#scotfra week

[scotfraweek]

It’s here guys! The long awaited list for ScotFra Week! Thank you to those of you who voted on the poll/form

I hope you guys like the list I created. I had to really think this through and really decide how I wanted to organize the Themes/Prompts in a way that would not only make sense but that would be interesting and bring out your creative and imaginative ideas to the event.

Now without any further ado, here they are

🌹Day 1 - October 20

Soulmates / Reincarnation

“Maybe we make it in another universe/life”

“Have we met before?”

High School Sweethearts

Differences Attract

❤️Day 2 - October 21

Humanverse VS Fantasy

“We can build something new, for us.”

“Have you ever wondered, of what could’ve been?”

Long-Distance Relationship

🌹Day 3 - October 22

A/B/O or Pirates/Merfolk

“I was here first!”

“Is this what you want?”

Unplanned Pregnancy

Jealousy

❤️Day 4 - October 23

✨F R E E D A Y✨

Anniversary

🌹Day 5 - October 24

Horror / Supernatural (In honor of Halloween)

“Why is there so much blood?!”

“So everything you said was a lie?”

There was only one bed

Serial Killer/ Haunted House

❤️Day 6 - October 25

Artist/Fan or Detectives

“There was a slight miscommunication”

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Love = Weakness

Rivalry

🌹 Last Day - October 26

Angst/Hurt or Post Apocalypse

“Do you remember when…?”

“I trusted you!”

Character Death/Still Alive

The End of the World

🌹 Of course if you guys would like, you can mix and match. If a prompt from a different day fits your idea for one of the Themes, you are more than welcome to use it. You also can use more than one prompt if you wish as well!

❤️ Art, fics/one-shots and moodboards are all welcomed. Anything that you can use to express your imagination and creativity

✨How to submit your works✨

Just tag the account @scotfraweek as well as the #/ScotFraWeek2024 with your submission/post

✨R U L E S✨

Yes, there are rules guys… please follow them

I will not tolerate any bashing of other Hetalia Characters even if it is for the sake of your idea. Please be respectful of the other characters, I don’t want any fan-wars bc someone’s blorbo was bashed

Try to keep politics and actual life events to a minimum, no need for there to also be any actual hate/fighting during the event amongst participants.

I will say this only once, please to not use other artist’s/writer’s work to enter the event. All work must be solely yours. If someone calls you out for plagiarism, I will NOT be defending you, you’re on your own for that

Please, please, PLEASE, and I can NOT stress this enough, but absolutely no AI can be used for your submissions. Once again, all works must be unique and original. If your work requires AI, then it is NOT original. I will not reblog your work if i get the slightest hint of AI work, and believe me, I can tell

Please keep comments on other participants work friendly. Respect the other participant’s submissions for the event. If you do not like someone’s work for whatever reason — Block the user. I will not stand for any hate/bullying in other people’s post because their work did not meet your expectations. This also goes for spectators who will not be submitting work of their own.

Finally, have fun! This event is about showing love and creativity for the french bastard and his ginger himbo hubby. Bring out your creativity and your best suit!

Late submissions will still be accepted up to 3 days after the event is over!

‼️If you feel like another participant’s work is breaking the rules or is offensive towards you or anyone else, be sure to let me know so proper actions will be taken

📫The account’s inbox will be open for any questions or even ideas that you have in regards of the event!

💔I genuinely do apologize, I had truly intended to have this out a few days ago, but … things happen. I hope you are not too mad or upset with me

🤍 Can’t wait to see all your guy’s works next month, see you then!

@hetaliacalendar if you wouldn’t mind reblogging for a little signal boost pls 😭

[senditothemoonn]

@scotfraweek

Day 1: Differences Attract

I think this one is fairly self explanatory but I like the idea that Fran is very demure, very mindful and Scot is just a guy getting spaghetti sauce on his face and fran could not be more in love with this massive slob

[rosesandalfazemas]

I'm sorry, lad. My new bride is hungry

@scotfraweek

🌹Day 5 - October 24🌹

Horror / Supernatural (In honor of Halloween)

“Why is there so much blood?!”

Our little collab with @greengreekeyes25 to honor this amazing couple this week!. She did Francis and I did Scott! Hope you like it!

[flashlight-sticker]

Day 3 - “Is this what you want?”

Today the streets were loud, boiling with life, rainfall heaving down onto the inhabitants, with unbearable traffic, some absolute morons yelling at each other through rolled down windows and an insane amount of responsibilities suddenly falling onto Francis’ shoulders.

It is on days like this that he regrets quitting smoking. But all of that (thankfully) was over.

Aside from the paperwork.

His opinions changed a lot throughout the centuries, but there were things that he felt very strongly about. For example, that your shoes should always match your bag, that dark brown was certainly not his colour and that paperwork was awful. Paperwork was something he dreaded with his entire being, for his hand hurt too much after signing, signing and signing everything, for he was having a migraine after hours of trying to figure out some misprint, only to find out later that the whole paper was actually never meant for him in the first place, for the moment he looked at the dull papers, black lines crossing them all over, he felt his heart sink and eyes roll at a yet another request from one of his officials.

He dragged himself up the staircase and took out a key. The wrong one, of course, because the universe despised him today.

The clicking of the lock, the smashing of the door against the wall, his bag falling onto the floor and him slumping against the corner of the hallway, on top of the shoe cabinet.

Francis knew he needed a moment after such a day, just sitting there in silence for a few minutes before he said anything to the love of his entire life, or he’d look too miserable for his own liking. Or, at least Francis thought that he needed it, before he heard the sweetest words flow out of the dimly lit living room, where Alistair was, no doubt, reading.

“Welcome home, Fran!”

A lazy smile appeared on his face.

“Hello.” He said back, softly.

***

“Ugh…” it was taking way too long for him to get through all of that. Perhaps, just perhaps, he should’ve done all of this when Ludwig told him to. And perhaps (perhaps!) he needed to look at this law that was passed on a little earlier. And perhaps—

Francis threw his head back, eyes closing and hands covering his face. This is exactly why he didn’t like this whole “sign the damn paper” thing. It wasn’t just about signing the damn paper. It was about figuring out whether or not they had the finances for it, if it was the right thing to do, if there were loopholes through which one can do something questionable. And, of course, it was about endless, notorious, boring calculations. It was about unnecessary drama and pity parties… and his thoughts were driving him insane again.

“This is hell” he picked up a pen and looked at it with disinterest, not really looking at it at all “I am in hell.”

“Then I’m here to save you.” Francis jumped up in his seat, head snapping to the right. Too invested in his own thought, he failed to notice the door opening, or a certain Scotsman leaning onto it, observing him. The same Scotsman that was now looking at him with a smug grin and a glint in his eyes.

Francis shot him a look. It was meant to be threatening, but either Alistair didn’t care after being objected to it so many times, or he completely misunderstood it for a ‘what do you want?’, because he answered :

“I made tea.” and nodded to the corridor, after which he walked out of the office.

***

Upon entering the kitchen, Francis was greeted by the sight of Alistair, who spared him a mere glance before continuing to pour tea into two cups.

And the stove on, for some horrid reason, but that’s a headache he’ll deal with later.

He sat down opposite to Alistair, looking at him with glassy eyes. No thoughts were really in his head. They generally had the tendency to disappear once he locked his eyes on Scotland and he still wasn’t sure whether that was a blessing, or a curse.

He watched Alistair’s hands place the teapot back onto the table, his fingers curving at the handle of his cup, holding it sternly, thumb tapping its top.

And looking at that, Francis reminded himself that he should probably take his mug. He reached out slowly, holding the porcelain in his palms, warming them against the liquid inside.

He took a sip.

Alistair followed his example, eyes closing for a moment, the way he always did when appreciating a good earl grey.

“How was your day ?” the question was gentle and Francis understood that Alistair was prompting him to a rant, the way he did when he knew that Francis was in the mood for gossiping (almost always).

