suave as any rich alpha going courting - or, perhaps, as slyly smug as a particularly pampered cat.

“Tell me about your little one,” says Fernandes anyway, and Arthur sighs. If the good doctor is so determined…

“Lenore,” says Arthur. She whom the angels call - as she fusses back. “Lenore Kirkland. She’s six months old, and looks like the cross between a princess, a pixie, and a dumpling. I had her in March.”

Fernandes makes no attempt to hide the keen sweep of his gaze from Arthur’s top to bottom and back upwards again, shameless in his curiosity. Making an assessment. “You have recovered quickly from the pregnancy. I couldn’t tell.” Apparently confident enough in his abilities as a medical doctor to believe he should have been able to tell that Arthur had recently carried and borne a child, ugh. “Her other parent is unavailable to take care of her?”

“He was never in the picture,” Arthur says. Flatly. His tone very much implying that if Fernandes digs at this topic any more than necessary, Lenore’s other biological parent won’t be the only one pushed out of frame.

Fernandes dips his head - taking the hint - so Arthur continues.

“You’ll need to pick up Lenore from the Academy crèche. It closes at 9, so there’s no need to hurry if you’re busy, and I’ll phone ahead to let them know you’ll be handling pick-up. You should -” Arthur hesitates, the necessary logistics of handing his daughter over into another’s care floating to mind - and then sitting horribly ill at-ease with the vision of the elegant man in front of him, “uh, you should probably take my car. For her car seat. It’s a bastard to take out and put in again so it’s probably easiest for you just to take the whole vehicle.” 

Fernandes' face does a thing. It’s a minuscule thing, so infinitesimally tiny that if Arthur hadn’t been watching the microscopic shifts of the other man’s expressions he would have missed it, but definitely a thing.

Honestly, it’s quite a beautiful thing, as the only way in which Arthur can think to describe it is Arthur Kirkland, I have seen your Volvo. (Marianne has an expression that might be a close cousin to the look, but, somehow, Marianne has learnt the arcane art of coaxing Lenore’s baby seat into agreeing with her long enough for her to transfer it between Arthur’s vehicle and her own. Arthur has yet to develop the knack of it himself.)

“I can get a taxi home from the airport,” he assures Fernandes, solicitous now he has the schadenfreude of Fernandes' dismay to cheer him for the rest of the night. (Let his shitty dog hair-covered car stand testament to a universal truth: even the most smugly prepared soul should look before they leap.)

Fernandes purses his lips, his dismay now warring with his disapproval of Arthur being put-out because of Ludwig’s demands. “At the Bureau’s expense, I hope?”

“My travel expenses will be the delight of the accounting department,” Arthur says dryly - and is promptly warmed as well by Fernandes' soft huff of laughter. So Arthur can afford to be magnanimous as he fishes out his car key. “If you want to fleece them as well, I promise to see and say nothing. You- uh, you don’t have to stay the whole evening with Lenore, you know. My neighbour is always happy to take her if you explain I’m held up - Nancy, with the bright red mailbox covered in flower stickers, house right before mine and perm you can see for miles. You can drop Lenore off there.”

“It is really no trouble, Arthur.” Fernandes - even with the dual threats of a six month-old and Arthur’s Volvo hanging over his head - still appears to be sincere, those long fingers of his brushing against Arthur’s fingertips as he takes the key from Arthur’s hand. (Citrus again. Like the type used in that English tea: bergamot.) “Though I will need your home address.”

Right. Yes. That will be another not-so-little boundary Arthur is going to have to permit Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes to cross this evening in the name of emergency childcare. “Ah. Yeah, I’ll- I’ll text you that ASAP.”

“You definitely have my cell phone number?”

Arthur nods; he definitely has Fernandes' cell phone number. Not that he has used it for much so far except to confirm two appointments with the other man at Fernandes' office.

“...Um.” Arthur stalls, drawing his lower lip back between his teeth to chew on it as Fernandes looks at him inquiringly. What constitutes a reasonable first-time favour from someone who is not quite a colleague, not quite a co-parent, and not quite an assigned psychiatrist? “If you - uh - wouldn’t mind stopping at mine either way? My dogs will need letting out for a run in the grass, and, if you could give them a scoop each of the emergency kibble in the bag in my kitchen, I’ll owe you one.”

Fernandes' head tilts minutely, studying him.

“...Assuming you don’t have any issues with dogs.”

“I do not,” says Fernandes simply, and Arthur has never been more grateful to not be asked any further questions about his pack of canines. Least of all how many he has of them.

“House keys,” Arthur proclaims instead, depositing the named items into Fernandes' waiting palm after he has dug them up out of the depths of his blazer pocket. And brushed the lint off of them. “And- uh-”

Arthur tugs the (old, mud-coloured, dog-chewed) scarf from around his neck before he can think too hard about it, stepping forward to sling the item of clothing up and around Fernandes' neck.

They share breath for a moment: vanillic paper and apples, petrichor and musky bergamot, oak and - at the soft swallow of Fernandes' throat - resinous vetiver. The scarf’s wool is scratchy in comparison to the softer (expensive) weave of Fernandes' overcoat against Arthur’s skin, and the colour of the accessory turns Fernandes' outfit into something muddy.

Uh.

Though Fernandes is undeniably the taller of the two of them, there is not so much difference between Fernandes and Arthur in height - and yet Arthur feels every single inch of that difference as Fernandes, eyebrows raised once more, looks down at both the offending scarf and Arthur as Arthur stands in front of him holding both of the scarf’s tail ends, willing himself not to flush. Arthur’s wrap shirt that day - designed with nursing mothers in mind and cut in the omega style - has a deep asymmetrical neckline, and, without his scarf as protection, Arthur’s blush would visibly flood his entire face and throat a vulnerable pink. This close to Fernandes, leaning into Fernandes' gravitational field and with the alpha’s scent full in his lungs… it would be like dripping blood into shark-infested waters.

Arthur stalls embarrassment by keeping his eyes trained on Fernandes' tanned jawline instead of on whatever look the doctor has decided to allow into his eyes, instead of on whatever dangerous twist there might be now to Fernandes' mouth. The two of them are not close enough acquaintances to be exchanging items of clothing - especially not clothing that Arthur has worn so often, that has rubbed against his scent glands and has his natural omega scent embedded so deeply in the cloth. It’s. Very personal.

