#aph brit sibs

[twilishark]

It's the same old theme since nineteen-sixteen. In your head [...] In your head, in your head they are dyin' [...]  What's in your head, in your head? Zombie, zombie, zombie

[jackidy]

Okay yeah that's fine, I'm from the North East but I don't really pay attention to what I buy because all I want is my chips and curry tbh, so instead could you do like a thing (maybe a Drabble idk your choice really) on Ireland,England,Wales,Scotland,North hats humorous because I need happiness rn, exams are pulling my mood right down, please?

I’m sorry this might be late! I’ve been working at a convention all weekend so I was away from a computer! I tried to think of something to write and this is the first thing that came to mind. No ships in this really but things are implied I guess??? idek. 

3 Times Arthur, Iain and Aeron made Patrick accidentally cry and the one time Sean did on purpose.

1, Arthur and The Vegetables (Late 1800′s)

It’s not the first time he’s dealt with a fussy eater, before Patrick came along he was sure Alfred had been the picture perfect example of a child who refused to eat anything that they perceived didn’t agree with them. Michael had been another example but Arthur could only put that down to Yao’s cooking having tainted the child’s tastebuds first, taking away any appreciation for British cuisine. 

But Patrick, Patrick was different.

Arthur isn’t sure how Aeron manages this, the Irish child usually wolfed down whatever the Welsh man presented before him but now he’s just sat, looking at Arthur with utter confusion. He still doesn’t know how to use cutlery, 4 months of attempting haven’t given any promising results and England would be lying if he didn’t say it bothered him.

He could forgive this with his more heathen colonies but not from a sibling, even if that sibling was Irish.

“Open up, Patrick, come on.”

Its been fifteen minutes now. Fifteen minutes of pushing boiled cabbage against unwilling lips, fifteen minutes of trying to trick a toddler way too smart for his own good into opening his mouth and fifteen minutes of biting his tongue to stop himself snapping at the empire sized audience behind him who had decided watching him try and feed a 3 year old was far more interesting than the food before them. 

Tickling is a cheap tactic but it works, Arthur more or less shoving the fork full of food in the toddler’s mouth, quickly ending the laughter and replacing it with horror. 

At least that what Arthur had hoped.

Instead of horror he gets tears, Arthur frozen in shock before quickly pulling the fork from the child’s mouth, grimacing as partially chewed cabbage was spat at him, the young would be nation starting to bawl as the colonies, primarily James, started howling with laughter behind him.

“Oh bother.”

2, Iain and the Glen (1912)

It had been a spur of the moment decisions to take Patrick for a walk in the woods, the situation in the house having grown more tense since Sean left and lord only knew how much everyone needed a break from it, Patrick most of all. Iain supposes it was either luck or a bad taste joke that what calmed Sean also calmed Patrick. 

“What do I do if I fall down there?”

Iain pauses and turns to look at Patrick and then to the steep, near vertical hill beside the walk way, the Scotsman shrugging and turning before the smaller nation could see the jokey grin on his lips. “You’ll hit your head and the kelpies will get you.”

“Ohh....AH!”

Iain turns laughing at the scream, expecting to find the redheaded child behind him only to find a blank space and collapsed pathway, amusement turning to panic as the snapping of twigs stops, closely followed by a splash. 

He finds Patrick at the bottom of the steep hill, sat waist deep in the stream and rubbing his eyes, Iain making a silent prayer that his younger brother wasn’t crying before hearing a loud pitched whine followed by almost hysteric crying. 

Thinking Patrick had hurt himself seriously, Iain lets out a curse before making his way down the slope himself, moving as quickly as safely as he could, biting down a curse as his joined Patrick in the icy cold water. 

“I’m here, I’m here. Are you hurt anywhere?” 

His reply isn’t verbal, Patrick shaking his head but his crying doesn’t cease, only calming slightly as Scotland scooped him up into a hug as gently as he could. The reason for the crying become apparent when Iain makes the slow ascent back to the path, Patrick’s sniffles finally calming down to a mumble of “Please don’t let the kelpies get me.”

3, Aeron and the Compliment (1954)

“What?”

