hello friends! thought i'd make an introductory post.
about me -
my name is summer! i'm 23, she/her pronouns, and i am from the US - currently living in northern germany with a goal of studying euro history/culture/language abroad. i am currently learning german and spanish, and i hyperfixate on history starting from the 12th century all the way to the 20th, ancient history as well. hence my love for hetalia, especially historically-based content. i've been writing hetalia content since i was 11, and i am seasoned veteran of this silly show and even sillier fandom /hj.
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i am down to take free commissions/free asks for specific historical hetalia content as well as x reader asks, as it gives my brain something to chew on and i love to write historical fiction. things i will not write are as follows - anything pertaining to promoting/glorifying fascism, gore, or anything that goes against tumblr terms of service! also i will avoid writing anything that pertains to racism, transphobia, homophobia, fatphobia, and sexism, ableism, antisemitism, etc. i will tag anything that echoes some of these themes but i would rather, just for the sake of my own mental health, not write it where it is put on a main focus or at all, if that makes sense? but i would always i will let you know by a specific ask basis if what being asked of me crosses any boundaries. also, oc content is okay, but i would like to know exactly what kind of character i am writing for the sake of accuracy beforehand, so please contact me directly beforehand rather than put it in my asks. my dms are open!
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to see some of my writing, my ao3 is here
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characters i tend to write the best, 1p and nyo focus: (HWS) England, France, Spain, Germany, South Italy, Portugal, Hungary, Russia
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ask away!
Not gonna lie, I just got around to reading 'a wartime truce' last weekend and it had me feeling some kind of way (including but not limited to envy of Ophelia lol,) so your headcanon post here shoved me off the deck to gratefully drown in those particular depths. (The line about Arthur moving with the precision of a general retaking ground has been in my head all week.)
I humbly request some NSFW UK x Reader headcanons in the same vein, pretty please. At the end of the day I am too selfish to share or be shared and would love that delicious mix of his possessiveness and reverence all to myself. I'm sure other people would, too. 😅
thank you for the ask darling! coming right up. i love this silly little guy so much. i hope you enjoy my interpretation of him, end the tumblr sexy man arthur agenda. this man is so repressed.
𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗿 𝗸𝗶𝗿𝗸𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱 (𝗨𝗞) 𝘅 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀
!!NSFW UNDER THE CUT!!
let's address the elephant in the room: arthur kirkland, thousand-year-old personification of england, has had shockingly little sex. not for lack of wanting—he's wanted, he's yearned, he's written truly mortifying poetry about it—but he's so rigid, so awkward, so terrified of vulnerability that he's simply... not. a handful of encounters across centuries, most of them brief and unsatisfying and steeped in victorian shame. which means that when he finally has you, when he finally allows himself to touch and be touched, it's like a dam breaking—all that pent-up longing, all those centuries of repression, flooding out at once.
bless his heart, arthur’s hands shake—not from nerves alone but from the weight of the somme still living in his bones, the trenches carved into his marrow, and when he touches you his fingers are all knobby knuckles and old fractures that ache when it rains, and he’s so terribly clumsy about it, petting you like you might shatter, like he’s never held anything precious before and is terrified of his own hands, and yet his grip still manages to be just a little too tight, possessive in that desperate, fumbling way of a man who never learned how to be gentle with the things he loves because no one ever taught him tenderness and war taught him everything else.
he's a noisy thing when you get him going, and it embarrasses him to no end—he tries so hard to be dignified, biting his lip, muffling himself in your shoulder, but the sounds escape anyway, raw and desperate and utterly involuntary: broken moans, sharp gasps, a whimpering sort of whine when you touch him just right that he'll deny to his grave. he's the nation that conquered half the world and he mewls when you lick his throat, and the cognitive dissonance of it makes him blush down to his collarbones.
