#hetalia awards

[pinkflipphonez]

art practice w my fave sag award winners + their marvelous dresses

[glittery-ishfish]

Prussia trying to avoid explaining sex ed to HRE while reading Rapunzel and proceeding to complain to the Grimm Brothers about it.

[undeadhetalian]

This video is not mine btw, but I'm pretty sure hetafacts has a tumblr

[estbela]

giving my ships children is kind of hard when they are nations. Maybe in a human AU it would be easier, but ehh (lately human AUs don't interest me as much).

[senditothemoonn]

Please stop!! Your fanart is too good, you’re making me ship ScotFra 😰

GOOD.

[psimillie]

Ummmmmm my friend told me that in order to have the best, most fun tumblr experience, I need to find mutuals,,, does anyone wanna be mutuals!!!!! I like fun little shows and video games and art and music and fun recreational hobbies and interesting facts and things I’m basically the perfect tumblr user I just don’t have a tumblr yet sooooooo likeeeeee. You should befriend me before I become famous!!!!!!!

[araneaserketrystoohard]

FINALLY A WIN FOR ROBUL!!!

i watched the yearly hetalia shipping awards and FINALLY ROBUL WON!!! ive 8een shipping it since 2019 ever since they were even introduced. Im still sad that 2 other ships i like didnt get any awards

[spaceypineapple]

LETS GOOO GRUMANO SWEEP

[bayerischerkoenig]

The way you draw Germany is *chefs kiss* 🤌

Thank you! 🥴🤌

I'll use this as an opportunity to formally introduce my headcanon Germany + his (old) reference sheet. Same character, modified design. Germany's canon uniform is simplified for the purpose of animation, and that's fine, but as a fashion-history lover I wanted to reimagine what he would look like if Hetalia was historically accurate.

❗️This is the same uniform! Germany is canonically in the Wehrmacht Heer. My Germany is still in the Wehrmacht Heer, his uniform is just more accurate.❗️

These are all the same uniform. APH Germany is in the Nazi German army. He wears a Nazi uniform in the anime and manga.

Notes

Short, parted hair styles were popular during this time period and my Germany's hair style is modeled after Wehrmacht soldiers.

The colour of the uniform Germany is wearing is called feldgrau. Real Heer uniforms are grayish green as compared to the canon Germany's forest green uniform.

For the average Wehrmacht officer, Iron Crosses may only be worn during holidays or special events. This is why in one picture Germany can be shown with an Iron Cross below his neck while in the other, you can only see its ribbon. This is meant to demonstrate how he would appear during, for example, an awards ceremony versus everyday wear. This was a common technique used by many officers to show that they had recieved the distinction without breaking military decorum.

[mseirtaku]

Junji Itou inspired Hetalia art that were used as first place awards in the Hetaphobia jam that I hosted last year! It took so long to draw them all, and I'm still so proud of them to this day~

[trashexplorer]

BLCD Review: Old-fashioned Cupcake 2

Title: Old-fashion Cupcake with Capuccino (オールドファッションカップケーキwithカプチーノ)

Author/Artist: Sagan Sagan

Shop: CD + Manga

Release Date: 2021/12/22

Cast: Azakami Youhei x Okitsu Kazuyuki

Review Proper

What to say? Maybe it's the ADHD or the fact that I just came from two long BLCDs, but I'm always in a bad headspace when I listen to OFC. 😅 The second volume just went the second route of sequels: misunderstandings/insecurities featuring third-party appearances. I really get where Nozue-san's coming from and I'm not saying that his insecurities are invalid or whatever—it's just that he's the one who wanted to make their relationship low-key, but he was doing the worst job at it. 🙄And like what I've said in my review for volume 1, they don't have a big age gap, so this age gag with Nozue-san just annoys me. It doesn't help that they mention it every five pages or so. The more Sagan Sagan does it, the more Nozue-san's age sounds more like an excuse than a gag.

Yoneda Kou's spoiled me to the point that I can't accept anything less, it seems. 🤷Don't blame me for comparing, they also have a Togawa over there.

Anyway, that's enough of the plot.

Chil-chil 2023 was a lie. There is no way Okitsu placed fourth while Youhei placed 13th. If anything, they should be reversed—and that's coming from me, one of the biggest Okitsu whores on this site. But being an Okitsu simp also means I know how that man sounds like, and that man sounds awkward af in this tone. His Nozue-san is too slow and too light for him. Nozue-san does have moments where he'll explode in panic or anger, but considering how light and slow Okitsu's portrayal of him is, you would expect his explosions to be more on the lighter side, right? WRONG. HE GOES FULL JONATHAN JOESTAR TO DO IT LMAO

SUNLIGHT YELLOW OVERDRIVE!!!