“Lenore won’t settle if you don’t smell like me, so if you just.” Arthur pats awkwardly at both the scarf and Fernandes' breastbone with the flat of one hand - most likely squashing the alpha’s nipple somewhere beneath. A warm drum beats steadily under his palm and Arthur’s chest feels tight. “Sort of tuck her up against that.”

Fernandes recovers quickly, gracefully pretending that Arthur has not just committed a horrific social faux pas by thrusting a scented item at him with extreme overfamiliarity and no advance warning. (Boundaries, ha.) “It’s a good suggestion.” He reaches out to take the trailing ends of the scarf from Arthur and- and Arthur stutters backwards from the other man. Before he can do more damage.

Though it seems Fernandes had only taken the scarf to tie it into a loose knot around his throat. Ah.

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I promise I am not wholly incompetent with babies, and I have your number to call you if there are any problems.”

That is not what Arthur had been concerned about.

Well, that is not entirely what Arthur had been concerned about.

What does Arthur’s private life look like through Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes' eyes? It’s an ungainly thing to set up against Fernandes' polished veneer, to hold up to that finish Fernandes has smoothed out over his charmed existence. All that polish in Fernandes' life, his obvious casual wealth - both socially and materially -, his apparent effortless competence with everything he does. So evidently, easily, alpha that others instinctively defer to him, that Fernandes brings a cooked breakfast with him on trips afield to provide for the less prepared waiflings thrust upon him. Trace back on Fernandes' phylogenetic tree, and his ancestors must have all been the prime of their genetic subdivision.

Arthur life’s, in contrast, is nothing but lumps and bumps, like porridge that needs a great deal more stirring before it can be served for breakfast. Hic sunt dracones, something not in Fernandes' cartography: the uncharted realms of dopey dogs, daughters that are produced like magic tricks, and clunky cars with fur shed on the seats and rattling, rainbow-coloured baby toys rolling around in the footwells.

The cathedral of Dr. Fernandes' Baltimore office is a far cry from Arthur’s farmhouse out in the fields of Virginia where the afflictions of middle class single motherhood for the canine-hoarding and socially incompetent have stamped their mark. There is nothing sacrosanct in a living room camp-bed left unmade that morning, in a small army of used baby bottles and coffee cups on every flat (and some distinctly dangerous) surfaces, and chewed-up tennis balls nudged under every seat. One in every three floorboards in Arthur’s home creaks and groans underfoot, bags of unused supermarket salad expire in the limited space in Arthur’s fridge that isn’t dedicated to either homemade dog food or sanitised bags of expressed breast milk, and muddy towels damp with the smell of dog sit in the towering laundry pile next to stacks of baby onesies and the plaid shirt Lenore had vomited on two nights before that Arthur still hasn’t had the time to wash.

The only way the much more sophisticated puzzle piece of Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes fits into a jigsaw like that is by way of Ludwig’s presumption wielded as a mallet, and Arthur feels like he should apologise for the mismatch - before he is immediately resentful of the feeling, his pride pricked. And he is then, too, resentful of his own resentfulness, that, even decades on from the damp, poverty-stricken corners of his childhood, a favour still tastes bitter on his tongue, too much like charity.

And yet - there is no judgement in Dr. Fernandes' face or posture as he takes stock of their very different lifestyles. No pity, sympathy or condescension. There never has been, no matter what secrets Arthur has revealed to the alpha. Revelations of parenthood and tenderness weighed equally on the scales against confessions of righteousness, the satisfaction gained from putting bad people down.

Fernandes simply… accepts. It all. All of it.

“Right,” says Arthur. Remembers Fernandes volunteered for this (babysitting, dealing with all of Arthur’s shit, whatever else may be) and begrudgingly adds, “Thank you again. I’ll-” a gesture at the open door of the classroom behind him. Ludwig will have Arthur's head if he makes the team late for the flight, and Arthur still has some aspirin and water he needs to down before he can consent to being trapped in a metal box with Beilschmidt and his team for several hours. “I need to go now, but I’ll phone the crèche and then send you my address.”

Fernandes nods, his plush mouth still a solemn thing above Arthur’s ugly scarf though his eyes crinkle, once more, with what Arthur might almost dare to call fondness. “Safe travels to Ohio.”

…He really doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for, does he?

That’s alright, Arthur thinks as he leaves the lecture hall, raising one hand at Dr. Fernandes behind him in a parting farewell. Arthur isn’t too sure what he’s let himself in for with any of this evening’s developments either.

*****

*****

*****

No doubt some of these are more self-evident than others, but here’s a list all the same of some of our dramatis personae that have names here less familiar to fandom: Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes - Portugal Dr. Marianne Bonnefoy - Female France Madeline Williams - Female Canada Lenore Kirkland - OC, Herself

‘Lenore’ is 100% a reference to Poe’s The Raven, as are all chapter titles. It’s also a reference to Gottfried August Bürger’s gothic ballad Lenore, which has some interesting parallels with themes in this story/the series the Hannibal version of this story is part of.

NEXT CHAPTER

[olympeline]

I need Magical Strike AU with Arthur as a struggling single dad to Peter. It’s part of the reason The Company™ has such a hold on him. Debts and threats of violence are bad enough: debts and threats when you have a young dependent = so much worse

IDK if Peter would be a blood relative or just an orphan kid Arthur takes in. Or both. Because Jones Corp. bulldozed his orphanage and put up a new office idk let’s go full ridiculous here lol

Either way, it’s a difficult and strained relationship because Peter is (understandably) clingy and lonely but Arthur is working 25/7 and permanently stressed and exhausted. His brothers try to help out, but they’re in other countries and have their own problems anyway (hc that Jones Corp. already crushed Britain before moving on to France) so it’s not easy. They send money and care packages when they can

Then Francis shows up and turns the Kirkland household tiny, shitty apartment upside down. Peter loves him from the start in both forms, much to Arthur’s displeasure

Peter: He fancies you. He told me :D

Francis: Oh, really? :D

Peter: Yeah! He likes your pretty hair and dress :D

Francis: He thinks they’re pretty? :D

Arthur:…

Arthur:…

Arthur:…🍺🥃🍷🍺🍺🍺

[derehono]

your cardverse sounds interesting, could you talk a little about it?

Thank you so much for the interest! I would be more than happy to tell a little more about my Cardverse AU!

However, I want to warn that it was heavily inspired by oumaheroes Cardverse AU, please check it out! To be more precise, I absolutely loved the idea that at some point in time, Arthur was a royal advisor and that some shit is happening in Kingdom of Hearts. At that point, the similarities end.