he talks. he talks so much during sex that it's a miracle he doesn't pass out from oxygen deprivation—a running stream of filth and devotion and nervous rambling that shifts between registers without warning: ah—yes—like that, please, please don't stop, I'll die if you stop, do you know I'd die for you? I would, I'd die for you, I've lived so long and I'd trade it all for one more moment of your mouth right—there, there, oh god, oh love, you're so good, you're so perfect, how do you put up with me, I'm a wreck, I'm a ruin, I'm yours—
he has a whole catalogue of pet names he cycles through depending on his mood, and they range from saccharine to faintly archaic to quietly filthy: darling, sweetheart, my treasure, my heart, my dove, my precious thing, my little love, my soul, my dearest, my—christ, I don't know, my everything, my reason for breathing, my—oh, bugger, I can't think when you do that…
contrary to his prim public persona, he loves when you're loud—needs it, craves it, gets off on it. the sound of you crying out for him, moaning his name, sobbing it, screaming it, it hits him somewhere primal and possessive, and he'll fuck you harder just to drag more noise out of your throat, growling let them hear, love, let the whole bloody world hear who makes you sound like that, I want them to know, I want them all to know...
he's deeply, almost pathologically into praise—tell him he's good, tell him he's doing well, tell him he's making you feel wonderful and he'll absolutely shatter, eyes going glassy, rhythm faltering, a sob catching in his chest. but he's just as into giving it, murmuring against your skin how beautiful you are, how perfect, how you were made for him, how he's never felt anything so good in all his centuries, how you're the only thing that's ever made him feel alive, truly alive, not just enduring but living.
his inexperience means he's eager to learn, almost academically so—he approaches sex with the same obsessive diligence he once applied to empire-building, cataloging every sound you make, every twitch, every gasped-out there, right there, and he commits it all to memory with a sort of terrifying focus, adjusting his technique with ruthless precision until he can play you like an instrument, and the first time he makes you come with nothing but his fingers and a whispered litany of filth against your ear he looks so proud, so quietly, fiercely satisfied, like he's just won a war.
oral fixation—not the clinical term, just the fact that he loves having his mouth on you, can lose hours between your thighs with no expectation of reciprocation, gets drunk on the taste and the scent and the sounds you make, looks up at you with those green eyes blown dark and says things like I could stay here forever, I'd abdicate my nationhood to live between your legs, I'd let the empire crumble just to hear you make that sound one more time—
he's got a thing for his own uniform—not in a narcissistic way, but in a you touching him while he's still in it way. the first time you unbutton his dress uniform with your teeth he short-circuits entirely, just stands there trembling with his hands fisted at his sides, and when you push the jacket off his shoulders he makes a sound like a dying man seeing heaven. there's something about being unmade, being stripped of his nationhood by your hands, that undoes him completely.
conversely, he loves you in his clothes—his shirt hanging off your shoulders, his jacket draped around you, his scarf tangled around your neck. seeing you wrapped in something that's his, something that smells like him, triggers a possessiveness that borders on feral, and he'll cross a room in three strides to pin you against the wall with his face buried in your hair, muttering mine, you're mine, you smell like mine, you're wearing my colors, you're my territory, my home, my—please, let me, I need—
he's got surprisingly filthy fantasies for such a repressed creature—things he's read about in those books he definitely doesn't keep hidden under his mattress, things he's imagined late at night with his hand over his mouth and his cock in his fist and your name on a loop in his head—but he's sheepish about voicing them, goes red to the tips of his ears and stammers through half-finished sentences until you coax it out of him with patience and kisses, and then he blurts it out all at once, something debauched and delightful, and immediately hides his face in his hands.
his magical nature leaks through when he's close—the air goes thick and green-smelling, the shadows move, sometimes the furniture rattles, and once, memorably, he made every flower in the house bloom simultaneously and then came so hard he passed out for a solid thirty seconds and woke up crying with his face buried in your chest, apologizing incoherently while you stroked his hair and tried not to laugh.