I failed to mention in my first review that Nozue-san looks like Italy from Hetalia which is why I wanted NamiD for him... if he wasn't so problematic. Anyway, thankfully, we have a live-action. I very much prefer Kouhei Takeda over Okitsu as Nozue-san. HAHAHAHAHAHA

Youhei was the true MVP of this BLCD. I don't get how he placed so low. He was very stable, and his sex appeal shined throughout the CD. It kind of reminds me of Maeno's tbh. Chil-chil 2022 might've robbed him, but this man has earned his seat at the "tops you should look out for" table in my view. Congratulations!

The BLCD was pretty accurate to the manga. Read-alongs are indeed possible with it, but I will say that I had an issue with SuBLime's localization. For one thing, the second volume wasn't consistent with the first. Togawa calls Nozue-san "Mr. Nozue" in the first volume while he calls him "Nozue" in the second.😑I don't want to go on a long rant about honorifics, but when it comes to stories where age is an important factor, I am firm in my belief that the Japanese or a close English equivalent should be used. It's a Japanese story set in Japan; it's not your culture to localize. There, I said it.

Also,

Yes, we stan being redundant even when the original wasn't. 😌 I wouldn't be nit-picking if y'all just licensed Koi ga, SuBLime.

Still, please try supporting the official transla localization if you can. I can't say that the production was great because of Okitsu, but this actually placed fifth in the 2022 awards, so do with that info what you wish. If y'all want more office bl, then I shamelessly recommend Yoneda Kou's Doushitemo Furetakunai (Ishikawa Hideo x Nojima Kenji) and Soredemo, Yasashii Koi o Suru (Morikawa Toshiyuki x Nojima Hirofumi).

[sere-ness-ima]

HWS Poland during the partitions: the full timeline (1795-1918) [1]

...but it will take a long time to write, so I will divide the infodump into parts. Haha, divide into parts, get it?? Because Polan–

<concering muffled noises>

...this part contains the following topics:

[1.1] Why offing Poland during the partitions is a terrible move [an essay-flavoured rant]

[1.2] What I'm going for in shaping my hetalia universe [a short boring disclaimer]

[1.3] TL;DR Feliks' timeline 1795-1918 [because I'm not a clickbait type]

The actual essays [nessays?] detailing the events and providing contexts and sources will come later, and hell am I excited for it.

[1.1] An introduction

I’ve been sitting on it for almost 10 years at this point, which is a lot of time to sacrifice to a fictional character’s fictional biography. And I’m speaking about 123 years of Poland’s geographical non-existence, which even my fellow Polish fanfiction writers often skip by unaliving him and only letting him resurrect in 1918 after regaining independence, with cool phoenix metaphors and a jazzy remix of *Poland is not lost yet*.

It's not that I hate this concept utterly, because I have even attempted to write a fic just like that once. I couldn’t resist the picture of Poland, the snobby, aristocratic, moustached, hot-headed peasant-owner from the end of the 18th century, suddenly waking up in the middle of barely-post-WW1 turmoil, with the world having changed SO MUCH since the times he last remembers that he’s like a caveman released from a block of ice in the middle of modern-day New York. Oh, yeah, and his job is to rebuild a country which he lost- wait, he losT FOR HOW LONG???

Yeah, I like the idea. It would be a fascinating comedy plot. But let’s be realistic. The clue of all my rambling is, Poland just before the partitions and just after the partitions are two completely different people, but there’s a road between them, a story of Feliks changing drastically over the 123 years, a story which is absolutely delightful, emotional, hilarious, and honestly the director of The World should get an award for it, because oh boy does Feliks’ character arc HIT HARD. (And I’m not the director here. I’m the film editor, at best. Just choosing the best scenes to bring to light based on a personal whim.)

[1.2] A disclaimer

My hetalia universe works on my own custom-made rules. I only touch canon when convenient, otherwise ignoring it completely. My rule of thumb is to make the concept of personifications as realistic as possible and to bring the “Ness Cinematic Universe” as close to a normal history textbook as possible [some people are just built different, like and subscribe if your goal is to write a history textbook of a fic too!]. I strive for historical accuracy here – but the Rule of Cool takes priority when needed, because I also strive for whatever my heart desires. All my stuff are of the “public hetalia” variety unless stated otherwise. It means the personifications and their identity are usually public knowledge and their existence is a natural phenomenon in-universe.

[1.3] HWS Poland's 19th century timeline: TL;DR

(i'm about to elaborate on each point from this list in my future posts.)

1795 – the third partition. According to their earlier agreement, Russia takes Lithuania east and Prussia takes Poland west.

1796 – Poland moves through Saxony to France… 1797 – ...and from France to Italy, where the famous Polish legions in Italy are starting to form.

1797-1814 – Poland’s Great Napoleonic Adventure :) [to be elaborated on]

1815 – the previous agreements between the partitioning sides get nullified at the congress of Vienna. Feliks has no other way but to agree on a personal union with Russia under certain conditions.

1815-1830 – he then lives a mildly peaceful life in Warsaw, but the conditions aren’t met and the tsar’s brother is unbearable.