Basic Worldbuilding.

The existence of their world and the birth of magic are associated with the life and death of the Great Dragoness. She was like a goddess who helped humanity giving them her gifts of healing and protection. Her power could end the famine, could calm the Earth but it could not make an immortal being.

Thus, after some time she unfortunately passed away but not before giving her presents to seven humans. Four of them were chiefs of their respective tribes and three of them were heads of their families. To the tribe of the cold and freeze, she gifted her eyes so they would always see through the lies. To the tribe from afar, she gifted her heart so their blood would always warm and any wound could be healed. To the tribe of the sun, she gifted her scales so nothing would ever destroy them. To the tribe of the night, she gifted her claws so not even a stone would withstand their attack. And to the heads of the families, she gifted her blood so her power would always be in their bodies.

And only after that, she passed away. Leaders of the tribes decided to divide their new powers between their people. The most important got more, less important got less power. This way the card system was born, and with remaining power returning to the original owners, Royal Cards were born. Even though, Royal Blood still contains mystery power that makes the card owner even stronger.

Heads of the families did not have enough power to do the same with their magic, so it remained only through their own blood. This way witches and wizards appeared who needed no card to cast even powerful spells. They had a deep understanding of the world’s magic, thus for a long time they were helping the Royals.

Kingdom of Diamonds.

The people of Diamonds have a powerful protection out of their magic. Their shields are as strong as diamonds themselves, making them almost invincible from the attacks, diseases, catastrophes, so they rarely have been attacked in history and their King rarely has been poisoned. The stronger cards could be protected even from the plagues, but even common one could guarantee some protection.

The past King was a violent man who started multiple discriminatory policies, messed up diplomatic relations with other Kingdoms, especially with the Kingdom of Clubs, and led the kingdom of jewels and gems into despair. One of his policies was Witch Trials that killed entire magic families and sent away the survivors. It surely created a new problem but the one who was left to deal with that was Francis, his nephew. But back then, he just preferred not to have an entire different class of the citizens who could possibly question his authority. During these trials Annisse Kirkland, the head of the Kirkland family, was violently killed and burned.

The current leaders are Francis Bonnefoy and Lili Bonnefoy-Zwingli. The King is the most influential monarch of his time not only because he is the eldest one in the new generation, but also because his power allows him to hold shields covering almost the entire Kingdom of Hearts. However, not a lot of people know, but Lily could guess that Francis sacrificed not only his magic to put and hold this shields. He with his young wife are seen to be extremely reliable and strong in public, even picking up the name of The Solar King but The Court holds a big challenge for them at times of their weaknesses. It is hard to see but the Civil War risks to break within the Palace.

The Past Advisor was Arthur Kirkland, secretly a witch. He was sent to the Palace at a very young age with an important mission and was raised as the next advisor for the new king. He indeed became one and together with Francis they were able to slowly start a progress in the kingdom, returning it to its prosperity. He was very well-known for his stubbornness and determination, possibly his power was something that young King needed to become the one he is today. Public does not know why he suddenly left but did not really question. After all, it is quite a hard jibe, so maybe he just could not handle it?

The current advisor is Remus Fernandez. He was the advisor before Arthur but after his leaving, he returned to the position. Thanks to blood ties with one of the witch family, has a very long life and so, has a lot of experience, and a little bit of carelessness. He is continuing Arthur’s policies and keeps an out on the Court. Has two sons: Antonio Fernandez who is a general of the army and one of the main leaders in the case of emergency, and João Ferreira who is the captain of the Royal Navy. Both of them are good friends with Francis.

Overall, the current Kingdom is recovering from its past mistakes and seems to be pretty successful.

Kingdom of Clubs.

The people of Clubs have an intimidating power of mind control. Depending on the power of the card, they could look deeply into someone’s mind and the most powerful cards could even control people. As a result, Clubs rarely communicate verbally (why say it when I can hear it anyway?) and outsiders may think of them as extremely rude due to them reading minds.

The past King was coronated for a very short period. She barely spent some time as a King despite her desire to continue her father’s legacy continue to improve the kingdom, and create stronger diplomatic relationships but quickly lost her crown. No one knows what happened to her and why did it happen but some speculate that she knew something. Something that she was not supposed to.

The current monarchs are Ivan Braginsky and Elizabeta Hedervary. King was coronated pretty early and in quite a rush, almost the same way the Queen was chosen to accompany him. Not a lot of things are known about them but with their reign, the kingdom became severely isolated and propaganda against other kingdoms appeared. It is hard to avoid since anyone could read your mind and just tell the authorities about it. The King and Queen almost did not appear in public and did not comment on their policies.

The past advisor was Feliks Lukasiewicz. He appeared and disappeared together with the past King so not a lot of information is known about him. Only ones who were close to him would say with no hesitation that despite his being eccentric, he truly wanted to make the kingdom better and he could not be dead. He is too strong for that.

The current advisor is Roderich Edelstein. Once again, there is almost nothing known about him, he barely appears in public. Before his position, he was a pretty well-known musician and his close circle knew of his passion to attempt in cultural revolution. He hoped to promote the culture of the Kingdom of Clubs, give more opportunities to artists, etc, but something went wrong.

A close friend of the past advisor, Toris Laurinaitis did not believe that his friend’s disappearance that so coincided with the unexpected King’s demotion was just an accident. He firmly believes that something deeper going on in the Court and possibly, King, Queen and their Advisor are not even themselves. Imposters? Puppets? He is not sure but he started his own Resistance that aims to uncover the secret of Clubs and bring a better future, meanwhile fighting the oppression. His other friends Eduard von Bock and Raivis Galante joined him.

Overall, the clouds are all over the kingdom and who knows what awaits them.

And that’s it for a first part!

[aphfanficwriters]

Monthly Members' Fics — Nov 2023

Sunder-ASIDE-[rochu] by Delgumo (China/Russia) Ivan tortures Yao until he begs for death.

My Pet Angel! — Chapter 1 by Delgumo (America/England, America/Russia, England/Russia) After finding himself in trouble yet again, wily angel Arthur gets punished with needing to watch over the human, Alfred. His colleague, Ivan, gets sent to help guide Arthur back to righteousness. That task will probably be harder than he planned with Alfred’s quirks leading the angels to sin.

something so flawed and free — Chapters 1 & 2 by hopeless_nostalgia (England/Japan) The tension reached its peak, and war was (unsurprisingly) the result. Arthur and Kiku have no way to communicate, besides slow letters and short telegrams... A continuation of hide and seek. But I *think* you can understand this just fine without reading it.