He smoothed his hair behind his ear. “Horrible.” Another sip. “Today was absolutely horrible.”

Alistair answered with a low hum and Francis felt the need to continue.

“First the gas in my car was about to run out, so I pulled over to the gas station, but there was a huge line. So, when it’s my turn, I look at the hose and it says that it ‘reaches both ways’” he put the cup down and mimicked the speech-marks. “and then it didn’t! So, then I have to drive out and get to another line and that goes by pretty quickly. And when I went to the cashier, they go ‘Sir, am sorry, ye cannae pay with a card’” the imitation of the accent made Alistair choke on his tea with laughter, but Francis was too absorbed in his own story to notice. “And I don’t have any cash on me at the moment!

“I go into the car, search high and low for these damned thirty pounds and I find them. Ten minutes later!

“I finally get out of the gas station and I’m driving to the conference room and there’s a traffic jam. I stay in there for nearly half an hour!” He sips his tea again, more angrily this time.

“So, of course I arrive late and the first thing I hear this morning is a lecture from Germany about punctuality, after which your brother” Francis points an accusing finger at Alistair across the table, who puts his hands up in surrender, after which proceeds with even more poison in his voice “uses it against me, as a proof that I’m lazy and am no fit for a ‘gentleman’ like him!

“So, now I have a lot of work and a headache. Work that you are preventing me from doing!” he looks Alistair in the eyes and both of them know that it’s a joke. A playful remark. But Alistair pretends that he doesn’t. He leans forward and tries to hide his smirk as he speaks.

“Is this really what you wanna do? Paperwork?”

Francis lets out a groan at the mention and throws his head back again, hands wrapping around his cup.

He hears Alistair chuckle.

“I might have something that can make it up to you a little.”

The mention makes Francis curious and he tilts his head towards Scotland slightly. He watches him get up, hears the fridge open and is soon presented with a plastic box being set in front of him on the table.

It takes him a second to realise what he’s looking at, but it does light his day up a little when he understands what it is. Francis smiles.

“You got me a crème brûlée!”

Alistair shrugs his shoulders and nods to the side, a small smile on his own face.

“Thought you deserve a little treat.”

“Mmm, thanks” France hums out, eyes softening as he looks up at Scotland.

He gets up, circles his chair, fingers dancing on top of it lightly, after which he stands directly in front of Alistair. “There’s something that would make me feel even better though.”

There’s a played naivety in his voice and Alistair thinks that he has a pretty good idea what that ‘something’ is. But Francis gave him a role and he’ll have to carry it out.

“Oh?” he reaches out and plays with the ends of France’s blond hair. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice “And what is it?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he does.

[oumaheroes]

Congrats on 1000 followers!! If you're still taking requests, I'd go absolutely feral for some of your scotfra! I love how you write modern nationverse with where characters reminisce or philosophise about the past <33

Phi I... I strayed. Okay, I strayed way off topic because this came to me so clearly that I couldn't not write it. I hope that you like it, even though there is no nationverse philosophying ;u;

Characters: Scotland, France (ScotFra)

-------------------------------------------

Starscape

Their home hits him with unexpected force as soon as he opens the door, the brass handle cool against bare palm. The smell of their lives together, clean linen and cedar aftershave. Walls cluttered with photos, Alisdair’s large leather armchair in the corner, Francis’ collection of Vogues tucked neatly besides Alisdair’s nature books into a handmade bookcase- collected fragments of two lives turned into one. A busy, friendly, assault of the senses.

Francis is in the kitchen, warm yellow lights and background radio above the metallic clatter of their cutlery drawer.

Alisdair sloughs his coat off, drapes it over the sofa, and walks in to join him.

‘Hello there.’

Alisdair can hear Francis’ smile through the words as he hugs him tightly from behind where he is at the counter, chin to shoulder. His arms go around him to their places automatically, right hand to Francis’ left hip.

Francis tilts his head back and up to try and meet his eye, ‘Good day?’

‘It’ll do.’

Francis snorts and cups his cheek lazily with one hand, reaching to place an empty pan on the stove, ‘Better than nothing.’

‘How was yours?’ Alisdair is loath to let him go but Francis wiggles free, gently nudging him back and away to let him get on with things. Alisdair retreats to the table in the middle of the room and watches.

‘Oh, you know. Same old same old.’

‘Tell me.’

Francis gifts him with a raised eyebrow. He fills up a pot with water and sets it salted to boil. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘Do you remember that new woman from a few weeks ago?’

Alisdair casts far back in time to find the name Francis might be referring to and finds too many to filter. ‘I remember you telling me about her.’

Francis raises an eyebrow, ‘Tina.’

‘Ah. Tina.’ He had forgotten Tina.

‘I cannot understand what is driving her to-‘ Francis sighs and clicks his tongue, ‘I don’t want to judge, but-‘

Alisdair smiles, ‘Yes, you do.’

Francis waves a hand. ‘Yes, fine. I do. But still, I am aware it’s not my place to say older people can’t randomly move jobs out of nowhere, and obviously they can learn how to do something new, but it’s...’

He stops, ties his hair up, and Alisdair's smiles widens. ‘Some people are slow, and I understand. It’s irritating to train them but I understand. Everyone has their own pace, and all that. Christ, I sound like Arthur when he’s being his most pretentious.’

Alisdair wants to call his brother then and has to swallow the feeling away, eyes fixed on Francis to keep him focused.

Butter to pan, salt to onions. The smell in the air is sweet. Condensation softens the windows, fogs the dark shadows of their garden beyond the glass. Francis moves whilst he talks, stepping lightly from one task to another.

‘But she’s not just slow to train. She’s someone who keeps questioning things, rather than just learning them. “Why do it this way, that way is much better.” Or, “In my last position, we did X Y Z blah blah blah”. Horrible. Aggravating.’ Francis tips mushrooms into the pan and shakes his head, ‘Anyway. Today I found out that she didn’t just move to join the analyst team because she wanted some sort of end of career change or have a last-minute depressing existential crisis. She was asked to move down. Because she was terrible at her job.’

Francis grins at him, his smile sharp teethed and wicked, ‘No wonder she’s so picky with everything. I got the feeling that she thought that we and what we do were beneath her but now-‘

Alisdair cuts him off before he can finish. Away from the table before Francis can stop him, he presses his mouth to Francis’, then to his cheek. Cups the back of his head in his hand, kisses his neck and feels the beat of Francis’ heart jump his pulse strong against his lips.

‘Stop it.’ Francis swats at him but the gesture is half-hearted at best, ‘You’re going to make me burn dinner.’

Alisdair kisses him again, Francis’ long hair soft and undone in his hands. ‘I don’t care.’

‘I care.’

Francis never burns dinner. No matter how busy the day or how many tasks he’s doing at once, dinner is never something to be sacrificed as part of a greater good. No matter how hard Alisdair could have tried to force it, in their life burning dinner was not a thing that would ever have happened. Today is no different. Francis extracts himself just in time to save things and Alisdair lets him go, knowing he needs to in order for things to work as they should.

The taste, once Francis is done, is perfect- one of his best meals, in Alisdair’s opinion, a warm mushroom soup. Thick bread- not homemade, Francis laments, but good enough- lightly toasted and thickly buttered. Alisdair savours every bite, takes small spoonfuls to draw out the experience for as long as it can go.

After they’ve eaten, the cooking a perfect mixture of memory and longing, they retreat to the living room sofa to fall deadweight against the cushions.

‘That was too much food.’ Francis says where he sits against Alisdair’s chest, their legs together under blankets before them on the L-shaped bend. ‘We keep on eating portion sizes that are way more than we need.’

Alisdair disagrees entirely. He is slimmer now, of course, much slimmer, but Francis doesn’t seem to notice. He pats the meat of Francis’ thigh and then grips it tight, ‘We’re doing just fine.’