Aeron remembers being a teenager, somewhat, he remembers the hormones, he remembers the terrible life choices and he remembers the annoyance of his voice dropping. He doesn’t, however, remember the attitude problem or the mood swings, raising an eyebrow at the teenager sat opposite him at Arthur’s kitchen table as Northern Ireland more or less brutalised his breakfast with a fork. 

“Nothing, just thinking about how much you look like Sean when you attempt to murder eggs with a fork.”

Its a dig, Aeron knows this, bitter over yet ANOTHER sibling out growing him but the reactions to the comment make him briefly reconsider making it. 

At first there is anger, brows furrowing and Patrick looking like he’s about to snap the metal fork in half from sheer rage. There’s a moment of acceptance that follows, Patrick sighing and seeming to consider the statement before the anger returns only this time accompanied by tears.

“WHAT THE FUCK, I LOOK NOTHING LIKE THAT BASTARD! YOU STUPID ARTHUR LOOK A LIKE!”

Aeron blinks but remains neutral as Patrick smashes his plate throwing it off the table and storms out of the room, sipping on his tea and turning back to the newspaper in his lap. 

That could have gone better, he thought, as the sound of smashing continued upstairs.

4, Sean and The Gift (2015)

Sean’s thankful that Patrick is playing video games for once when he lets himself into the younger nation’s flat, the red head too absorbed in whatever he was playing at the moment, Animal Crossing Sean guesses, to give more than a grunt of acknowledgement as hello.

“I bought you something.” He gets another grunt in response, Sean biting his tongue to refrain from laughing at the reaction, re-positioning the object in his arm as he walked over, leaning over the back of the sofa and waiting for the redhead to look up. “I think you’re going to like it!”

“It doesn’t smell edible so I dou-”

He’s cut off by a small bark, Patrick putting the DS down and looking at Sean, or rather whats in his arms, so quickly he’s surprised the young nation doesn’t get whiplash. 

“Is that a...”

“Yes.”

“And they’re for...”

“Yes, she’s for you.”

It’s been a whilst since he saw Patrick this quiet, reminded just how much of a child the other still is when he gently takes the Border Collie puppy off of him, holding the young bitch in his folded legs and waiting for a verbal reaction only to get a loud sniff instead.

“Are you crying?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to get some tissues and leave you alone with her for a while?”

“Yes.”

[shachaai]

[Ficlet] 2. Reindeer | the prancing and pawing of each little hoof

ScotFran, French melodrama, and some notable Scottish wildlife. With slight apologies to Edinburgh’s Christmas market - which is lovely, but really had too short a loop of Christmas-related songs playing on my last visit, so the Disney ear-worms played on endless repeat .

   It is a somewhat depressing state of affairs that nothing else in France’s life truly expresses his… attachment to the Nation of Scotland better than the fact that he, La République Française, in this modern day and age, actually owns a pair of hiking boots that have suffered actual wear and tear. And that the soles of said hiking boots - as stylish as France could find and that Scotland did not scoff too loudly at for being ‘flimsy pieces of shite that’ll fall apart in the first puddle’ - are currently covered in a mixture of snow, mud, and reindeer shit.

France takes a moment in the middle of this miniature mountain Scotland, their guide and the group around them are currently dragging him up to take a breather, lifting up one of his boots and dolefully regarding the sorry state of its underside.

It is worse than he thought. The soles of his boots are coated in snow, mud, and fresh reindeer shit.

“Le romantisme est mort.” Along with France’s dreams of olfactory peace.

Around him, Cairngorm National Park is a picture of beauty. They are three hours out from Edinburgh and the abuse of Disney’s Do You Wanna Build A Snowman? in its Christmas market, the music and chatter of crowds replaced with the sound of the wind and the rolling chirps of snow buntings going about their business. Bright, flashing lights and holiday sales have given way to the long range of the Cairngorms and their persistent streaks of snow, the deep dark green of the Caledonian Forest broken up in the valleys only by the glittering rivers and the flashes of movement that are birds in flight, the occasional grazing deer.

“My face is frozen,” France announces to the world at large, sniffing away the cold in his nose once his foot and its sticky coating has been placed safely out of smelling distance on the ground once more. “I shall never be able to use it again.”