Wolf Among Sheep — Chapter 5 by Delgumo & smuttyandabsurd (America/Russia) A sleepy western town in the desert is rocked by a series of murders. Alfred Jones, newly-appointed deputy sheriff of Redding, is tasked with finding the killer and putting an end to these grisly attacks. He is accompanied by his English colleague and reluctant admirer, Arthur Kirkland. In his own time, Alfred juggles a clandestine relationship with the town butcher, Ivan Braginsky. Russia/America. Western!AU; inspired by the "Look Upon My Works" serial killer side mission in Red Dead Redemption 2.

(Never) Let Me Go by smuttyandabsurd (Prussia/Russia) Ivan is gently possessive of Gilbert.

The GrandStay Detour by Delgumo (Canada/Russia, Canada/Cuba) On his way back home, Matthew Williams stays the night in a hotel and meets a friendly stranger.

[koolkat9]

Parent Support Group AU

Time to move onto the kiddos.

You can find the info about the parents here. Also check the reblogs of the post too because I added some parents through that. 

Let’s start with ages

Peter: infant (no older than 1 but probably younger)

Kugel: Also an infant like Peter

Luxembourg (I don’t have a human name for him): 2

Ludwig: 3/4 

Erika (Liechtenstein): 4

Feliciano: 4

Alfred and Matt: 5

Emma (Belgium): 5

Kiku: 6

Romano: 6

I’m also adding Emil: 15/16 and he volunteers at the daycare portion of the meeting because he needs a certain amount of hours to graduate. 

Okay with that out of the way. Let’s get into what it’s like for these kids at the daycare. Basically whenever a new parent joins the group they introduce the kids to each other before heading to their meeting. 

Arthur is still fairly new to the group like Gilbert and Gilbert is wearing a t-shirt with a band Arthur likes so maybe he’s finally found a possible friend in this sea of parents who look at him like he’s a fuck up (they actually don’t, but he thinks he’s a fuck up so he thinks everyone else sees him like that). Anyway, Arthur tries to get the boys together but Alfred refuses to come away from the toys so it’s just Matthew and Ludwig who are introduced to each other at first. 

Arthur warns that Matthew is shy and doesn’t talk much and Gilbert assures him “it’s okay. Luddy here is the same.” 

And the little boys instantly connect. No words. Not even gestures. There is just this unspoken understanding that “Hey! You’re like me.” And they go off together. Ludwig plays with blocks while Matt plays with some plastic animals. Ludwig gets excited and shows Mattie his tower. Aww maybe Ludwig builds Matthew’s animals houses. 

Feliciano and Alfred probably also gravitate to each other because they are both bubbly and talkative. Though Feli ends up making friends with everyone to some extent. Feli is probably how Alfred got introduced to everyone.

Alfred and Kiku bond over Pokémon and become like best friends despite Kiku being wary of him at first. Kiku already has a massive collection and he brings it to show Alfred and Al is just floored. Al probably only knows the anime, so Kiku maybe gives Al a card to get him started. 

Like I said in another post I think things are actually tense between Feli and Ludwig at first because Feli doesn’t know how to approach Ludwig without making him uncomfortable. Thinking more about it, I’m thinking maybe the two of them finally make a break through one day when Matt has to stay home sick and Ludwig is devastated. Feliciano can tell he’s very upset and wanted to do something. He’s picked up on how Matthew and Ludwig play: not really together but they do an activity beside each other and occasionally come together to show what they are doing. So Feli suggests that he and Ludwig should make get well cards for Matthew and give them to Mr. Kirkland before he and Al leave. So Feli and Ludwig draw for most of their time together. Feli even teaches him how to draw some things. Drawing eventually becomes something they do together regularly. 

Erika for awhile was the only girl. She played with Feli and Kiku sometimes, but often times she stuck to Erzsébet’s side and helped her get snacks and stuff. Eventually a new parent comes in and brings along another little girl named Emma. Erika is shy and worries that she won’t make a good first impression. Luckily Erzse helps them break the ice. 

Lux is really young so it’s hard to play with the other kids sometimes. There is not much else I can say right now other than that he always follows his big sister around.

While everyone breaks off into friend groups, Roma is kind of left out. Everyone seems to get along, some of course hang out with others more, but no one ever seems to want to hang out with Roma. Emil sees this and keeps him company when he can. Roma thinks Emil is so cool because he’s a teenager and wants to hangout with him. 

But now I feel bad Roma doesn’t have kids around his age to hangout with...Hmm...I guess we could get Afonso and Antonio in here? WAIT NO! We can do Carlos (Cuba). Carlos and him bond. And then Roma gets to know Mattie because Carlos is also friends with Mattie. I don’t know who will be Carlos’s guardian but we’ll figure it out later 

Emil really doesn’t want to be there tbh. He’s a teen after all. But he needs volunteer hours for high school and since his uncles are the ones running it, it was an easy in. The kids like him though because he talks to them like their people (I don’t know if this makes sense, but you know how some adults talk to kids and like...talk down to them. Not on a purposefully malicious way, but like...they talk very differently to kids and it’s like they don’t understand what kids are capable of). But I think it would be cute if he warms up to the position and when he’s deciding on what he wants to do after high school he decides to be a teacher or work in child care in some way. 

[fumblingmusings]

Cardverse 2023

Day Two: Jokers - Curse | Spirits/Hauntings | Escape

@aphcardverse-week

The Kirkland Estate has four boys. As is tradition, the eldest will inherit the Estate and guard the garden; the second will join the church. The younger two, however, have something else in store. Gen | Referenced Minor USUK Romance | Mild Horror

“Peter!” Arthur snapped, yelling at the little boy across the gardens. He ran funny, Peter noted, with no skill in the physical sports that their brothers’ excelled in.

Peter was only young, no more than five, and so he came running when his fifteen year old brother called, meeting him part of the way along the trek. 

“You cannot play there alone,” Arthur hissed, shaking the little boy's wrists in a chide born half from anger, half from fear. “You’ll be taken away! How many times has mother told you!”

There were some areas of the garden that were sealed off. Mother had even gone to the effort to fence off the bottom of the garden. Wrought iron gates with a literal skull decorating the main gate. A physical as well as magical barrier.