Francis rolls his eyes and tuts but Alisdair sees the smile in his eyes, ‘No, not that. I mean that it’s expensive.’

‘It’s doable.’

‘Not with the sheer amount of lamb that you’re eating.’

‘It’s my favourite.’

‘It’s the costliest of all of them.’ Francis smiles and reaches up an arm to play with the short hair at the nape of Alisdair’s neck, ‘This needs a cut.’

‘You said you wouldn’t cut my hair anymore.’ Alisdair reminds him. Francis’ hand is warm, so warm, and Alisdair closes his eyes. ‘You said I complain too much.’

‘You do.’

‘Only because you threatened to shave me.’

Francis laughs lightly, ‘It would suit you.’

‘Well. That's why I complained.’

Beep.

Alisdair opens his eyes.

‘Shall we watch something?’ Francis sits up for the remote on the coffee table.

‘Only if it’s not a period drama.’

Francis sighs, weary, ‘Emma is not just a period drama. I’m told it’s a brilliant film.’

Alisdair wrinkles his nose and then grins at the look Francis gives him, ‘I’m sure it is. But are you going to be able to sit there quietly and not bitch about the costume design?’

Francis blinks at him. ‘Yes,’ he says after a while, ‘Obviously.’

‘Fucking liar.’

‘I will! I won’t say anything.’

‘I’ll bet you a fucking tenner you won’t be able to stop yourself saying something.’

Francis glances at the TV, then back to him. ‘Fine,’ he says after a moment, ‘If it’s shit research, I won’t be able to help myself. But that doesn’t detract from it potentially being a very good film.’

‘Besides shit costuming.’

‘… So I’m told.’

‘But see, there you go.’ Alisdair leans forwards, ‘You’ll have a great time nonetheless but I won’t be able to focus on anything because-‘

Beep.

Alisdair wavers, ‘…because I’ll have you going off making comments all the time and I’ll forget what’s happening and-‘

Francis looks scandalised, ‘You don’t know the story anyway?’

‘Why the fuck would I know the story?’

‘Oh for the love of-‘ Beep. ‘We have to watch it. That’s it, I can’t have this.’ Francis clicks on the TV and scrolls to Netflix, ‘What on earth was your mother thinking. You’d think with the amount Arthur goes on-‘

‘Arthur was the weird one. I-‘

Beep.

Alisdair feels a tightness in his chest. He tries not to think of the cause.

Francis turns to him. ‘What?’

Alisdair’s tongue feels heavy, throat tight. ‘What.’

‘You were saying?’ Francis prompts. ‘Something about you and Arthur.’

His hair is tucked behind on ear but strands have fallen free. Alisdair wants to reach forward and brush them back but he can’t move. He feels hollow, belly empty.

He takes a deep, long breath in. His lungs fill, then release. Under his fingers, he feels the whorls of the sofa upholstery on the arm rest. Feels the warmth of Francis near his outstretched leg, face buttery yellow in the lamplight by the wall. It is all so real.

‘Right.’ He runs a hand over his face, ‘Arthur was the one who read all the books. I was a normal child and young man, and went outside. Made friends.’

‘I read those same books.’ Francis presses a hand to his chest, ‘And I feel I came out quite normal from the experience.’

‘I wouldn’t quite say that.’

Francis nods, sagely, and tilts his head to one side. ‘You’re not entirely wrong. I’m with you, after all.’

Alisdair nudges him with his foot, in the softness of his stomach, and Francis laughs.

Beep. Oxygen levels critically low. Warning.

Alisdair should have turned the alarms off.

Francis settles back against him and Alisdair leans back against the sofa, tucking them back in as he goes and wraps his arms around Francis, hold him tight. Here, like this, it would be so easy to forget. To think that this was happening, and was still something he could have and return to. Francis is so solid, so real.

Beep.

But Alisdair cannot forget. Thousands of miles above earth, his body free from gravity, he watched as without warning mushroom clouds peppered through the skies below him. Rushes of clouds shot across oceans to collide with another wave, and then another, until the planet fell still.

The silence was loud. Space pressed in against the glass, a thick, dark nothingness that stretched on and outwards around him. Endless stars dull when there is no one waiting to share them with, Alisdair has found.

He still has no idea what happened. Whether it was planned, who started it, who could be left. He waited weeks for something, endless days on a knife’s edge by the comms system, unable to leave in case something came through or his planned replacement arrive to relieve him. Sleep in broken chunks, too tired to stay away any longer.

He doesn’t know now how long it has been. He stopped checking the days. There was nothing that could be done for him, anyhow. What good is it to know details of his final days, when the grand fact was that no one was coming. He lived because he was too scared to die, and that was that.

And now, here it is.

Warning.

Alisdair had remembered to override the auto-safety control that diverted power to essential systems, at least. That was the important part.

Warning.

It could warn him all it wanted; he wasn’t going to change anything.

Oxygen levels critically low.

A few more days with the bare essentials to sustain life, or this. One last go at the hollo-systems, one last story to play.

Warning. Oxygen levels critically low.

Alisdair had been holding back on playing this one. Eking out the power left on his ship for as long as he could, everything non-essential closed off to- why? To live? To remember?

Just in case, maybe. Just in case.

In his arms, the programmed memory of Francis shifts under the blankets and sighs through his nose. The film has started, Alisdair hadn’t noticed. The colours and sounds all curl and bleed together, flashes of something distinct stand out before falling away like a motion blur. Francis breathes in Alisdair’s arms, his face calm and easy, and Alisdair watches.

Beep.

This is how he wants to go.

Beep.

To go home to a life that only he can remember. Kept safe here in memories and code, a final goodbye.

‘I love you,’ he says. His voice cracks, ‘So, so much.’

Francis turns his head. He reads something in Alisdair’s face; Alisdair sees the flicker in his expression as he notes that something is wrong. But memory and code can only go so far, the real Francis would never have seen him like this before. Alisdair doesn’t know how he would have reacted. Whatever his husband’s virtual echo sees in Alisdair’s drawn, wasted face, it is not something that he was designed to see.

So, he smiles. Sees him as whole. ‘I love you too.’

The living room darkens, shadows fill the edges. Alisdair closes his eyes and buries his face in Francis’ shoulder. ‘I’ll be home soon.’

Francis turns slightly and wraps and arm around and under Alisdair’s back, ‘I’ll be waiting.’

[kopifurann]

seems like it gonna be ScotFra week this time boys

[apoetstears]

Post in question: ×××××

[koolkat9]

WIP Tag Game

Thanks for the tag @balladofthewhitehorse

Rules: Reveal the titles of the documents in your WIP folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!

I did this before so I'll put the ones I already posted under the cut because again, perhaps people asking about them will get me motivated to write.

I do have some new outlines to share because where I work we got slow periods where a lot of us will do something like word searches or in my case writing...so...

NEW OUTLINES

NedCan "Dancer" AU - It's actually a NedCan stripper AU (but I wrote this when I had free time at work so...I didn't want people being suspicious). It would be a long fic though and I only have the prologue/first chapter outlined.

CuCan Cottage - CuCan obviously

GerEng Hot Day - GerEng obviously

Art + Lud Stuffies - GerEng + stuffed animals

Everyone Boosting Lud's Spirits - Nations Free AU - An ensemble fic with some German Bros and GerEng.