“Your mouth’s still going,” says Scotland with the precise lack of sympathy that always makes France wonder why he ever bothers kissing the other man. Scotland does make a rather effective windblock when he stops beside France, dependably, attractively, solid, but, considering he is the reason France is even being exposed to the wind in the first place, it makes an exceedingly poor redeeming feature. “We’ll worry when that stops.”

“Écosse,” France complains, but all the words that might’ve followed it are lost when his mouth is suddenly obstructed by cloth - the heavy weight of Scotland’s scarf, taken straight from Scotland’s neck and looped thrice around France’s by Scotland’s steady hands, tail ends now flapping behind France’s shoulders.

“Better?” Scotland asks him, his grin as lopsided as the collar of his disturbed coat.

France considers it. The scarf is a terribly ugly thing that seems to be hoping it can pass for some shade of the colour green, knitted inexpertly with lumps and bobbles in the loops. There is, however, no-one on in the National Park to see France wearing the thing apart from Scotland, a few humans, and some reindeer, and it is a very long and thick scarf, warm against the wind from Scotland’s body-heat and still smelling of the anise and fragrant woodsmoke of Scotland’s aftershave.

France buries his - frozen - face in it, feeling his damp breath heat his cheeks, and deigns to reach out and grasp the solid comfort of Scotland’s hand. “Merci bien.”

If he dies on this mountain hike, his corpse will be iced to the arm of the one responsible for his death, and Scotland may carry him home.

Scotland squeezes his fingers back, and pretends to be very interested in the shapes of the clouds overhead.

They continue on to the reindeer like that, hand-in-hand with the rest of their group up to the plateaux of the Cairngorms to see the UK’s only free-roaming herd. The reindeer shit grows more common the closer they get to the animals - France is beyond wincing at the awful squish underfoot at this point -, but it is a forgiveable sacrifice to be able to move amongst the herd, gloves peeled off to let velvet reindeer muzzles bury themselves in their palms for guide-approved treats.

“Oh,” says France, and has to resist bending forward to kiss the - female, according to the guide, because France cannot tell at all when they all have antlers - reindeer which currently has its muzzle buried in his hands on its gentle head. He does not wish to end this trip with antlers to his already abused face. “Oh, but you are perfect.”

Having already taken pictures on his phone (how does he even get signal out here?), Scotland strokes along the same reindeer’s back. “Even though you had to take a hike to see her?”

“You think I am going to try and tell a reindeer where to live?” France scoffs. “In December? Think of the outcry in the stables of Père Noël.”

“...You think all the French reindeer are going to threaten strike action?”

“Écosse, do not make me stop cuddling the reindeer to come around there and hit you.”

[twilishark]

Day 11: Post Break up Sex by the Vaccines 

To think I'd hoped you'd be okay, now I can't think of what to say. Maybe I misunderstood but I can't believe you're feeling good, from post break-up sex. That helps you forget your ex...

Song came on whilst we were out eating and the need to scribble out a Sean was there haha, not my ususal style but i just...wanted to do something different i guess

Inktober Playlist [LINK]

[twilishark]

Various dodoles from the past few months from twitter (where i’m more active tbqh)

Image 1 - 3: Demon idea i’m working on with @hurrhurrr image 4: Patrick, APH OC Image 5 - 6: Space siblings, Lush OCs Image 7: Mars and Fuscite, FR OCS.

Twitter: @LegendOfWes 

[twilishark]

Day 22: Ghost/Patrick Oheaghra

Had fun with transparencies today and drew one of my all time fav ocs. I still enjoy playing about with this boy, even if im not so much into hetalia anymore!

Sketchy as hell as i’ve found i prefer drawing like that hahaha, drag the image to see him.

Version with a background under the cut, warning for eye strain however

[twilishark]

Day 26: Banshee//Aine OhEaghra 

Love is difficult when you can see how much time you’ll have with them and known how they’ll pass. 

Another dragging/transparency one, in a small thing im doing with aaid. She is ghost boys older sister but is it him thats with her or a former lover?? You decide.

None transparency beneath