1830-31 – Feliks revolts in Warsaw.

1831-37 – prison time (Schliesselburg fortress, Russia)

1838-1848 – Poland’s Great Emigration :) (his mental health rapidly decreasing, he moves to live in France and travels here and there around western Europe. You can insert your ship content here, though.)

1848 – Feliks revolts in Germany.

1848-1849 – Feliks revolts in Hungary.

1849-185X – prison time (Spielberg castle, Austria [nowadays Czech])

185X – 1861 – passed from Austria to Russia, he once again accepts an offer to sit calmly in Warsaw and try not to break anything. [the plot of BSA the fic happens here – for those who know :) you can also use this time for your ship content.]

1861-1863 – mildly chaos with occassional patches of prison time (Warsaw Citadel)

1863-64 – Feliks revolts in Warsaw.

1864-1866 – Poland’s Not So Great Exile To Siberia :)

1866 – Feliks revolts in Siberia.

1867-1890 – a free time slot. Show your OTP some love here. Personally I want to see him in Austria-Hungary, Prussia works too. So does going west and crying into France’s sleeve. So does prison time in Irkutsk, Siberia. Let him have a trip to China. Or Australia. Do your worst.

1891-190X – I’d love to see him in Russia around here, though, in Petersburg. At least when he’s not running wild and committing crimes.

190X-1914 – I’m currently reworking this section. The old version had him start WW1 in Prussia, in the Prussian army, then switch to the Russian side. The new one will probably have him do the exact opposite, so he’d be starting in Russian.

1914-16 – not like it matters, because he manages to fight for all the three occupants’ armies (until they notice he's jumping sides and...

1916-1918 – ...have him sit on his ass till the end of the war).

1918 – he finds his people eventually, or they find him. And the real fight starts now. :)

...see you in the next nessay, which will probably be all about the three acts of partitions and making an attempt to paint a picture of Feliks the moment his country collapses? We'll answer cool questions like:

"should the partitions be blamed on Feliks or is he helpless about his people's stupid decisions",

"was the canon partitions scene with Poland laying in the snow actually the battle of Maciejowice (1794)",

"is Austria the kind one, because you know, Hungary likes Poland"

"yeah but how can we make it pruspol" And more! Maybe I'll even add a picture to the wall of text. As a treat.

[ao3feed-usukus]

Living in Movie Scenes

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/lvBfqDE by TheGoliathBeetle Alfred really wants to win a big award for his short film. Because surely if he wins, everything else in his life will magically fall into place. He’ll finally have something that matters. If only to him, and not to his awful family. Arthur wants to win, too. But he mostly wants to win over Alfred. USUK friends to lovers, with NA bros drama. Film School AU. Prequel to “That Hollywood Shine” but can be read as a standalone. Words: 7076, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English Series: Part 1 of Hollywood AU Fandoms: Hetalia: Axis Powers Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: America (Hetalia), England (Hetalia), Canada (Hetalia), Japan (Hetalia) Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), America & Canada (Hetalia) Additional Tags: Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Underage Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Eating Disorders, Punk England (Hetalia), sort of lol - Freeform, Protective Older Brothers, Alternate Universe - Hollywood read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/lvBfqDE

[gybas-blog]

Hetalia shipping awards inspired me to draw my OTPs!

Reference

[theherdofturtles]

Fandom: Hetalia Prompt: Stumbling and Staggering Rating: G Word Count: 4593 In the aftermath of Alfred pretending to be Matthew in order to sign up for the RAF in 1940. Alfred crashed and died in a Spitfire, Arthur isn't too pleased, and the Blitz begins with terrible timing. @badthingshappenbingo

August 1, 1907, one officer, two enlisted men, and no aeroplanes— the fresh-made Aeronautical Division of the United States was given the mission "to study the flying machine and the possibility of adapting it to military purpose."

Later that year of 1907, the army asked for an aeroplane capable of attaining a speed of 40 m/h, one that could stay airborne for 60 minutes.

In 1909, two years later, the world's first military plane ever was developed. 

It flew for one glorious hour, twenty minutes, and forty seconds across the wide American sky before tiring and sputtering out and the adaptation of warplanes, warfare, and strategy had leapt year-by-year from there.

Thirty one years later? Alfred had killed himself on a 387 miles per hour nosedive.

It was a bit impressive that it took him thirty one years to die in what was, more or less, brand new technology. Usually a man lasted one or two years.

Alfred had one dead day after his nose-dive.

Not too bad for being overseas, he thought.

For those approximate twenty-four hours Alfred honestly lived the 'officially dead' status awarded to him. Stone-cold, internally-bled-out, heart-stopped dead.

Then he made his morticians double the liars he'd already made them.

The body they'd examined woke from its slumber.

And Alfred hadn’t ever been officially dead, either.

Matthew had been officially dead. 

The report said 'Matthew Williams: deceased.' Alfred had been wearing the wrong name when he'd died, so Alfred didn't even get the credit for his sacrifice.