Royal Red Bros - Mattie Playing in Mud - England + Canada

GerEng - Future - Nations Free AU - GerEng

GerEng Tongue Piercing - GerEng

GerEng Feeing Birds - GerEng

Matt Ficking of to the Woods -> Allie Finds him - Scotland + Canada

NedCan - Nude Painting - NedCan

Art Motorcycle - GerEng

FROM THE LAST POST

CURRENTLY BEING WRITTEN OUT

Arthur Meeting Lud’s Dogs - Obviously GerEng 

Count Your Blessings (Chapter 3) - England + Canada 

GerFruk Arthur Sick fic - GerFruk

Got a Secret Can You Keep it? - GerEng (nsfw)

Day 6 - Folklore || Pining - FACE Fam + Fruk (this was originally going to be something for Fruk week but I couldn’t get myself to finish it in time since it is very long, but I do plan on returning to it)

Cardverse Fic - GerEng is the main focus, but there will also be Itapan, probably some platonic Al and Art, platonic Arthur and Yao, Scotfra, and so much more. Don’t know when it will be posted since I want to finish one of my other multichapter fics before jumping onto another. 

German Bros - Germany + Prussia (originally planned as a Father’s Day fic but I ran out of time. Probably won’t get posted until Father’s Day 2024)

Untitled - EngUkr (I think this was supposed to be a birthday fic, but then I ran out of time and just haven’t finished it yet)

GerEng Hurt/Comfort Hospital - GerEng, England + America 

Pruk Spice - Pruk (nsfw)

 Subspace - GerEng (nsfw)

Top England x Bottom BFT - BFT x England (nsfw. Based on a prompt on the hetalia kink meme)

ONLY OUTLINE (Break because this is where it gets long)

FACE Fam Sick Fic - FACE Fam + Fruk

Omega Ludwig being taken care of at a meeting (inspired by a convo on my spicy blog)

Ludwig’s Birth + Gil’s Anxiety - little Germany + Prussia (and Germania, though it’s more like he’s there in spirit with him possibly actually being present)

Francis Caring for Matt’s Hair - France + Canada

GerEng + Peter Sick fic - Obviously GerEng + Peter

Fruk Death Fic - Fruk (I promise it’s only temporary Character Death)

Arthur and Kiku taking Matt to a convention - England + Japan + Canada

FACE Fam Matt is Injured in Hockey - FACE Fam + Fruk

CuCan Beach Prompt - CuCan

CuCan Winter Prompt - CuCan

GerEng laying in Bed all day because Arthur is depressed and mentally drained - GerEng + an appearance by Ludwig’s dogs possibly

Canmano First Meeting - Canmano + a little bit of Ameliet

Art + Matt WW1

Arthur Getting Merlin - England + the kitten I gave him named Merlin

GerEng exercise Buddies - GerEng

Fruk Kiss Prompt - Fruk

Royal Red Bros Storm - England + little Canada

Matt Comforting Arthur after a Nightmare - England + little Canada

Lud Picking up Arthur after he fell asleep in a weird position - GerEng

Ludwig Cleaning Arthur’s Wounds After a Bar Fight

NyoCanUkr smut - Nyo Canada x Ukraine (nsfw)

Pet Play GerEng - GerEng

EngUkr Spice - EngUkr

CanCu Omegaverse - CuCan (nsfw. Based on prompt from Hetalia Kink Meme)

GerEng Thunder Storm - GerEng + Aster (Lud’s dog)

Matthew + Fran and Fran’s Fear of Planes - France + Canada

GerEng Late Night - GerEng

I forgot the tag let's see...what other writers do I know...

@needcake @redds-art828 @averyblair and I can't think of anyone else. Anyone who wants to jump onto this. Go right ahead. Consider this your tag. (No pressure to anyone though)

[trealamh]

Copper

Day 2 of ScotEng week:

Drama // family, consequences, worth // “Do you really believe that?”

[What is it with the wedding themes in all of these prompts you might ask? The answer is ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I’m just happy to be writing again do not question my life choices’. This takes place in an AU where Arthur has been half in love with Alasdair all of his life. He runs off after introducing him to Francis and watching them fall in love. Francis doesn’t let go of him so easily and so he and Arthur stay in touch, but Alasdair hasn’t heard from Arthur in years. Alasdair and Francis are walking down the aisle in two days; Arthur loves them both and cannot fathom that they could love him back.

Ask me about the coins and the salt in the piss pot and I will tell you a wee bit about Scottish wedding traditions.]

-------

His eyes find Arthur across the room at every turn and he does not lie to himself. He is seeking him out of the corner of his eye, drawn to the sound of his voice and the familiar shape of him in a crowd. He keeps to himself, lingering near windows and walls, his back never turned to the door. Alasdair looks at him and sees negative space; sees five years into the past. He thinks that Arthur’s hair might be a little longer, his posture a little better. His clothes lived in but well-fitted. He looks well.

Alasdair should not be looking.

Just across from him, Francis looks happy; is happy. He looks beautiful backlit by the warm light of the faux sconces on the homely walls of the pub. And Arthur loves him, Alasdair knows he does. He would not be here, if he didn’t. Not when… He would not be here.

Someone (Sean, probably) has put a piss pot full of salt in Francis’ hands and he is making the round around the pub trading in kisses for copper. Francis’ friends from abroad throw in two pound coins and kiss him so hard that they nearly bowl Francis over. If he keeps his feet on the ground it is only because they hold him up, arms held firm at his waist, hands amiable and familiar on his body. Alasdair could no more resent the easy way Francis loves and is loved than he would his smiles or the sound of his laughter. There is something in him that aches though, watching now as he makes his way to Arthur to earn his due. Arthur’s tight lips quirk in what is almost a smile and he drops two pence into the pot. He turns his face when Francis leans in and Francis does not chase his mouth, content to press a lingering kiss to the soft swell of Arthur’s cheek like a brother.

Alasdair’s fingers itch to curl into a fist. He goes to find another pint instead.

At some point in the night half their party heads off down the street to the next pub over and the rest split ways. Francis does not try to coax Alasdair away but leaves him behind with a quick embrace and a whispered promise. Alasdair will not keep him to it and takes the damned piss pot to put aside. Fuck knows where Sean’s been off to; he hasn’t seen Daffyd all night. Alasdair should call him in the morning and ask why, why? Did Arthur say...?

 Or he could ask Arthur himself, it seems.

He cuts a lonely figure, the sole person left behind, half-sitting on a table top with his hands held loosely between his thighs. There is no device in his presence here, no gambit or intent. This place felt like it was theirs once, back when Alasdair had first put down the anchor to rebuild the family business from the ground up. Every hour he had spent sanding the floors and thatching the sunken benches had been worth Arthur’s evenings spent pouring over ledgers and faded receipts. He never took a cent for any of it, shrugging off Alasdair’s offers coarsely and claiming ownership to nothing more than the black ink on the records that first fiscal year they broke even. Alasdair knows now that it was more than pride that kept Arthur one step removed but he struggles to follow the logic of his actions. He cannot guess at the storms that brew behind the green of Arthur’s eyes unless he puts them into words. All he knows is that for all that he is difficult Arthur is also honest. For a while he belonged to these rooms as much as the furniture, and so if anyone has the right to beg off from the revelry of a wedding that isn’t his and spend the night letting his eyes get lost in the woodgrain instead, it is him.

“You were right.” Arthur breaks the silence and Alasdair is caught short, unsure of what he means.

“The sconces,” he clarifies, and makes eye contact with Alasdair only briefly before looking away again. “It was worth wiring them. The room does not need any more light than this.”

Alasdair hums, and thinks back to the arguments that had very little heat at heart.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Arthur shrugs.

“I don’t suppose it’s cold enough to warrant a fire.” He is thinking out loud and doing a fine job of ignoring Alasdair, eyes on the ash stains that frame the fire place.

So, Alasdair does what he’s always done best. He puts himself right where Arthur cannot ignore him.

Arthur keeps his weight resting on the table behind him but straightens up from his slump when Alasdair comes close enough. He looks at the enamel piss pot he is still holding by the handles first and then, finally, his face.

“I’m short on change,” he deadpans.

Alasdair huffs his amusement without smiling and sets it to the side. The salt and coins resettle with the movement, scratching the bottom of the pan.

“Will you stay?” Alasdair has never known how to keep from sounding angry when he speaks low like this.