It had been hammered into all of her sons from the moment they were able to open the glass doors and leave the palace of their own free will: the gardens were free to explore, but leave the gated area alone. The creatures that lived there, spirits that few had the right to speak of, did not take kindly to trespassers.

The Kirkland estate had been built with the intent of gating off that area. Four boys were born to the family, two cousins who came and went as they pleased, and dozens of other second cousins who found interesting ways to make use of the family name. Mother’s husband was dead, conveniently, and she was quite content at running the estate, and the boys, herself. They all knew the rules - why their family mattered.

Protecting the trees and flowers at the base of the vast estate was all that mattered.

“I can’t even get past the fence,” Peter complained, taking to gnawing on Arthur’s grip, moaning whilst his teeth clamped down on his older brother’s bare wrist.

“What?” hissed Arthur. Typical. He wasn’t listening.

“I can’t get past the fence!” Mama’s magic -”

“Then why were you even trying?”

Arthur’s anger was unusual. He was usually a scatterbrain, never quite seeming to be fully listening to the conversation occurring in front of him. He had thrown himself into books as a young child, and developed a keen sense of magic as a result. Mama said he was the most talented magic user she had seen that generation. Arthur had preened like a robin bird, puffing up his chest in jubilation.

He still did not pay attention very well. You always had to speak twice to make him understand what you were saying. It did not bother Peter, who himself also struggled to listen, but Peter had also noticed that Arthur - like himself - had no trouble outside of the house, outside of the estate.

When the other blonde boy came to visit, that little prince, he got Arthur’s full attention. It was weird, the sharp look of relief when Arthur heard the royal family were on a progress through the countryside. 

Peter was always ignored when the prince came. Alasdair and Rhys were always elsewhere doing other things, and Arthur clung to the prince like glue. The King and Prince had only left that morning, and Peter, bored and lonely, had wandered outside. 

“The people are asking for me!”

Arthur froze, then shook his brother even harder. Peter released his bite from Arthur’s wrists, leaving deep imprints but unpunctured skin.

“You hear them?”

“Hear what?” Peter looked up at his brother, eyes wider than dinner plates. 

Arthur stared, face whiter than Peter had ever known. If he were not only five, he would have noted that his brother’s tone had gone from chiding to desperate to hear a confirmation.

But Arthur composed himself, then tossed Peter’s arm away, punting him forward back into the palace. 

“Go, you’re supposed to be having your lessons.”

“But I don’t wanna -”

“‘I want’ doesn’t get!” he snapped, quoting mother. “Go!”

Peter grumbled, but met with the governess at the base of the stairs, complaining but ready to return up to the nursery. Arthur remained behind, staring at the black fence half a kilometre away. The iron seemed to shudder, as if something had thrown itself against the metal. Arthur told himself it was eye strain from looking at something so far away in the garden, and slammed the doors shut.

*****

“You’re really gonna become Queen.”

“Hm?”

“You said yes to Alfred?” Peter said, rephrasing the question.

Arthur’s inability to listen had grown worse, and his desire to leave home had only grown stronger over the years.

“Oh. Yes.”

Worst of all, as much as his listening skills had declined, so had his eloquence. Rarely did the man speak in anything more than monosyllabic sentences. It was as though he was only half in the real world anymore, his attention and mind split between two realms. Peter had long assumed it was the result of magic, but every now and then he caught Arthur watching the gates, almost as often as Peter himself found himself walking by his mother’s magic. What was once every other month had become a weekly walk, which was now daily. 

The pressure to visit multiple times was almost overwhelming, if not for the fact that proprietary etiquette dictated that going on the same walk more than once a day was just a step too shameful. As silly as it sounded, Peter was glad for the feeling of embarrassment. 

“You’ll be Queen,” Peter said.

Arthur’s blonde hair appeared from under his sheets. He had been curled up, like a snail’s shell. 

“Looks like it.” 

“Everyone’ll bow to you.”

“As they should.”

Peter laughed, then sobered up abruptly.

“Do you want to be Queen?”

“Yes.” Arthur waved at Peter, who was lingering by the doorway. His little brother bustled over, joining Arthur on his bed. He collapsed into a heap, pinning Arthur under the sheets. “Alasdair will run the estate with ma, Rhys is nearly prepared to join the Church… I got lucky.”

“Lucky how?”

“I’m useful to the family. Alfred is… he is good. He will be a good King.”

“Do you like him?”

“Do I what?” 

“Like him. I saw you kissing in the garden.”

Arthur choked on air, regretting not having caught Peter’s first attempt at asking.

“Never mind that,” he spluttered. From underneath the sheets, Peter could not see his brother’s face burn red. “It is more than we could have hoped for.”

“But do you like him?”

Peter heard Arthur chew his tongue. 

“When I am with him, time stops.”

Even a twelve year old child thought it romantic. But…

“What about me?”

“What about you?” Arthur said, noting the misery in his brother’s voice. 

“What will I do?”

“Traditionally when you have a lot of boys one joins the army. Or the navy?”

“I don’t like sailing.”

“Army then. You can protect me when I’m Queen.”

Peter was quiet, thinking for a while. Arthur emerged from under the sheets. “You don’t want to?” he prodded.

His little brother shook his head. “You always say I never listen.”

“At least you know it.”

“I could never follow orders.”

Arthur’s hand patted Peter’s straw like hair. “Then you are free to choose. Do what you want. Just be sure to pick something. Be an artist or a musician. Buy your own land and start a business. Whatever you want Peter.”

“Do you want to be Queen?”

Arthur was very quiet, then let his hand fall away. 

“Yes.”

Peter stared out the oversized glass windows. Arthur had pulled open the sash windows slightly, and the gauzy curtains fluttered in the breeze. 

“Really?”

“It’s what I wanted,” Arthur said unhelpfully. Still, Peter did not get the impression he was lying.

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Well. You are only twelve.”

Peter turned around, shuffling until he could join Arthur under the covers. Arthur allowed him to do so, one last time.

“I’ll miss you when you go,” Peter muttered, face down into a pillow. 

Arthur snorted, unable to stop smiling. “I’m not dying Peter. Just moving.”

“But you’ll be busy. Are you going to keep studying magic?”

“It’s one of the reasons I was chosen.”

“Then you won’t have time for me anymore. Alasdair doesn’t. Rhys doesn’t. Mama is barely…”

“You’ll be alright. It’s part of growing up. You came later than us four, it’s all happening at once. Alsadair will still be here. You just have to wait until Wintertide, he’ll be back from his studies then.”

