Both Wound And Knife

Independent, "Hetalia-ish" RP blog for Representative of UK est. 2013 Discord: keri.anglosaxons

[anglo-saxons]

       𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐑𝐏 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐊

                         𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄         𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐄       𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒/𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓

                                  𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐈  𝐄𝐒𝐓. 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟑

[axiasprompts]

What Allegations Is My Muse Not Beating?

[flowerytale]

[virginiewoolf]

Fortesa Latifi, from The Truth About Grief.

[disturbedlolita]

[rockinrpmemes]

MATCHMAKER! Go on anon and tell my muse who you ship them with!

If it’s not someone from their fandom or circle, describe the ship-mate to them.

You can SPECIFY what kind of ship! It doesn’t have to be rom/sexual, even though we all look for those ;) But if you ship someone with them as enemies, family, bff’s, mentor…etc, add that!

[astrangerlately]

[anglo-saxons]

When’s the last time you bothered America?

"I don't bother America, America bothers me."

[anglo-saxons]

out of curiosity, does your oc really represent the whole of the uk? england, n.ireland, scotland, and wales?

[ Yepp! ]

[humanwithnohead]

“My wound existed before me; I was born to embody it.”

— Joë Bousquet  (via mirroir)

[anglo-saxons]

what would you do if I was turned into a bug?

"Probably step on you."

[gezeilling]

( @anglo-saxons ) 

Cornelia, oh Cornelia. Why do you do this to yourself? She thought as she walked down the puddled-filled streets of Cheltenham. Dear heavens, where did she placed herself anyways? Her eyes beamed down to the phone in front of her, trying to figure out the directions that Arthur gave her. She’ll be honest, this place was not the type of scenery she was going for. Sure, she’s been to England plenty of times and knew that city-development is a must but there was a small sense of disappointed she felt when St. Edward’s Church had a Tesco and Taco Bell down the way. 

She shook her head as she made it to the parish’s gates, watching a tall lanky man stand there…awkwardly…as if he was waiting for someone. Well, he was waiting for her, of course! As she passed through the mindless crowds, she waved her hand in a frivolous manner to get his attention. “ Arthur, hello! ” She called out as she reached him. Her face moving towards him to greet him with a kiss on each cheek. 

“ I’ll be honest, when I googled this place, I expected it to be more green and country. ” She laughed as she awkwardly rubbed her thumbs against each other. “ This place is lovely regardless, I think I’m more excited about the Taco Bell near by, really. ” 

[anglo-saxons]

Mist concealed their identities, navigating through the borough as a foreigner could prove to be quite challenging, and the heaviness of that fog did not help. In addition to the typical travel mishaps, Arthur found himself in a foul mood for having to commute an hour and half from his home in Winchester in order to meet her. He too often found himself playing tour guide to other national representatives who otherwise seldom visited his somber kingdom. 

At her call, he turned his head and met her eyes as she emerged from a misty cobblestone street. “Cornelia,” He said, “You’re late. I was beginning to think—” he paused, chasing away the dialogue, “I’m relieved you found your way.” He reciprocated her greeting, and forced a smile at her mention of fast food. 

“There are more appetizing options if you’re hungry.” He offered. It had been quite a while since they had last chatted, let along spent any significant time together at all. They had a professional relationships, certainly, but it had never exceeded a personal relationship. 

He placed his hand on the small of her back and began to guide her down an opposing alley, “Your travels, how were they?” 

[thecrownedadonis-deactivated202]

— Frank Bidart, from “Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016; 'Guilty of Dust'.”

[fawnaura]

Warsan Shire, Our Men Do Not Belong to Us

[luthienne]

I am still ashamed of myself, afraid to let myself go, to let things pour out of me; I am dreadfully inhibited, and that is because I have not yet learned to accept myself as I am.

Etty Hillesum, from a diary entry featured in An Interrupted Life: the Diaries, 1941-1943 and Letters from Westerbork (translated from the Dutch by Arnold J. Pomerans)

[anglo-saxons]

cont. from x

The motel room was airless and decaying along with its cheap, vintage decor; the wallpaper was pealing ever so slightly at the baseboard, and the plush carpet hoarded the stink of cigarettes. It was no wonder the only motel in miles was this one; it took advantage of travelers who had their hands otherwise tied. How could he be anything but pessimistic? He preferred to travel in luxury (didn’t everyone?)—first class tickets, champagne upon take off. A rundown motel did not meet his expectations, to say the least. 