Arthur opens his mouth to speak and he interrupts him before he can argue.

“For the wedding,” he clarifies, and thinks in numbers. Two nights and three days. Arthur must have arrived earlier in the day, and he will be staying the night. Alasdair does not know where he might be staying but he’ll have dropped his bags there, some spare clothing and formalwear, for the ceremony. Another pair of shoes.

Arthur looks at him silently, his expression blank but softened by the lax set of his lips. He nods, barely there but he nods, and Alasdair feels at one like he can breathe and like one of his ribs had popped out of place to dig painfully into the soft tissue of his lungs.

“There’s a spare room—”

“Upstairs.” Arthur finishes for him with finality and for the first time there is something like anger in his eyes. “Across from yours.”

What Arthur means and does not have to say outright is that it would be cruel at best to have him stay. Alasdair knows that and offered anyways because somehow it feels worse not to have Arthur under his roof. Francis would be glad to have him. He would come out of the bedroom in the morning to find Arthur tucked into their kitchen nook and smile wide enough to hurt. He would kiss Alasdair’s neck to thank him silently for whatever bargain he’d made to bring Arthur home. Even if he told him so, and tried to explain, Arthur would not believe him.

“Aye.” He will try anyways. “Across from ours.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches and he breathes an angry huff, looking like he is of a mind to storm off. The only thing that stays him might very well be that Alasdair is standing so close that he’d have to shove him aside to leave.

“Where are you staying?” Alasdair asks, though he’s starting to suspect he already knows the answer.

“I’m not.” Arthur snaps.

Alasdair holds his ground, scowling right back until Arthur’s temper begins to flag.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he laments, bringing up a hand to press against his forehead and dragging it down to his eyes.

“Why did you?” Alasdair presses.

Arthur shakes his head lightly and for once Alasdair lets it be.

“You can’t be driving.” He tries for reason. “And you’ll not find a room this late, the inn’s booked full. You could call—” he tries to think of anyone Arthur would trust enough to impose on and comes up short. “—someone. I’ll call someone for you if you’re set on being stubborn.”

Arthur’s hand is still covering his eyes, but he is very obviously grinding his jaw.

“Or you could stay.” Alasdair finishes brusquely. “And come upstairs to sleep in the spare room.” Your room, he wishes he could say still.

Arthur exhales and drags his hand down roughly to cover his mouth instead. He looks up at Alasdair through the mess of his fringe for a long moment before he speaks.

“I haven’t been drinking,” he says and sounds like he is only trying to himself not to stay.

“If you stay, you’ll want to.”

That at least makes Arthur snort.

“Sure,” he agrees, and Alasdair can suddenly picture him years younger and curled into the sunken couch upstairs, a hot toddy held in his hands.

But this isn’t the Arthur he remembers. He looks tired, suddenly, and speaks with a gravity that begs no argument.

“I left for a reason.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Arthur raises his chin in a challenge.

They will have to have it out. If not now, then later. They will have to talk and figure things out if they have any hope of keeping the peace long enough to see the wedding out. For Francis’ sake he would rather it be now. For Arthur, he can be patient.

“Why, then?”

Arthur searches his face, chewing on his lower lip like he is struggling to find the words to parry along the confrontation he wanted.

“Because I couldn’t…” he tries, and sighs like he is frustrated with himself. “I don’t want this. I don’t know if I can want this. And I do not know who I am to you and what my place in your life is if we’re not fucking.”

Alasdair swallows back his anger and counts to ten in his mind.

This is the effect of having taken all that Arthur offered before he knew any better and questioned his motives. It is all so clear in hindsight that it chaffs against his pride that he could be so blind, once. There is equal blame to place on Arthur for his silence— for running away— and every opportunity he let pass without making himself known. Alasdair could have loved him better, would have if only Arthur had told him how. Never fucked him at all, for all that matters. Has never even kissed him like he deserved to be. And now there is another person to consider and half a decade of missed opportunities to work through.

Every word they speak now will carry the consequences of their past omissions, so Alasdair does not stop to consider his words and says what he wishes he has told Arthur years ago instead.

“You are family,” he declares and shakes his head roughly once before Arthur can interrupt him. “Whether you stay or leave. This place is yours, a third of it, a half. Whatever you will claim of it is yours to keep. And you are family. To Francis, to me. As much as Sean and Dai could ever be; more, for who you are to us. To both of us.”

Arthur’s eyes on him are intent.

“Do you really believe that?” he asks, and Alasdair has always known deep down that before he is anything else, Arthur is a cynic that wants to be proven wrong.

“Is it so hard to believe?”

The question hangs in the air for a beat too long. Arthur drops his gaze.

“What will you tell Francis?”

Alasdair grunts.

“That if he had time enough to orchestrate this while running me ragged he could have spared a moment to wash the bedding in the guest room.”

That startles a huff of laughter out of Arthur, but it sounds a little wet. One of his hands is back, hovering near his lips in an old nervous gesture.

Alasdair has never been good with words. He resorts to his hands instead and buries one deep into the roots of Arthur’s hair. It feels thicker than it looks and is coarser than Francis’; a shade closer to sand than gold.

He would not be surprised to find the bedsheets in the guest bedroom washed and pressed, all the edges tucked neatly under the corners of the mattress the way Francis never makes their own bed. There is no hurry, though. He’ll wash them himself if he needs to and keep Arthur company while the washing machine makes a racket in the kitchen, spinning through the dry cycle. If the sheets come out damp he’ll spare Arthur half of theirs and the thick, woollen blanket they only pull down from the cupboard in the winter. For now, he lets himself relearn Arthur’s warmth with his nose buried in his temple and thinks in numbers. Six more hours until morning. Three cups of coffee over breakfast in three mismatched mugs. One more night before his wedding and ahead of that a lifetime worth its weight in copper.

[a-luran]

Now that Ireland is canon, I'd like to submit some potential pairings to the council for review: Denmark, Scotland, Spain, Belgium, S.Italy, Normandy, Sweden, and Prussia (I just think the last one would be funny, smartass4smartass / Dumbasses to Lovers) I also think a ScotEng OR ScotFra, 'This is my boyfriend Alisdair, and this is Alisdair's boyfriend Sean.' would be comedy gold.

ksksk I am honoured to have made it onto the council. My thoughts are as follows:

DenIre

The scent of sea brine and brisk, cutting winds on early sails. The grey shores of winter giving way to the deep greens of spring. A tentative alliance built on a love for starlight and music. Easy laughter and stories shared over the sound of waves cashing onto shore. Love that is woven in silver, carried in myth. That endures in song.

ScotIre

It is the burnished scent of firewood breathed into fine wool and the amber warmth of morning. A shared reverence for nature and a rare kind of steadfast resilience in the face of adversity. It is coarse affection that goes uncontested; ordinary and practical. A common language that grows apart but will forever share the same roots and traditions, and the weight of poetry on their tongues.

SpIre

It begins with a smile. A kiss tinged with zaffron warmth and cold fingers slipping under loose linen. Hearts beating fast and matched to the beat of music as they dance, sure-footed and bold. Joy comes to them both as easily as breathing and it is dazzling to see them burn so brightly with it.

PrussIre

moronsexual smartarse4smartase rights

Knee-deep in mud and chilled to the bone; torn from every comfort to fight in foreign wars, called to duty and pledged to value the weight of gold over life. It is a comfort, feeling warmth after so long. Reaching out in the dark to feel a heartbeat, steady and growing familiar over the long nights spent on foreign shores.

-

I have a few scoteng + Ire fics in the works! No scotfra + Ire wips as of yet but Alasdair has two hands, and strong arms. And broad shoulders. And—

Therefore, I posit:

This Alasdair fiancé, Arthur. And this is Alasdair's husband and Arthur's ex-husband, Francis. And then this is Alasdair's boyfriend, Arthur's competition for this year's Garden of the Year award, and Francis' happened-once-in-a-dream, Seán.