Peter made a sad noise, and Arthur did not know what to say. 

Silence passed for a while, and Arthur believed his little brother was falling asleep. It was not so uncommon for him to crawl into Arthur’s bed at night, though he had not done it for at least a year. Arthur was leaving the day after tomorrow however, so he simply assumed it was no more than a feeling of nostalgia, for things to be as they once were. Change was frightening, especially for a child on the cusp of adolescence. The world seemed to be leaving him behind, and his older brother’s had destinies that - to be frank - Peter had no chance of matching.

“Do you hear them still?” Peter whispered.

“Who?” Arthur asked. 

“The spirits at the bottom of the garden.”

Arthur's breathing stopped, and when it resumed, it was shallow and fast, like a panting cat. 

“What do they say to you?” he whispered, terrified of the answer. 

“They say they're stuck. What do you hear?”

“Pardon?”

“You hear them too, I know you do. But you don’t hear them around Prince Alfred.”

Arthur was quiet again, closing his eyes.

“No.”

“Is that why you're becoming Queen?”

“Only a little.”

“Do Ali or Rhys hear it too?”

“No, just us.”

“Why?”

Arthur said nothing, and Peter made a grumpy sound. “You’re being annoying.”

His elder brother smacked him on the head, not too harshly, but it made Peter hiss.

“I don’t know Peter. I don’t know why you hear them. It is supposed to just be me that hears them.”

Peter latched on to this piece of information, and in his excitement he began to babble, 

“Why? What do you hear them say? They always ask to be let out because they want to play with me. I don’t believe them, because Mama is always so serious when she talks about them, and she wouldn’t hurt someone without a good reason, and the King asked her to protect it, right?”

“...Right.”

“So they can be as nice as they want, I don’t believe them.” He looked to Arthur, expression expecting praise. He was disappointed, however, to see that his brother’s face was pale and withdrawn. Frightened.

“What are they, Arthur?” Peter asked. “What do they say to you?”

“Nothing nice.”

“What -”

“Go to sleep Peter. Listen to mother, and me. The moment you can, leave home. Okay? I’ve been driven half mad by what they tell me. They’ll run out of patience with you in time.”

“What do they tell you?” Peter argued, “Ma won’t say anything about it, I can’t tell her!”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “What do you mean you haven’t told her?”

He scrambled to get out of bed, Peter losing his balance and falling off the mattress in turn. 

“Wait -”

“She needs to know Peter!” 

The brothers went into the hallway, Peter trailing after Arthur, panicked. He threw his weight around, trying to slow Arthur down. There were no servants, it was too late for them to be roaming the halls. There was just the two brothers, arguing like children.

But Peter was a child. He was just a child. It was Arthur that should have known better.

“No, don't tell mama, please!”

“Why?”

“Because I’m strong enough to ignore them! They’ve never been mean to me, they talk and keep me company when you’re all too busy for me.”

The childish spite made Arthur snort, but it did not last long. Whatever pity Arthur felt for his little brother was smothered in a blinding fright. The buzzing in the back of his head, forever present and only sometimes understandable, was growing louder, a pressing shrill noise behind the eyes that was making him feel partially blind. His limbs moved jerkily, the confusion in his mind not letting him move smoothly. He never had been very elegant. 

“That’s not the point! If you’re cursed like me -”

It was the wrong word to use. 

“I’m not cursed!”

Immediately Arthur realised his mistake, and tried to get his arms around Peter, who had now backed several steps away, towards the grand staircase and the main entrance.

“Peter -” Arthur began, approaching the boy like a wild animal. The boy’s eyes were wet with tears, and the ringing in Arthur’s head grew louder. 

“Why would you say that?” Peter cried. “You’re so high and mighty just because you’re gonna be Queen huh? You’re the one that’s cursed! They’ve never said a mean thing to me my entire life - what did you do to anger them?”

Arthur went to grab Peter’s wrist, only to miss as the boy ducked and began to run down the stairs. 

“Nothing that’s the -” 

A distinct boyish laughter filled Arthur’s head, making him fling himself away from the stairwell. Like his little brother, his eyes flooded with tears. Furious at himself, at the voice in his head, he finally shrieked, speaking to them for the first time, “Shut up! Shut up!”

His screaming only served to further frighten Peter, and Arthur gaped as Peter ducked under the stairs. He was heading for the glass doors that led to the garden. 

“No! Wait, wait Peter! Peter come back.” Halfway down the stairs, he thought better of it and thought to pull in his mother, whose commanding presence would have Peter calm down and come back inside. She needed to know. 

Some Queen he would be. He could not even get his brother to listen to him.

Turning and tripping back up the steps and down the polished halls, Arthur called out, “Mother! Ma! Ma!”

Arthur threw himself into his mother’s room, only to find that she was not there. 

“Where the fuck…”

Another laugh, ghostly and ghastly, snide and mocking and making Arthur’s heart leap into his throat. Wasting time. He was wasting time. 

Arthur followed his brother outside.

“Peter… Peter!”

The garden was black, with what little light there was from the house did not stretch down all the way to the gated area. Arthur could no longer see Peter, but it was not difficult to tell where he had gone. The wind was strong, blowing his ragged hair across his forehead. 

The laughter in his head, as always, grew louder when he approached the gates. The air seemed to thrum with power, the iron shaking and groaning terribly, like a dying man’s last breaths.

“Peter? Peter I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

His hand hovered over the gate, but he could not bring himself to touch. Few could gain entry. Mother, being one, Arthur, being the other. It was a gift of their magic. A terrible awful gift. They alone could hear the spirits, they alone could contain them, they alone could break them out.

Or so they had thought.

And it was not although all spirits were bad. Arthur knew plenty of fairies and brownies and goblins and other creatures who, provided they were treated with respect and given suitable compensation for their assistance, were good to have on side.

These creatures could not be bargained with. They answered to no-one, held loyalty to nothing. The King’s response had been to lock them away - of course they loathed the family which held the keys. Who did not wish harm against their jailer?

Arthur was so stupid. He knew Peter could hear things. He had just assumed that mother would have also known, that she would have had a handle on things. Instead, the family’s habit of bottling everything up had come back to bite them in the arse. Again.

Arthur did not touch the gate, unsure if Peter had entered.

“Peter!” he tried once more. Arthur turned, desperately trying to see into the dark, but there was no sign of the little boy.