The news of Matthew Williams's death didn’t go public in the paper when he checked. 

This was a good thing. He didn’t want to see Matthew’s name in the small block of text at the front right-center of the paper, the block reserved for the revered heroes of the war who wouldn’t get to see the ends of the battles they fought. Apparently there was a legal restriction on placing the name ‘Matthew Williams’ in newspapers that spanned half the British-controlled globe. 

Arthur was a paranoid and powerful bastard.

Arthur's paranoia was why the bodies of his charges were quietly carted off to unknown recovery locations during wartime. Alfred discovered this neat little misfortune by virtue of waking to a dark, windowless room, and becoming acquainted with five or six baffled British men who knew that he couldn’t be ‘Matthew Williams’ even though they had been alerted to specially carry off the body of ‘Matthew Williams’ before a citizen saw what Arthur had decided should never become public.

They let him read the paper. Alfred thought that was nice.

They were still British bastards at the end of the day, though, and they refused to say what they'd do to him. They still thought he was Canadian, they just knew he wasn't theirs.

Alfred protested their inability to differentiate Canada from the US by pretending he didn’t really care.

They knew what he was. Or, they knew what Matthew was. They weren't certain about what he was, yet.

They first tried to figure out if he was a German freak-of-nature spy who’d somehow captured the likeness of one of their territories. The eyes were a bit off in color, too blue, not purple, they drilled down on that difference and then decided his intel was off. “Who are you? What are you? Why does your likeness resemble Williams? Who do you work for?” and the usual.

Alfred knew for a fact that his cover was blown to shattered irreparable bits and at least fifteen pieces of the remains were bound to land in Arthur Kirkland’s lap eventually.

In the back of his mind, he had the lamentable intuition that he’d never be seeing or flying a Spitfire again.

His cover was dead. Literally. ‘Matthew Williams’ was logged dead. He couldn't go back to his Wing because they knew him by the wrong name and that name was deceased.

It was strange to be responsible for his brother’s death... it was good to know the report was his fabrication.

During his bored hours, he wrestled with the issue of having gotten himself into this situation. 

He had no regrets about having hopped the ocean. That had gone perfectly, and he'd have done it again. 

The problem was that damned enemy leader.

If he’d never have challenged that brainless hun, he’d not have been acquainted with the enemy’s aeroplaine. If only his enemy had been a better pilot, he would still be flying his wings. The collision could not have been his own fault.

His only mistake must've been thinking the enemy anything of a challenge.

For the next day between questionings and confusions, Alfred kept himself entertained with the cathartic pleasure of imagining his special enemy 109 sustaining enough damage to have dropped into the ocean. Not having Alfred’s luck, the other pilot must have gone into the waves.

Their collision should have ended with his victory, no matter how limpingly bruised he’d crawled away that day.

Upon Alfred's overnight stay into the fifth of September, he was allowed to leave the room so long as he kept to a very specific path and had eyes on him the whole while. He appeared to have been taken to a weird hospital of sorts… one he guessed was underground based on the lack of windows. 

On the sixth, the humans around him were stirring themselves into further antsy spirals and paranoid questionings. At least five were losing hair to their stress.

They were afraid. 

They had no idea what or who Alfred was. 

They didn't know why he'd replaced one of the darling goody-two-shoe personifications of their commonwealth, but they thought it couldn't be good, and the less threatening Alfred behaved the more threatened they became.

Alfred realized then that he had to bite the bullet sooner rather than later.

So he boarded a fast-track-train to face Arthur Kirkland:

“My name is Alfred F. Jones. My real name is The United States of America. I crossed into Canada on a business trip, and when I saw a recruitment centre for the R.A.F., I packed my shoes and crossed the ocean. Could you send a message to England for me?”

It took another day for word to travel.

Arthur arrived on the seventh of September.

The whole place was buzzing excited, never getting too close, never straying too far. Humans clotted the halls like peasants waiting for a glimpse of their king.

He came paraded into the windowless room with a flank of wrinkled, aged, stone-faced and decorated soldiers. They framed him like a wall of navy olive and green and each so bleak and grim and expressive as statues compared to Arthur's violent rose red. 

To the peasants, Arthur looked angry. They moved like minnows around a shark.

To Alfred, Arthur looked tired. Alfred had the misfortune of knowing the man well enough to read the five variations of expression he had.

“Hey." Alfred waved.

“Can I let you leave this room, Jones?” Arthur said.

Arthur wasn't happy to see him. He'd known Arthur wouldn't be. Unfortunately, the last time they saw each other they'd not been on such bad terms, so he'd hoped a little that Arthur wouldn't be so sour.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alfred played it cool. 

So this was how they would go: Arthur, hostile; Alfred, defensive.

This wasn't the way he liked to go. He didn't know a way to make it go any other direction, though.