[scotfraweek]

Hope you guys are ready for tomorrow!

Can’t wait to see what you guys have been working on.

I know France and Scotland are quite eager to see all you’ve created this past month.

I’ll see you tomorrow! ❤️🌹✨

[senditothemoonn]

@scotfraweek

Day 4: Anniversary

I decided to redraw an old fanart

[ssuckitlosers]

You know I never really get the posts about how the hetalia fandom is dying legit it has more content and longevity than like all of the other fandoms I’ve been in 😂

[flashlight-sticker]

Day 4 - Free day

“I’ll be there in five”

Francis pressed ‘send’ as he walked down the street, his cape waving in the air slightly, the sun setting quickly, Matthew and Alfred following him suit.

He could hear Alfred say something about the monsters that are suddenly allowed out of “the other world” on the night of the 31st and he couldn’t tell who was screaming afterwards, Matthew who was scared, or Alfred, whom Matthew slapped because he scared him.

Francis turned sharply, hand on his hip, looking at the two sternly.

“Boys!” The kids stopped and looked right back at Francis, waiting for the next instructions. “If you misbehave - we’re not gonna go trick or treating.”

“Nooo!” Alfred whined looking at Francis pleadingly.

“But, dad! You promised!”

He did. The whole thing wasn’t something he was familiar with, not even slightly, but the kids were really looking forward to it and wouldn’t stop pestering him about “What costume will you wear?” (Werewolf. Yes, Alfred, with the tail and tears, too) or “What sweets do you think we’re gonna get? How many?” (Many. Because you’ve been good, right?) or “You’re not gonna ask for any?! What’s the point then?!” (Well…uh…) or even “Do you think Alistair can come?” (I’ll ask him).

Alfred and Matthew had very different approaches to persuading him to participate. While Alfred just bluntly stated what he wanted, or kept pleading and doing those puppy-eyes that he knew Francis couldn’t refuse, Matthew proved just how similar the two were by implying things. Like that one lunch when, after being picked up from school, he sadly picked at his food and when Francis asked what the deal was, he received an “all the kids in my class are going trick or treating” in return. Or when he hinted that “all the kids’ parents in his class” are gonna be dressed up, while roaming the streets (Francis doubted that even half of them participated in the affair). Or when he dreamily said that it would be much more fun if Alistair tagged along and that “it would be much more interesting for you too if he came, right, Papa ?”

Francis sighted half-heartedly, a smile on his face already.

“Yeah, I did promise.” He reached his hands out for the boys to grab onto “Let’s go.”

***

The closer they got to Alistair’s house, the more giddy Alfred and Matthew got, the excitement for the future sweets only increasing with every passing second. And, honestly, Francis was quite glad that they were approaching the building himself. Mainly because Alfred has talked his ear off already. Also, because he was curious to see what costume Alistair put on, but that’s not as important.

Francis pushed the handle of Alistair’s front door easily, the surprisingly dark hallway opening to him, a cold light flickering in the living-room directly across the corridor. He frowned.

“Alistair?” He called out into the darkness. Silence.

Francis groaned, pushing his shoes off, Alfred and Matthew standing behind him, either patient or scared.

“C’mon, get out, this isn’t funny.” He waved his hands vaguely, as if the other could see him. Still no reply and the apartment felt too cold and empty. “Alistair?”

Francis entered the living room and immediately felt how he was jumped on, hands grabbing his waist and a “BOO!” being shouted out rather loudly.

“AAA!” Francis shrieked and heard a pair of voices match his own, after which he felt the Scotsman’s chin on his shoulder, laughing. “ALISTAIR!”

The said man let go of him, shaking his head slightly, a mask covering his face, turning the light on in the corridor. Francis hit his shoulder.

“Ouch?” He took off the furry mask, but the smile didn��t leave his face and he raised his hands. “It’s not my fault that you get scared so easily!”

Now that he was standing right in front of him and didn’t try to scare the shit out of him, Francis could look at the other’s outfit properly.

And, just as expected, its end goal wasn’t to impress someone with its beauty.

Alistair was dressed pretty casually, although his trousers were tighter than usual. Black jeans, a dark (disgusting) green shirt, a pair of knee-length, worn boots at the door that, Francis assumed, will go with the rest of the clothing, but — God — the mask. It was too realistic for his liking, looking too much like an actual wolf’s head, the grey fur appearing too natural, the glass eyes staring into Francis’ soul. A wulver. Of course Alistair dressed up as a wulver.

However, he didn’t have much time, as Alistair almost immediately turned to the kids.

“Hi!” He kneeled down and the two boys run up to him quickly, giggling and shouting out their greetings. Francis watched them high-five each other. Alistair ruffled Alfred’s hair and Mathew’s right after. “And what are you two dressed as?”

“I’m a zombie!” Alfred shouted out, as energetic as always.

“Vampire.” After which Matthew showed off his fangs.

“Wow!” Alistair closed his eyes, mimicking shock “I sure hope you won’t eat me!”

Francis leaned onto the wall with his shoulder, observing the chatter, the laughter and the excited faces of the kids.

***

“Dad! Dad!” Alfred yelled out from afar, waving his hand in the air. Once he was positive that he got Francis’ attention, he pointed at the next house and, receiving a nod, dragged Matthew to it.

He heard Alistair chuckle from behind and threw him a glance.

“Your kids are lovely”

Francis smiled widely, showing his teeth. “I know.

He looked towards the place from which the chanting of ‘Trick or Treat?!’ could be heard.

“They’re the best.”

“Nice fangs, by the way.”

Francis felt his face flush at the mention, remembering the piece of plastic that he stuck upon Matthew insisting on it.

“Well, the look would be incomplete otherwise, no?”

“Hm, I think you look great regardless” Francis felt Alistair’s hand on his hip, much gentler this time, which only deepened the flush on his face. He faced Alistair fully and smirked.

“That’s a lot coming from you, mon coeur.” He traced the outline of Alistair’s jacket lightly, looking in his green eyes. Francis dropped his eyes to the stitches quickly, a playful smile remaining “You clearly put a lot of work into the costume.”

“Didn’t you just say that I look good even without it?”

They locked eyes and Francis whispered :

“I’m dying to see you without it, Alistair.”

***

It was somewhat past eleven and Francis was absolutely exhausted; unlike Matthew and Alfred, who have probably gotten a sugar overdose and were now running around the house while he plumped into an armchair.

Typically he’d ask for the kids to put away their jackets, arrange their shoes properly, brush their teeth before bed… absolutely not the case today.

Francis leaned further into the cushion, eyes closing, his muscles finally relaxing and — CRASH!

He heard glass hit the floor, yelling, and rapid footsteps towards the kitchen.

“THAT WAS ALFRED!”

“NO IT WASN’T?!”

He let out a sigh. It seemed that his headache won’t loosen up any time soon.

“Boys, boys!” He could almost see Alistair waving his hands in a cross, diffusing the argument. “It doesn’t matter who did it.”

With that much he agreed. Whatever it is they broke, probably wasn’t too valuable and he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

The rest of the dialogue was in much quieter tones, so he could only guess what was happening. Whatever it was, it resulted into the two boys running past him towards their bedroom, Alfred shouting at him something about a “bedtime story”.

The noise of the vacuum cleaner, some cursing in Gaelic and some sound in between a groan and a moan and Alistair came into the room, wrapping his hands around Francis’ chest, eyes closing, chin dropping on his shoulder. Francis leaned into the hug, observing the Scot through half-lidded eyes.

“What was that about?” he whispered.

“Mmm…” Alistair leaned his head to the side “They were running around and broke some cup.”

There was a few seconds of silence, in which the two of them simply enjoyed the privacy they got.

“You promised them a story before bed?”

Alistair hummed again, untangling himself from Francis.

“I should probably go,” he scratched Francis’ head behind the wolf ears and continued with barely suppressed glee “kitten.”