aftercare is sacred to him—he transforms from beast to nursemaid in the space of a breath, fetching warm flannels and cool water and whatever snack you want (if you'll let him attempt the kitchen, which you usually won't), fretting over the marks he left, massaging your thighs with his creaky, careful hands, murmuring was that alright? was I too rough? are you sore? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, let me take care of you, let me be good to you, you were so perfect, you're always so perfect—
the first time you lie together he’s so stiff with terror and yearning that his grandpa bones creak audibly when he lowers himself over you, and he has to stop twice because his hip seizes up—old injury from the shelling, he mutters, face flaming crimson with shame—but then he looks down at you, patient and warm beneath him, and something in his chest cracks open like rusted armor, and he buries his face in the hollow of your throat and just breathes there, trembling, whispering I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m not—I don’t know how to—you deserve so much better than a broken old fool who can barely get his trousers off without his back twinging, and when you card your fingers through his hair and tell him there’s no rush, that you’re his, he makes a sound like a wounded animal and loves you with his mouth pressed to your pulse for the next hour, barely moving, just shaking apart in your arms.
he’s not good at this, not skilled, not smooth—darcy at the netherfield ball, all stiff bows and awkward silences and accidentally insulting you when he means to compliment—and when he tries to use his fingers he’s so in his own head about doing it right that his wrist cramps and he has to stop and shake it out, face buried in your stomach, groaning good lord, I’m making a hash of this, aren’t I, but the thing is, the thing that undoes you completely, is the way he looks up at you with those sea-glass eyes wet and desperate and says tell me what you like, please, I want to learn every inch of you, I want to be the only one who knows how to make you feel like this, I want to be yours in the knowing of you, and it’s so earnest and so painfully him that you’d wait a hundred years for his fumbling fingers to find their rhythm.
there’s a particular sort of reverence in his inexperience—he treats your body like a sonnet he’s memorizing in a language he doesn’t speak yet, halting and careful, his bony hips pressing into you with a rhythm that falters and stutters because he keeps getting distracted by the way you look beneath him, the way you sound, the sheer miracle of you letting him close, and he’ll stop mid-thrust just to cup your face and stare at you like you’re the first sunrise he’s seen since the wars ended, his thumb tracing your cheekbone while his cock throbs forgotten inside you and all he can manage is a cracked my darling, my dearest, how on earth did I—how did I ever— before his voice gives out entirely and he just shakes his head and presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in like you’re the only air he’s ever needed.
there is a quiet, simmering arthur everyone sees—stooped shoulders, apologetic teacup rattling on its saucer, hands that tremble from the somme and a spine that twinges when the weather turns damp—but sweetheart, when his blood runs hot, when you look up at him through your lashes and whisper please, arthur, I need you, something in him cracks open like a lightning-struck oak and the stoop is gone, the tremor is gone, he just looms, all imperial height and burning green eyes, and suddenly you’re being lifted, actually lifted, his wiry arms remembering old soldier’s strength, and he’s growling say it again, say you need me, say I’m the only one as he carries you to the nearest surface like you weigh nothing at all.
the switch is terrifying and hot—one moment he’s fretting over whether the tea is too hot, the next he’s got you bent over the settee with his hand tangled in your hair and his mouth at your ear, voice dropped to a register that rumbles through your ribs like distant thunder, and he’s not asking anymore, he’s telling, telling you how many times you’re going to come for him, how loud you’re going to scream his name, how he doesn’t care if the whole bloody street hears because they should know, they should all know who you belong to, and the shaking in his hands is from want now, pure and overwhelming, nothing to do with nerves or war or age.
he fucks like a beast unchained when the need takes him—no fumbling, no stammering apologies, just raw, driving rhythm and teeth scraping down your throat and his bony hips slamming into you with a force that should shatter those grandpa bones but doesn’t, can’t, because he’s beyond his body entirely, he’s just a vessel for how much he loves you and god, he loves you, he loves you, he snarls it into your skin like a confession torn out of him at knifepoint, I love you I love you I’d die for you I’d kill for you don’t you dare ever leave me—
his reverence doesn’t disappear when the beast comes out—it intensifies, goes feral, becomes something almost frightening in its devotion; he’ll pin your wrists above your head with one hand and stroke your cheek with the other, so gently, so absurdly gently for a man who’s currently rearranging your insides, and he’ll choke out you’re so beautiful, you’re so perfect, I’m not worthy to touch you but I’ll be damned if I let anyone else, you’re mine, my treasure, my whole heart beating outside my body— and then the beast takes over again and he’s driving into you so hard the furniture scrapes across the floor and all he can manage is broken, desperate sounds against your mouth.