Alfred silently cursed that hun who couldn’t fly properly. If that worthless excuse for a pilot hadn’t crashed into his plane, this conversation might’ve been far later in the future and far more appreciative towards his talent in the air.

“I take it you’ve become familiar with the craftsmanship of my best aircraft.”

Of course he had. He'd been flying the thing every day for a good time.

Arthur stared, tired scowl set firm in place.

Alfred laughed in amazement as he suddenly realized what the accusation being leveled at him was.

“Oh. Wow. You think I’m going to sell information on Spitfires to the Germans. That's low.”

“You’re selling them everything else.”

“That is different, I’m bleeding those guys dry, I sell to you so cheap, the Japs won’t shut up about it. They say I might as well already be fighting on your side with how easy you get my goods. Did you know I'm the only guy selling them oil? I can charge as much as I want!”

“I know you better than them," Arthur spat. He leaned forward into Alfred's personal space and Alfred found a rekindled desire to punch him in the jaw. He tried not to, but Arthur never made it easy. "You, Jones, have a habit of selling your morals out in exchange for your personal benefits."

What he heard after was blurred, and what he felt inside was ugly and very, very simple. 

Arthur's accusation was staining him. He decided that Arthur had painted him into a poorer quality figure than he really knew he was. Alfred knew he was better than what Arthur said. Arthur never saw him for what he was worth.

"I should sock you in the face for that," Alfred warned. 

He wasn't a kid or colony. He wasn't even the scrapy, dumb, dirt-for-dollars poor young country he was fifty years ago. Five decades had changed him into something Arthur should respect.

“This war doesn't exist so you can fly Aeroplanes. This is inexcusable. On my land! On mine! I can do anything I want to you! Your people have no clue where you are, 144 Wing has marked you dead, and if I declare it, no man in this room will breathe a word of your existence. Your actions are impulsive, dangerous, and you have left no one to vouch for you. Do you understand the position in which you've placed yourself?!”

“Yes sir I do understand,” Alfred held ground. He made sure to keep Arthur's glare steadily met, sharply focused on, because he knew Arthur hated that and heaven forbid he accidentally give anything even adjacent to apology to a monarchy. 

“My title is not sir, it is lord.” 

“Yeah, I’m never calling you that. And I think I'm in a great position. You can't burn me, I'm your best ace. I'm single handedly keeping your island fed. Without me you wouldn't have rations to eat."

“You've miscalculated. Your people are opportunists fulfilling a market demand, there is no personal you in any transaction which supplements my supplies, no matter what, the United States will keep selling. I will rest easily knowing you've met the end of your foolish and dangerous journey." Arthur raised his arms to grandly display the room. "Get used to your new home. You're being held under suspicion of espionage, Jones.” 

Arthur turned tail with his troop of green-clad men in tow. 

"You're really doing this? Come on. Who can I contact? You're not actually going to leave me here this whole time— think of the diplomatic disaster! You need my trade to win and if my boss finds out-!"

The door slammed. Arthur and his troops were gone. 

What was left behind was a bit of a doubt in himself, which felt like a balloon with a scattering of tiny holes, slowly deflating. He thought it was a worse feeling than crashing his Spitfire.

Stuck? In here?

No? Alfred deserved better. He was Yellow leader, he had more shots than anybody else in 114. His thanks was this dark windowless room? 

Being locked up over Spitfire manuals?

Alfred was their best pair of wings!

In no universe or world would Alfred tell Germany about Spitfire maneuvers or machinery or radars.!The guy might be the only European country close to his age, but Alfred didn't like Europe, and he really didn't know anything about Prussia's war protegé except that he was further straight-laced than England.

Plus, Alfred liked Francis alright, the guy had given him a helping hand a few times. What Germany had done to him wasn't super cash-money.

Alfred placed his hands on either side of the door, ready to tear it off its hinges and leave on his own accord when—

It opened. Without his help.

A human popped in, looking displeased with Alfred's existence. He felt that simple-ugly distaste again, annoyed equally with England's people as he was with England himself. 

"Upon the event of your leaving these premises, Matthew Williams will gain the permission to- er- 'beat you with a hocky-stick.' This is not the limits, but appears to be the suggestion by Lord Kirkland." 

"Mattie is here?"

"Lieutenant General Williams is within a plausible range to carry out his duties if required."

Alfred didn't know what to think of that. It left him with a smaller set of active options than he wanted. Alfred could attempt to sweet talk his way out, or he could re-summon Arthur and try a re-renegotiation.

He wanted to leave even more than he had beforehand.

He ended up playing a combination of his strategies. Alfred sweet-talked his way into getting a biro and paper to scribble out a frustrated demand that Arthur give him an audience.

The letter was sent and Alfred sat for hours. 

The place had been made boring without British people fussing over his every move, and more upsetting to him, the British people around him were getting antsy again, but not for him. 

Another problem, another task, war-in war-out, Alfred wouldn't plague their minds because the next task was on the table. The fast-paced life wasn't so fun when it didn't acknowledge him. 