Francis snorted, immediately waving Alistair away.

“Oh, shut it!”

[oumaheroes]

Odd Socks

For the lovely @senditothemoonn <3

Summary: The night before their wedding, Francis works himself up into a bit of a panic

Characters: Scotland, France, England/ ScotFra

-----

‘Fucking finally,’ Arthur pushed his way inside as soon as Francis opened the door, kicking off his shoes to dump a bulging carrier bag on the living room coffee table, ‘Don’t answer the door quickly or anything, people might mistakenly think I want to stay warm in October.’

‘It’s not that cold, stop whining.’

‘You stand outside then and wait for your slow arse to open the door.’

‘I was having a shower.’

‘You knew I was coming.’ Arthur mimicked Francis’ intonation and shucked off his wet coat to fall on the carpet, turning away from him to begin unpacking the bags, ‘Go dry your hair then before you get all pissy.’

Francis tutted, snatching up his coat to hang it properly, ‘I’m letting it dry naturally. Hairdryers give a different type of volume than I’m going for tomorrow.’

Arthur rolled his eyes and didn’t respond. Francis settled to watch him in his favourite armchair, a wide ugly looking floral thing that Alasdair had insisted they keep from his old flat when they first moved in together in their little cottage. It was old, didn’t match any of the rest of their furniture which infuriated Francis to no end, and was, at the same time, his favourite spot to sit. It was Alasdair’s favourite too, and he could never know that Francis actually liked it after all of his moaning, so he only ever sat in it when Alasdair was away.

Like he was tonight. He’d gone off with Patrick and Mathias for one final mini stag do in town, a week after the real one which had left Arthur well acquainted with their back garden’s hydrangea bush and Patrick, another of their brothers, taking the wrong train home and ending up in Birmingham.

It was a good night, so Francis had been told. Arthur still couldn’t put weight on his left foot properly.

‘Here,’ Arthur gently waggled one of the cans at Francis, ‘Get started.’

‘I’m not starting with this, am I?’

‘Of course you are.’

‘It’s cider.’

‘Exactly,’ Arthur chose a can for himself and flopped messily onto the nice three seater, legs and arms splayed. Francis tried not to glare at him, ‘Nice and weak. There’s no point getting anything stronger, you don’t want to be hungover for the wedding tomorrow.’

‘What a terrible best man you are.’

‘A responsible best man.’

‘And so unlike your usual self.’

‘Ha ha. Bellend. Is this the thanks I get for introducing you two?’

‘You can’t keep lording that over me.’

‘I can and I will.’

‘I might have met him eventually.’

‘Might have. Might not.’

Francis tapped his nails on the cool metal of the can, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t.’

‘You definitely shouldn’t.’

‘Get married, I mean.’

Arthur choked, halfway through a mouthful of similarly mild cider. ‘What?’ he sat up, tears in his eyes and coughed again, ‘What did you say?’

Francis shrugged, ‘Well, it would be a waste, wouldn’t it?’ He gave a weak smile and gestured to himself, waggling his eyebrows, ‘To take this off the market.’

Arthur gave a high crack of relieved laughter, ‘Oh yes, the poor lads and lasses you’ve not yet sampled. Bless their little cottons.’

‘And in general being tied to one person isn’t good, is it? Not healthy or natural when you think about it.’

‘No no.’ Arthur grinned, big smile all teeth, and took another drink, ‘We’re carnal animals. What you’re doing is wrong, restricting yourself like this to just Al.’

‘It is!’

‘Terribly so!’

‘Besides, it’s not really my thing, is it? Being tied to someone, legally?’ Francis shuddered, ‘How horrible.’

‘I don’t know how you’re going to surrender your bigamist dreams. They certainly are lofty.’

‘Hmm,’ Francis smiled and looked away- to Arthur’s socks, in particular, the slightly different hue of them. Alasdair did that sometimes, grabbed at a pair in the drawer without noticing or caring that they weren’t the same. Who taught them that? Who let them get away with it for so long? Was that to be Francis’ life, reminding his... husband that his socks did not match, seeing this little detail always?

Was that all marriage was, at the end of the day: a slow decline into only annoyances as the gloss of love began to fade. Hard truths worn visible as love’s softness disappeared, leaving nothing but snoring and odd socks and unwashed dishes. Francis couldn’t imagine hating Alasdair, he didn’t think it was possible. He was scared that time would prove him wrong.

He looked up and found Arthur watching him, a slight furrow between his brows.

‘Are you alright?’

Francis took another sip of cider. The fizz almost felt like it was burning on the way down, thousands of small blunt needles on his tongue, ‘Of course,’ he said. Then, ‘No.’

Arthur put his drink on the coffee table, ‘What’s wrong.’

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Francis stalled, tongue clumsy all of a sudden, a hundred truths bunching up and clumping together so that they couldn’t be untangled, ‘It’s- I don’t know.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it; it’s nothing.’

‘Bollocks. Otherwise you wouldn’t have brought it up.’

‘I didn’t bring anything up.’

‘Yes you did.’

‘I was joking.’

‘Cut the crap, Francis.’ Arthur scowled at him and Francis noticed, only then, the lines around his eyes, on his forehead. Age flashed onto him like a change in lighting, as if Francis were seeing Arthur as a stranger rather than one of his oldest friends. They were adults now, lives settling and falling straight, falling solid, and Francis felt slightly sick at the thought.

‘The wedding,’ he started, fingernails back to their dance on the cider can, ‘It feels... real.’

Arthur watched him silently.

‘Just now, tonight-‘ Francis waved a hand, ‘You know. It’s like the last of something. Of me, perhaps. My life. Of everything until now. My old existence for a new one.’

‘You’re not going to change, Francis.’

‘Perhaps, perhaps not. But my life will.’

Arthur scoffed, ‘Hardly. All that’s going to change is that you go from living in sin to not.’

‘This is not funny, Arthur,’ Francis heard hurt sharpen his words but couldn’t hide it in time. He wanted to say something else, to divert the conversation away from what was causing the twisting sensation in his stomach but he couldn’t think of anything other than a forced flippant laugh, ‘Besides, how would you-‘

‘I didn’t say it was a joke,’ Arthur put down his drink, considering Francis a moment before reaching out and taking his hand. Francis let him keep it, allowing Arthur wind their fingers together, ‘But you’re working yourself up about nothing.’

Francis swallowed, throat dry. The urge to steer this conversation away to lighter waters was strong but he stopped himself. Odd socks, rough fingers. Alasdair’s hair left on the sink, his eyes wide and body warm there next to him in the dark, ‘What if I’m not.’

‘You are.’

‘What if this is a gut feeling? A sign that this wedding, our marriage...’

The clock ticked in the kitchen. Outside a car went past, wheel friction on asphalt. Life moved on quietly. Francis wondered where Alasdair had ended up, what hotel his brothers and Mathias had booked for him and what plans they had. His face, heartbroken, in the morning- kilt unworn and alone on a hanger. Would he keep it? Would he give it away? Francis couldn’t think about it, the mere thought was too raw and it hadn’t even happened yet.

He felt the power to hurt someone so deeply, right within him. In his fingertips to text, his mouth to say the words that would damn him. A life and future broken as easily as that. Love gave too much power to the clumsy.

Arthur squeezing his hand pulled Francis back to himself. Arthur had shuffled closer to him onto the edge of the sofa, odd socks and half busted ankles crossed by Francis’ own.

‘Francis...’

‘We’re not old enough yet to make a decision like this, either of us. There’s so much to see and do-‘

‘That you can do together. As I’m sure you’ll want to.’ Arthur smiled, voice calm, and Francis turned away, unable to keep looking at him. Arthur shouldn't be this serious or mature; that wasn’t them. That wasn’t how they worked. Arthur not adhering to their old routine was jarring enough to shame him.

‘Do you love him?’ Arthur asked softly.