“This isn’t acceptable.” He determined, “I’ll call for a cot.” Arthur picked up the phone, dialed the receptionist who promptly told him they didn’t supply cots that were suitable for adults, only pediatric cots. Arthur hung up the wired phone in defeat. 

“As if the side of the bed which I occupy makes any difference. Oh please!” 

He was uncomfortable with the entire affair. It was perfectly permissible when she was a child, but now she was a grown woman. There were boundaries that simply should not be crossed, or at least avoided at all costs. 

Arthur set his luggage down and thrust himself toward the window, closing the shades so he no longer had to stare at the hideous parking lot. It was dark out, and a domestic couple could be heard yelling at one another over something. He sighed loudly.  

[anglo-saxons]

He didn’t care for the idea of her sharing a bed with someone else given the same circumstance, but why? Arthur had never given her partners, the men she spent her time with, much thought of his own. In fact, he preferred not to think about it. He felt something growing in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that when almost touched might reflect jealousy. 

Upon her debut from the bathroom, he felt as though he couldn’t put his eyes on her. She wasn’t dressed appropriately for being in the presence of her father, and he secretly wished she had a nightgown or anything less revealing to don. Arthur averted his eyes to the lamp and swiftly turned it off to grant her modesty with darkness.

“I’d rather it were you too.” He conceded. Rather, he was relieved it was him. There was no telling what some other man would do. Men had the tendency of being opportunistic in that way. And with Kiera who was undeniably beautiful, it was unlikely any predator would not plot to carry out some sort of assault. 

Arthur slipped into bed, lying on his back and feeling his body grow intolerably stiff like a wood plank. He stared at the popcorn ceiling, praying that this discomfort would pass and morning would come without burden. 

“I’m sorry if I toss. I’ve been told that I do in my sleep.” He apologized preemptively. 

[anglo-saxons]

cont. from x

The motel room was airless and decaying along with its cheap, vintage decor; the wallpaper was pealing ever so slightly at the baseboard, and the plush carpet hoarded the stink of cigarettes. It was no wonder the only motel in miles was this one; it took advantage of travelers who had their hands otherwise tied. How could he be anything but pessimistic? He preferred to travel in luxury (didn’t everyone?)—first class tickets, champagne upon take off. A rundown motel did not meet his expectations, to say the least. 

“This isn’t acceptable.” He determined, “I’ll call for a cot.” Arthur picked up the phone, dialed the receptionist who promptly told him they didn’t supply cots that were suitable for adults, only pediatric cots. Arthur hung up the wired phone in defeat. 

“As if the side of the bed which I occupy makes any difference. Oh please!” 

He was uncomfortable with the entire affair. It was perfectly permissible when she was a child, but now she was a grown woman. There were boundaries that simply should not be crossed, or at least avoided at all costs. 

Arthur set his luggage down and thrust himself toward the window, closing the shades so he no longer had to stare at the hideous parking lot. It was dark out, and a domestic couple could be heard yelling at one another over something. He sighed loudly.  

[anglo-saxons]

She was right. There really was no point in fantasizing about a better circumstance. Alike to her, his back couldn’t tolerate a night on the floor, especially with that carpet. 

“No, no. You’re right.” He pressed his lips together, stubbornness sometimes wore an expression. “You can have the sheet, I’ll just sleep overtop of it.” Arthur said, finding that to be a fair and respectable compromise. Knowing Kiera, he had to be especially prude before she ran about telling her friends he had done something suggestive. 

“I’m going to change, then...” He said apprehensively, walking over to the bathroom door and peering inside. It passed a basic inspection test; a bar of unused soap (still wrapped), and two small plastic bottles of shampoo and conditioner (which he would reserve for her). It was clean, but it wasn’t sterile. The light above the sink flickered. It was pathetic. 

Arthur brushed his teeth, set out a couple of orange Rx bottles in the medicine cabinet, and changed into a basic set of sleepwear. He was embarrassed that she would see him in his night clothes, but he couldn’t identify exactly why. It felt inappropriate. 

“Bathroom’s yours.”