Alfred tried to get their attention several times to no avail. The fruit of his efforts was a comment along the lines of 'we will get back to you shortly,' and this was a promise which he discovered to be a lie through experience. 

Several more hours passed. 

Alfred mentally walked himself through the pilot's manual. Alfred wondered how he could get his hands on a Merlin XII back at home. Alfred ran out of ways to mentally rebuild a Spitfire. Alfred sighed, napped, and woke in the same cell.

Right around that moment, Alfred was determined to risk Matthew's stick. He got two hands on either side of the door again, when a man entered... again. 

Alfred spared a minute to embrace the déjà vu of having failed to destroy the door twice.

The human gave him a suspicious narrow set of eyes, inspecting the awkward pose Alfred was in.

"You've been requested by minister Churchill."

"Oh, sweet!"

Alfred pumped a fist. This was the best possible option!

The British accommodated him with minimum tolerance as they transported him from point A to point C. 

They didn't want him seeing anything, evidently. His face was like a cotton-doll, blindfolded and ear-muffed uncomfortably. Every time Alfred itched at his face some British human would slap his hands away as if he were a kid rather than a centuries old immortal man.

He was very relieved to be freed at 10 Downing Street. Words he never, ever, in his whole life, expected to think.

The minister's place was... fancy. Very damn fancy. Alfred had to be pulled up the spiral-square stairs because he kept trying to study the place.

The escorts left him when he got to the minister himself... a controversial guy, Alfred had heard. But, to the public the guy was controversial for lineage reasons, and in brit-speak, that was 'possibly out of wedlock,' which meant absolutely nothing to Alfred. From Arthur, Alfred gained drunken complaints of the Dardanelles Campaign and 1926.

He was surprised the escorts would leave him with their minister alone. Then less surprised when he saw that Arthur was with the minister.

Arthur was playing guard-dog, then.

Alfred entered slow, sat, and kept on the edge of the couch opposing the two Englishmen. The chairs were set up next to an empty fireplace, under the gaudiest chandelier he'd ever seen. Even the ceiling couldn't be normal. Little gold ridge-like-cornices struck geometric deco patterns up there.

"The United States," the minister greeted. He sounded pleased. Alfred immediately went on guard because it was unfamiliar to hear a European of high power pleased with him.

"That's me," Alfred said, "you can call me Mr Jones."

Across from him, Arthur looked even more tired than before. His arms were crossed. His legs were crossed. His whole body sat stiff on the couch, but his back arched into the cushions like a cat's. The posture was ungentlemanly and petulant.

Alfred wondered if the minister had forced him to be here.

"I heard you've been flying for the RAF."

"Yup. I’m the best at it, too."

"And you had a plan for if you fell down over channel waters, I'm sure."

... Sort of. Alfred's plan had amounted to 'don't get shot.' The plan was fool-proof until he'd been downed.

"Yeah, of course," Alfred bluffed.

"What was your plan for falling over the territory of a country at war?"

It had been a 'don't get caught' type of plan, too, but he was improvising here.

There wasn't a chance he'd consider that Arthur might've been right. There was absolutely no way, not even if he was logically right. What went for the majority of people didn't go for Alfred— Alfred was an outlier. He made himself the outlier.

Nothing could take that from him.

"Go home?" he suggested.

The minister chuckled. "I thought you wanted to fly Spitfires?"

"Well... if the job is still open, I’ll take it." Alfred grinned.

"If we updated the name on Mr Williams's R.A.F records, I do believe you'd find yourself back in the military."

"I-" Alfred realized what he meant.

He wouldn't... announce that Alfred had been in the R.A.F, right? Not right now? Not this soon?

Because the Axis would take it as a declaration of war. The US himself had been firing at their aeroplanes, helping their enemy with boots on the ground. 

"We don't need him in the war," Arthur said. The bags under his eyes were bare purple, and his sallow demeanor took away from his statement, which Alfred took as a poor attempt to keep his pride intact.

The minister subtly raised his brow at Arthur as if to say 'really, now?'

A silent conversation passed between the two. It was short, and indecipherable to Alfred.

"Let me talk to him myself," Arthur finally snapped. He stood and marched to the hallway, pointedly, and when passing Alfred, he slapped him on the shoulder indignantly. "We need to talk."

Alfred huffed.

Arthur was... sort of... almost on his side, here.

As soon as he rounded the corner Arthur went off on him.

"If you wanted to stay neutral you've done a bloody hell of a job," he whisper-hissed.

"Relax, I'm not going to ruin your pride and lend you another helping hand. I'll get out of this."

"A lot of us are going to die in this war. You're an idiot, Jones. And you've given the prime minister, who wants you involved, a way to drag you in by the collar."

"I told you, I'll find a way to get out of this!" 

"What will you do?"

"Say my country isn't war-ready?"

"Unbelievable." Arthur shook his head. "You should be dragged into war for this stunt." 