Francis looked back, ‘Yes.’

No hesitation. There never was.

Arthur smiled and the grip on Francis’ hand loosened, ‘Good. Then that’s all that matters.’

‘But what if one day I don’t,’ Francis whispered, the real truth of it all emerging before he could stop it, ‘What if we go wrong? What if...’

He swallowed, unsticking one last thing he hadn’t yet dared to voice even to himself, ‘What if one day, he regrets it?’

Maybe the only thing worse than Francis not loving Alasdair, was Alasdair not loving him.

A beat of silence.

‘I’ve never seen that idiot love anyone or anything as much as he loves you.’ Arthur voice was firm and measured, ‘From the first night dressed as bread for Christ’s sake he’s been a doomed man.’

‘Gingerbread,’ Francis corrected quietly, ‘He was dressed up as a gingerbread man.’

Wordlessly, Arthur took the can from Francis’ hand and pulled him close, winding his arms over his shoulder and around his waist. Francis could count on one hand the number of times they’d done this in the last decade, they’d never been the soft, intimate kind, but he squeezed Arthur back and tucked his chin over his shoulder.

‘No matter what happens, you’ll do it together’ Arthur hugged him tighter, ‘And if he lets you go then he’s a fucking fool. You’re no regret, Francis.’

Francis felt his eyes burn and bit the inside of his cheek, focusing on the pain to steady himself.

This wasn’t the most comfortable of positions. Francis was bent at a funny angle, his weight mostly on one side, and he felt dangerously close to toppling off the armchair. But he felt, in that moment, that there was no better place for him to be.

‘Your neck is hot,’ Francis said thickly, once he felt more in control of himself.

Arthur tutted and Francis felt him wipe his eyes, ‘Shut up.’

‘You’re such an embarrassment.’

‘At least I don’t smell like cheese.’

Francis snorted and pulled away, giving Arthur a swift kiss on the cheek, ‘Throw that horrible cider away, pépite, we’re having wine.’

The thank you went unsaid. It wasn’t needed.

---

‘I think today went well.’

‘Do you now.’

‘I do.’

Alasdair stepped back and turned them, the jewelled material of Francis’ gown glittering in the thousands of fairy lights strung up around the hall. The main overhead lights were off, the dance floor was dim, and all Alasdair cared to see was in his arms.

‘Nice food, great service. And no one died, which is a bonus.’

‘And you were there, I suppose.’

Alasdair laughed and turned them again, quicker now to kick up the hem of Francis’ gown into a dazzle of expensive stars, ‘Aye, I was there.’

‘I’m glad you were,’ Francis gave a wry smile and titled his head, ‘I was promised a husband, after all.’

‘Well, I’m happy to deliver.’

Francis smiled wider and Alasdair felt his heart skip in his chest, ‘You don’t scrub up too badly.’

Alasdair pressed a hand to his chest mock wounded, ‘My love, you sound surprised.’

‘Arthur attempted to convince me that you’d planned to wear jogging bottoms.’

‘Oh that’ll be Patrick’s idea, they had a dare on.’

‘Ah. It almost worked.’

‘I’m offended. But also not surprised.’

Another turn. Around the edges of his vision Alasdair could see the gathering of their family and friends watching them from the side of the dance floor: huddled with phones and teary eyes or wide smiles. Alasdair tried not to think about all of the attention on him and turned them again to the music, soft and slow.

‘You look beautiful.’

Francis smiled and lowered his eyes to somewhere around Alasdair’s chest, ‘You’ve said.’

Alasdair dipped his head and whispered into his ear, ‘Aye, but I haven’t quite got over it yet.’

This wasn’t exactly right but Alasdair would never be able to describe Francis properly, or even accurately. ‘Beautiful’ didn’t quite cover him, it was a heavy blanket word that missed every delicate nuance that Alasdair loved. His hair had been done up, curled somewhere at the back of his smooth neck with tendrils escaping at the front, and the white off the shoulder dress he wore hugged him perfectly. He looked like a painting, elegant pearls at his ears and hair and a dusting of gems nestled into the white silk satin of his dress.

But it was Francis himself that Alasdair most loved- the deep blush across his cheeks, the slightly messy look to him from a long day of activity. Francis on the brink of coming undone from happiness and life, an uncut jewel ready for Alasdair and Alasdair alone to see.

Francis tightened his hold on Alasdair’s arms, ‘Like I said, you’re not so bad yourself.’

A muted crash and a cackle came from somewhere in the crowds and they both looked over to find Arthur, half staggered into a chair and scowling, and Patrick bent double with laughter nearby. Their mother turned and made her way over to them and Alasdair hissed in sympathy.

Francis gave a soft laugh, ‘Arthur’s been good, recently.’

‘You two had a nice time last night then? He tried to hide being hungover this morning when I ran into him- said you made him drink wine all night.’

Alasdair sensed more than saw Francis withdraw slightly. He kissed him on the forehead to bring him back, ‘What is it?’

‘We talked a lot.’ Francis gave a slightly sheepish smile, ‘I had a little bit of a panic.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘It is?’

‘Of course.’ Alasdair brushed a lock of hair back behind Francis’ ear and left his hand there a moment, cupping his cheek, ‘It’s a big thing, this getting married lark. I had a little panic too.’

Francis looked relieved, ‘You did?’

‘Course. Panicked that I was gonna fuck it up. Panicked that I’d tricked you into this, like I’d somehow convinced you of something I’m not. Panicked that I wasn’t going to live up to what you deserve. I think Patrick had to hit me at some point.’

Francis’ eyes watered but he laughed, ‘You’re an idiot. None of that is true.’

‘Oh, I know. But I still worried about it.’

‘But never about me?’

‘Never about you.’

Francis kissed him. Alasdair held him tighter around the waist, overcome for a moment by everything. He couldn’t remember ever being this happy before, ever feeling this content; he didn’t know that he ever could. He hadn’t thought that happiness could go so far until he’d met Francis and was still bewildered that this man, this wonderful, intelligent, beautiful person, had agreed to be with him for the rest of his life.

Alasdair hoped that that would never fully sink in, that he could keep this feeling bottled up somewhere to remind him of how lucky he was whenever he needed it. They had a whole life together ahead of them, filled with dogs and kids and holidays by the sea. A loft full of memories, walls full of photos- Alasdair simultaneously couldn’t wait for it, and also wanted time to stop so he could savour every part.

‘I never worried about you either,’ Francis said when they broke apart. He touched Alasdair’s chest and ran his fingers over the solid silver broach pinned to his kilt, ‘Only about me.’

‘Stupid worries, then.’

‘Always. And like I said, Arthur was good last night. For once.’

Alasdair made a note to secretly thank his brother later. Potentially, he wouldn’t push him into a hedge the next time an opportunity presented itself.

The song began to wind down to its end and Alasdair held out his arm to spin Francis around properly, a quick twist for everyone to see before he pulled him back close.

‘I hope you’re ready for me to carry you over the threshold tomorrow.’

‘I’ll make a note to pause the hangover for when you throw me onto the sofa.’ Francis said with mock seriousness. He looked down at Alasdair’s and raised an eyebrow, ‘You’ve got odd socks on.’

‘Do I?’ Indeed, he did. Alasdair groaned, ‘Shite, I’m sorry. That’ll ruin some of the photos, won’t it?’

Francis grinned wider, ‘No, they’ll be perfect.’

[rosesandalfazemas]

A Love Story in Moulin Rouge

Rarepair Hetalia Week - DAY I - Writer and Artist

First work for @hwsrarepairweek2022! - a blue toned ScotFra from the roleplaying AU with @greengreekeyes25. We have posted some work last week, and for the record we did Scotland as writer and Francis as the main attraction... before this challenge! They deserve more love so here you are! it's a traditional work, hope you like it and see you tomorrow~

Francis has the best legs in Europe it's my HC and should be canon