even in the aftermath, curled around you in his massive, ancient bed (the bed that’s seen plagues and fires and the death of kings), his possessiveness lingers like the scent of rain—he traces the marks he left on your skin with trembling, reverent fingers and murmurs I’m sorry if I was… too much. I get so carried away, I forget my own strength, I forget I’m not just—not just a man, but a nation, a beast, a thing of storms and soil— and then he stops, because you’ve taken his face in your hands and you’re kissing him quiet, and he melts, the great personification of england, into a puddle of need and gratitude, whispering yours, yours, forever yours, my heart, my home, my only peace.
wanting to characterize arthur in nsfw headcanon spaces as a man who fucks but this man has achy breaky grandpa bones give him a break. mf fought in the trenches. in the somme. he probably does three thrusts and his knees give out. PLEASE end the arthur tumblr sexy man agenda
Chapters: 3/?
Fandom: Hetalia (Anime & Manga)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: England (Hetalia)/Original Female Character(s), France (Hetalia)/Original Female Character(s), Spain (Hetalia)/Original Female Character(s), Portugal (Hetalia)/Original Female Character(s), England/France (Hetalia)
Characters: England (Hetalia), Hetalia Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s), France (Hetalia), Rome (Hetalia), Spain (Hetalia), Portugal (Hetalia)
Additional Tags: Historical Hetalia, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Angevin Empire, 11th Century, this is borderline a jstor source document, I got a little carried away, i almost put footnotes in here, Maritime History, Arthur is a simp, Francis is a bastard, extremely slow burn. like. fucking centuries of blue balls, Angst, Rivalry, Possibly Unrequited Love, medieval politics, maybe a bit too historical for my own good, my head hurts after writing this, fruk if you squint, Wet Dream, rome is a dilf, Plague, 13th Century CE, The Hundred Years War, Reconquista, Ancient Rome, Ancient History, Mermaids, Polyamory, Ambiguous Relationships, mythology - celtic, celibacy as devotion, rage and jealousy, Complicated Relationships, Bisexual Female Character, The Wars of the Roses, Agincourt, Jeanne d'Arc | Joan of Arc References, Age of Sail, i hate christopher colombus, Colonialism, author is polyamorous cant you tell, this will get gayer over time trust, ARTHUR AS A KNIGHT BRRRRRRR, Devotion, the iberian brothers
Series: Part 3 of various tales of elysium.
Summary:
she is the sea, older than empires, and they are only nations. nations that will build, pillage and burn for the notion of her favor. some nations drown for her more than others.
she does not choose, does not belong, does not love as mortals love, but she remembers. the sea remembers and erodes them all.
a story of salt and longing and the things we cannot hold, stretching across a thousand years of blood and beauty and the unbearable weight of wanting something that was never yours to keep.
or, what if the sea was a woman?
remember how i said id be taking a hiatus? i lied. here's 154 pages worth of an update.
i put all my brain cells into this. lots of tears and project gutenburg. i hope you enjoy.
shoutout to wikipedia fr
cw for this chapter: violence, attempted sexual violence
rewatching Mamma Mia! and just. it’s so perfect in it’s imperfection. people are sweating and their hair is messy and the makeup is minimal and the older people have wrinkles and also look hot and the costuming is chaotic and perfect and the actors were a little tipsy and they mess up lines and aren’t always perfectly on pitch and some of them are clearly not singers or dancers but they look like they’re having so much fun and I really believe that they’re on a greek island that’s the site of Aphrodite’s fountain and god it’s just a perfect movie.
I had no idea what to draw, so here is an England reaction image. Feel free to use it. My signature is in it, so I don't mind. I should do more of em.
Tried to be a little more detailed with this one to capture the full essence of the original. Normally I just color flats because I don't care for shading or lighting, but this was simple enough. Also the style is a bit more mature looking than usual. Again, all for the sake of conveying a specific emotion properly. If you look at this comic, America's face is the same to drive home the "vibe" he is giving off. And this one here is a comparison of what they usually look like front-on. Expressions were exaggerated, so I didn't feel the need to detail them more than usual...