Resolutely, their conversation flew out the window in record time and ended.

Alfred and Arthur returned with cold attitudes towards one another, right when the evening light was beginning to filter through the windows, casting gold directly into the fireplace...

Alfred sat, and Arthur...

Well...

Arthur... missed… his chair…?

Alfred had been paying more attention to his own place in the room, not minding Arthur's, and only jerked his head up after hearing the heavy thunk of bones folding down against the thin carpet.

And then, staring, his brain put the pieces together.

Arthur was on the floor? Like he’d thought ‘this is a great place to lay down, what a dignity,’ and drew himself into a croissant on the floor.

His first response was humor. The barest hint of a smile flicked over Alfred, alongside the light impulse to laugh, before bewilderment quickly replaced that. 

Something was... wrong.

Arthur wasn't that uncoordinated. Arthur wouldn't stay on the floor. Arthur wasn't one to be on a floor in the first place...?

Arthur just... stayed there.

Alfred hesitantly followed. His knees landed near Arthur's head, and he swore if this ended up a joke he'd kill him. Arthur didn't do practical jokes. Arthur only did sarcasm or crude or dark humor. 

"Arthur? Hey-" Alfred reached to help the man get up- but stopped.

Arthur had gone pale. A light tremor shook his arms, which he clutched close to his heart. It was like some strange disease had taken him.

The energy thrumming off of him radiated his weirdly now-thrashing power. Like he was injured, fighting, and angry. 

"This doesn't look good," The minister muttered. The man stood over Alfred's shoulder, and there he waited, like Alfred would explain why the personification of the country was on the floor shivering as if he were fighting off frostbite. 

"I don't know what's-"

Sirens cut his response in half. 

A haunted howl like poltergeists on a winter wind began a distant wail, increasing in sound until it screamed. The noon-glass vibrated. The shock of a distant impact jumped through Alfred's legs. The howl pressured through his ears and through his nose and sent an identical shiver through Alfred.

The rumble swifted through Alfred's whole being in the span of a disorienting second.

...Of course.

Arthur was under attack.

"He's trying to divert energy into life-supporting... something… I think."

"England is capable of that?"

"When our people are still on our land... sometimes. This helps sometimes." 

He'd never seen the process from an outside angle. All he knew was that the civil war had been hell beyond all measure, and this ability had only been used to distribute the innate energy thrumming through his veins on a small scale several times since. The aid a country's energy could offer a human was minimal— it only helped if a person was already stabilized and healing, otherwise the process was a waste. 

Alfred himself  had never been invaded, not really. Neither would he be invaded, ever, not if he had any say. But he knew that countries couldn't connect with non-citizens, so pushing invaders out was even more difficult than keeping citizens alive. The energy within them only attached to their own humans, so that energy could only make invaders uneasy or annoyed at most when pressed up against them.

The effort it took to shove invaders away was astronomical. 

Experience had taught him that. The tactic was usually aimed at him... he'd been on the receiving end his whole life after all.

There ended up being a raid shelter directly beneath 10 Downing Street, and for the rest of that night and far into the morning, Alfred felt like a rat shoved into a box that was getting dangled under the noses of a hundred swarming sniffing dogs.

Thanks to his crash, the action passing overhead wasn’t going to give him any say in how it should end. Alfred: the best ace in Europe— and useless.

Being underground was the worst box the universe could've shoved him into. 

Every second that passed was as if Alfred had been completely defeated. Arthur was getting more of the fight swallowed than Alfred, actually doing something. Tired and wrung-out, throwing himself at everything he wanted to keep to little reason, wrestling it from the jaws of destruction without much hope at it, but still doing stuff. 

The unpleasant gray of the sky called to him, because that was where Alfred could do.

When the hounds of the sky left with the moon, scurrying from the sunlight, Arthur stopped fighting and fell asleep immediately.

Which also annoyed Alfred.

Here Alfred was, fresh-full on energy, not having done a thing the whole night. Here Arthur was, drained dry of all he had, having fought all night long in the most petty way known to country-kind.

The minister at least got to make calls, announcements, and encouraged people to hold out. Alfred hadn’t even been asked to carry papers to anyone.

Being in political limbo, Alfred didn't get to go home afterwards, either. The new place the British dropped him was kept close to the war cabinets, and still underground. He was going to go crazy without seeing the sky, never mind being in it!

The whole of the UK had been busy burrowing for several years with the scent of war always in Europe's air, and their extensive network told Alfred they’d been expecting hell to rain from the sky the whole while. Their network was impressive but grim.

September 7th ended up being the first night that their unshakable belief in the hostility of the outside world was affirmed. Germany proved he didn't want Britain subjugated... Germany wanted Britain in flames, demolished, and dead.

Alfred began to learn more about the war from the cabinet, and began to dread what he'd treated as a game before. A new maxim formed to stand in the remains of the last he'd lost:

If a war was exciting, it was generally someone else's war.