The iron cracked.

A shockwave threw Arthur back flat on his back. Gasping at the blinding light that burned his eyes, he sat up as soon as he was relieved of the pressure to his chest.

The garden, the hidden garden of rotted plants and dead trees, fallen leaves and iron red soil, throbbed.

Peter was inside, back to Arthur facing the largest tree: a long dead oak with a gaping hole in its trunk. Arthur had been told that the hole spread to the ground, deep, deep into the ground. Where it went, not even mother knew. But she spoke of it like a mouth. A hungry maw half starved.

Arthur tried to get up, rise to his feet, drag Peter back past the ruined gates and fling as best a barrier spell as he could, but Peter was moving faster, not even looking back as he clambered up over the straggling roots, curling up and towards the mouth.

“Wait! Peter, don’t!”

His little brother gave no signs of hearing, and with an eerie silence, entered the mouth, and dropped out of sight.

“Peter!”

The laughing in Arthur’s head became unbearable, and he collapsed back to the damp earth with a scream.

Curled into a ball, Arthur clamped his hands over his hears, pitifully calling out for his mother, wherever she was, as if she could make the voices stop, as if she could undo what had been done, as if she had a chance of bringing Peter back and reversing the spirits escape.

Arthur sobbed, beating his fists against his temple. The spirits spoke to him one last time as they fled the garden, ready to embark on whatever chaos they saw fit, never to be heard within Arthur’s mind again. 

He would never forget their words, nor the promises they had made all his life, a promise he finally understood.

Congratulations to the new Queen. Congratulations to our new Joker.

[weirdestbooks]

Wrong Reflection Chapter 6

Obvious Differences (Wattpad | Ao3)

Table of Contents | Prev | Next

Just to let y'all know, I'm bullshitting the magic on this. This is crack and the laws are what I see as funny.

Arthur’s brothers had already arrived at Arthur’s house by the time Alfred and his counterpart knocked at the door.

When Arthur answered it, he was greeted by a nervous and sheepish Alfred, who muttered a hello before walking in, and a stranger, the other America, who waved, his face expressionless.

Arthur stepped away from the door, giving the other America space to walk in, gesturing for the counterpart to do so. The other America nodded before following Alfred into the room where Arthur’s brothers were.

Once they were all in the room, Arthur began to take the opportunity to study the other America.

The other America looked nothing like Alfred. He was taller, with shoulder-length black hair and dark brown eyes, almost black. He had a large amount of freckles peppered on his face and neck. He had glasses like Alfred, but they were circular. Most shocking to Arthur was his skin tone. Unlike Alfred, this America wasn’t white—he looked mixed. 

“Hello. I’m Arthur Kirkland, England,” Arthur said, figuring that staring at someone was just as rude in that America’s dimension as in his. He held out his hand for the other America to shake. A brief glimmer of surprise passed across Other America’s face before the other America took his hand and shook it.

“Pleasure. We’re the United States of America. In our world, we don’t usually tell others our human names, but Sam is fine if you want to call America something other than America or the United States and be discreet in public. My name, however, is James.” 

“Wait, I’m sorry, what?” Alfred asked. The Other America—Sam—James turned to look at America, confusion evident on his face.

“Did no one tell you we have Dissociative Identity Disorder?” he asked. Alfred startled, taking a step back.

“No? How?” Alfred asked as Arthur exchanged looks with his brothers. Other America—James clenched his fists.

“I’d rather not say. It’s pretty personal. But yes, we have DID. No, we don’t have an ‘evil’ alter that’s movie bullshit and not at all accurate to what an actual system is like. No, having DID doesn’t mean the US doesn’t have a proper personification; the USA is an alter here. Any other stupid questions, or can we move along?” James said, his tone dry and annoyed.

“Who exactly have I been talking to? And uh, if this isn’t offensive, but how many of you are there?” Alfred asked.

“You’ve mainly been talking to America, or Sam, which he decided was the human name you should use to refer to him ‘cause he’s a lazy bastard. Sorry for forgetting to tell you. In our defense, most people in our world know. I guess we’re so used to people knowing we forgot. And there’s eleven of us…I think. I’m not entirely sure; the number has changed a lot with time, plus I don’t know everyone.” James said with a shrug. 

Arthur rubbed his hand against his forehead, trying to understand everything.

“Can we…can we talk to your America?” Allistor asked, his voice nervous. An annoyed expression quickly passed across James' face.

“You can leave a message, but he’s not co-conscious right now. You can deal with me, or we can fly back to the States and figure something else out.” He snapped, crossing his arms.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” Allistor said, looking chastised. 

“I know, it’s just…Nevermind. You’re Scotland, I presume, right?” James said. Allistor nodded.

“Allistor Kirkland.” James’ eyebrows raised slightly at that.

“Same last name?” James asked although it seemed more like a question to himself than anything else.

“Allistor is my brother,” Arthur said. James shot Arthur a perplexed—and almost suspicious look at Arthur.

“Is your Scotland and England not brothers?” Dylan asked. James clicked his tongue.

“That’s a question you’re better off asking Fi—America or Rebecca. They actually keep track of the hellish sight that is the country people's family tree.” James commented.

“What do you mean, hellish?” Ciarán asked. James let out a breath of laughter.

“I think…I think I also want America to explain that to you 'cause it’s funny making him explain his life choices.” James said, the tenseness of his posture fading into something more relaxed. Yet even then, his eyes still held distrust.

What was he afraid of?

“Oh god.” Alfred muttered, “I don’t think I want to know anymore.”

James laughed, “You probably don’t. Now, which ones are the rest of you? Scotland and England introduced themselves, and I’m guessing you're Northern Ireland based on the accent?”

“No, I’m Ireland,” Ciarán said before pointing to Seamus, “He’s Northern Ireland.”

James’ brow furrowed in confusion as he looked around the room.

“What’s wrong?” Seamus asked, voice slightly defensive.

“Ireland’s here, but there’s only five of you? Who are you?” James asked, turning to Dylan.

“Wales?” Dylan said, confusion in his voice.

“Then where’s Britain?” James asked. Arthur’s brow furrowed.

“Britain? We all are? But I guess I represent Britain at world meetings.” Arthur said.

“But aren’t you England?” James asked.

“Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?” Arthur asked. Did James think that all four members of the UK should be going to world meetings?

“Why do you go to…world meetings but not Britain?” James asked, only causing Arthur’s confusion to grow. What was he talking about?