His itch to get into the sky began to change, slightly. It began to grow even more urgent to him, but at the same time, less thrilling.

The enemy's larger and weaker Ju 88’s returned circling every single night from then on with dreams of sinking their teeth into something juicy, which was one of their weaknesses, the commander said. “They want to hit whatever looks big and shiny. The things that’ll hit the newspapers.” Those big black shadows whistled out the ancient and proud monuments of England, not the ugly ack-acks pointed like porte-plumes to the sky.

It meant they'd survive with the loss of their cultural monuments.

And it meant that Arthur got more stubborn every night, shaking like the last autumn leaf in December, determined to hold onto some poor soul suffocating under an ancient abby somewhere five miles from Whitehall. After the third night of Arthur shivering like a drowning cat, Alfred was expected to leave the guy alone, permanently.

They didn't want non-allies anywhere near their country when his focus was far-flung and he wasn't paying attention to anything two feet in front of his nose. A logical move, but one Alfred thought pointless all the same.

There was a kind of offense he took to being treated like he’d try to kick a man while he was down. 

Come October, Alfred finally got himself free from the British cradle. 

All he’d done was begin attempting to find Matthew, because not once had his twin showed up to see him despite being 'within a plausible range to carry out his duties if required.’ The grand idea struck him to begin snooping, and that's what did him in. In trying to find Matthew, the names 'double cross,' 'Twenty Committee,' and 'Camp 020' came up, and becoming more of a liability here than home, they made urgent requests to deport him immediately. 

[hetalia-club]

Do you have any fun headcanons for the Italy brothers?

Sure I do.

But I don't talk about my headcanons, pairings, or character ideas anymore unless I'm in a mood for it.

The reason for that is I absolutely hate being asked my opinion on something and then someone wants to argue or tell me why I'm wrong. Even if I post a headcanon that's clearly meant as a joke or unserious I still get people telling me how I'm wrong and how I should think "XYZ" Instead.

Now you can say that's just engagement but I take it as antagonistic. I HATE it. Like I hate it so much. It's my least favorite thing. Especially when it's not like my thoughts are controversial, gross, heavy or sexual. I will simply say "I think this character does this" and all of sudden someone wants to argue with me about it. There is something very upsetting to be ASKED your thoughts on something and once you share people go. "Um actually no, because you should think this because I do and it's right" Sometimes I just want to scream "YOU ASKED ME!!!!!!! Not the other way around! I didn't give you unsolicited information. You came to me, asked a question and I answered it. And because I didn't parrot back what you wanted to hear you have to tell me it's incorrect". And that's EXACTLY it. I just put it into words. People don't want new, interesting, fun, unserious ideas here anymore. They just want everyone to parrot back what they think. Which is such a boring way to live. And I'm of course not saying I'm the only one doing fun/interesting things in teh fandom I'm not that conceited . I see it with other posts too. Someone shares an idea and there is always a few people in teh comments coming in with a counter argument it's like "MAKE YOUR OWN POST!"

Babes I've been in this fandom 10+ Years. I have enough headcanons, AUs, pairings, I have my own take on every single character in this fandom, I got enough character ideas to fill a book not even 1 book I could do a book series! I wrote a RusAme fan fiction that's over 400k words. I'm currently writing a RomanoxNyo!America fic that's over 100k words and well over 100 pages in Microsoft word. I don't even know how I'm going to end it yet. Don't believe me look...

As of right now my fan fic folders its at 182 fan fics and over 12mb. I'm not saying they're all amazing, award winning or even finished. There's a bunch in there I know are complete trash. But there's a few in there I'm real happy with and I would LOVE to share with the right people who enjoy my niche but I just can't bring myself to do it. I don't want to brag but there's a Romano one in there that if I changed the names I could probably get it published some place. I cried while writing it several times. It's so depressing even for my taste, and I would LOVE to share that because I know there's some people out there who would love it to and I know it. Even if it is really dark for a Hetalia fic. It's called 'Never Would I Ever" funnily enough because never would I ever post it, zing, lol.

Again I don't want to come off as bragging, because I'm not I've nothing to brag over but I have written some stuff I KNOW is good. And I'm not just saying it cuz I wrote it, because I've written some shit okay? I'm not afraid to admit that. I could open my folder and tell you through each 182 fics which ones are bad, terrible, readable, good and the couple that have no business being as good as they are. I have considered making an anonymous blog separate from this one and releasing a couple of my okay ones and just see what people think. But I would most likely never do that.

I never posted them because again I hate having my ideas shit on when it's just something I do for fun. In this 10 years I've learned not to share your ideas unless you want them picked at. I don't want something I do for fun to be met with "I don't like this idea" or "I don't think they would say that" or even "He wouldn't act that way". Some people enjoy others critiquing their work and Ideas, I do not. Which is why I keep it to myself.

Sorry to rant, that's been bottled up for awhile...