“Wait…do you think Britain is a different person?” Dylan asked.

“Is he not here?” James asked confusion in his voice. Arthur’s face twisted into shock, and he could see the expression plastered on his brothers’ faces.

“Britain and England are separate people in your world?” Seamus exclaimed.

“Yes, they're both people! Admittedly, both are terrible people, but they are different people.” James said. Something in Arthur’s gut twisted, but he pushed it aside. Alfred and Arthur fought over their distances, but it wasn’t hostile anymore. 

“What do you mean terrible?” Arthur asked. James turned to him, eyes seeming to bore into Arthur.

“I mean, by country standards, they are pretty normal people, but despite the body being a country person, I, James, am a human, so I…I’m more critical of things that countries do. England and Britain don’t have great histories in treating others with respect. But I’m not here to gossip; I’m here to see this ‘magic’ you guys have and see if it can get us home.” James explained. Pushing aside his worries about what exactly James was referring to when he talked about the other England and their Britain being terrible by human standards but normal by country.

“We aren’t exactly sure how much we can do to help, as we haven’t ever come across anything like this before, but I think that we will be able to find a solution with enough time and effort,” Ciarán said. James smiled. 

“Well, that’s something. I wish we could do more, but no one remembers anything about how we got here, so we can’t help narrow anything down,” he said. Ciarán smiled.

“That’s alright. I’m sure we can still figure out something. And hopefully, if magic was used on you…you all…then it might have left traces that we can find.”

“Well then, should you guys get started while me and James stare at each other awkwardly?” Alfred asked. Seamus laughed.

“Don’t worry, I know shit about magic, so I can awkwardly stare with you guys,” He said.

“I offered to teach you!” Allistor exclaimed, offended. Seamus silently flipped him off, and Arthur could see James roll his eyes.

“You guys can hang out or whatever while we get started, although we might borrow James to see if there are any magic traces. Until we can narrow something down, it’ll be a lot of reading through our books to see if we can recognize or find anything.” Dylan said. 

“Sweet. Hey James, what to vandalize the Buckingham Palace with me?” Alfred asked.

“ALFRED F. JONES YOU WILL NOT!"

[icebear4president]

Na brothers angst fic? It’s more likely than you think!

"He never loved me.”

Matthew eyed the empty bottles thrown haphazardly across the room, and back again to his brother slumped against the wall. It was an unusual sight to say the least. Alfred didn't get drunk. Or least to the point where he was barely functioning. He had always been the more paranoid of the two, the one who talked about the dangers of letting his guard down.

It was sad in a way.

"He likes me, sure," Alfred continued, talking more to himself than anyone else. Matthew wasn't even sure he knew he was there. "Likes who I am, like the man I turned out to be. Likes the idea of me as a son."

Matthew's eyebrows shot up in surprise at that. He thought his brother was talking about a friend, a lover maybe. Not...this.

"I think he liked raising me. I think he liked-" Alfred sighed, banging his head against the wall. "Liked the earlier days, being my big brother, liked how it felt not having to be alone anymore. Having someone to take care of, you know? I think he liked the thought of saving me from the loneliness he felt or some bullshit excuse like that."

Alfred nudged a piece of glass on the floor, idly swishing the liquid in his bottle back and forth. "I think he needs me, but I don't think he loves me."

What was the right response to that? 'Sorry you feel like that' or 'Grow up and stop whining about the past'? Both sounded right and horribly wrong at the same time. This was something deeper, deeper than Matthew could possibly understand. He wasn't really sure how he felt about that.

Another thing Alfred and Arthur shared that he would never get to be a part of.

As for now, the only thing Matthew could really think was 'holy shit'. He'd always known Arthur hadn't really cared about him, or at least loved him deep enough, in a way that never had to have excuses for it to be known. But he'd thought...he'd thought if Arthur could find it in his heart to ever love anyone, that, well, it would be Alfred.

"But I can't hate him," Alfred said. “I mean, I love him. He's my dad. But he doesn't, doesn't, love me back."

Alfred finally looked up at Matthew, eyes glazed over, but still analyzing Matthew in a way that made him squirm. "Don't think he ever loved me back, but you. I think he loved you at some point. Maybe still does. You're Matthew after all. Sweet, wonderful, perfect Matthew, the golden child," Alfred spat. "Everyone loves you, and they hate me."

And suddenly Matthew's throat was so painfully constricted, he briefly wondered if he swallowed glass. It was unsettling seeing his brother look at him with so much anger, borderline hate. Except that wasn't right, it was Matthew who should be angry, not the other way around. Alfred didn't have that right. Alfred who had everything.

Right?

Ignoring his brother's internal turmoil, Alfred continued his rant no longer paying attention to his brother. "He loved that damned pedal stool, the one he put me on, show me off to the world as his best creation." Bitter smile hard with empty amusement, he raised a half-empty bottle. "Alfred Kirkland, best damn soldier there ever was."

Matthew wanted to sock him in the jaw, or flat out run away. He did neither.

Alfred tried to take another swig, but his hands didn't seem to want to cooperate with each other, and he fumbled with both hands until he dropped the bottle altogether. It was sad, really, to see him reduced to this.

And Matthew watched, helplessly, as his little brother started to cry.

Alfred was much, much too out of it to care about platitudes, which was a small mercy since Matthew had none to give. So instead, he sat on the floor besides his brother. And before he could even attempt the hesitantly reach out with an awkward one-armed hug, Alfred tipped over and slumped against him, clumsy hands grabbing at his jacket.

"I love you, Mattie," Alfred muttered into the fabric. "Love you so, so much, and I'm sorry Arthur doesn't love us."

Matthew wrapped his arms around him in what had to be the weakest, shittiest hug ever. He couldn't even remember a time when they'd properly hugged each other. They were more the type to insult each other, hit each other, or maybe awkwardly say they loved each other before conveniently having to leave at the same time.

"Hey," Alfred said, face brightening. "At least you got other people who love you. Got the whole world. Lucky, lucky you." He chuckled. "You're not the only one who wants to switch places."

Matthew choked on a laugh-sob. "Sure, Al, if you say so."

Alfred looked troubled for all of three seconds before he forgot his train of thought completely. "This jacket makes you comfy. Like a comfy leather couch. I'm gonna take a nap and you can't stop me."

"Okay," Matthew said, for lack of a better response.

It was only after he heard his brother's snores that he let himself begin to cry.