while nouns do carry a risk of cases, PLEASE do not dismiss a verb bite. depending on species, they can carry inflection (such as conjugation, as anon mentioned) or worse: derivation.
100% agree! Remember, you may not see symptoms of inflection right away, but the early stages aren't usually physical -- there are a lot of aspects to watch out for. If you experience mood swings, or start feeling tense, those can be early signs.
OU MY GOD… OH MY GOD…. AN AMEIRE SHIPPER!?!?!?!?!?!? feel like I just struck gold, I DIDN’T THINK THERE WAS ANOTHER ONE OF US OUT THERE…..
HEY HI HELLO THERE so sorry I didn't see this til today but YES absolutely been rotating them around in my mind for the last little while! I found out Ire was finally canon and 1. I am Delighted I actually love his design he's so cute, and 2. immediately went on the hunt for content and realized there's like. Nothing??? For ameire??? (Or canon Ire in general it seems???) Which surprised me tbh like Alfred is shipped with almost everybody and there's such a big Irish diaspora in the US, plus I just feel like they'd get on well personality wise? But I guess a lot of people lean into the father/son dynamic for Alfred and Arthur so Ire is almost always depicted as an aunt/uncle, which I personally don't vibe with as much but hey, to each their own.
Have a small handful of assorted (human au) headcanons to water your crops:
Ire (Aidan Kelly is the name I have for him) likes to write and has absolutely written poetry about Alfred. Can't decide if he actually shares it with Al or not but I reckon he's building up quite the collection
Does share at least some of his work with Al, and I like to imagine Alfred coming up with tunes on the guitar to match Aidan's poems sometimes - or vice versa, Aidan coming up with words to Alfred's music - just for fun
I get very touchy-feely vibes for them honestly? Not like, excessive PDA necessarily, but like. Standing/sitting close, little touches on the arms or shoulders, if they're at home one of them is probably draped over the other in some manner, forehead/nose/cheek kisses - just generally in each other's space
Took them a while to figure out how to sleep comfortably in the same bed - Aidan's all long lanky limbs taking up the whole bed and Alfred is no better TBH. They've both ended up on the floor at least once, not to mention all the accidental kicking/smacking each other.
Spooning is one of their solutions to this. As for who's the big/little spoon...I think they switch it up a fair bit BUT I also feel like Aidan would like being the little spoon a bit more tbh??
Classic "one runs cold and the other runs hot" pair with Aidan being the cold one (his hands in particular) while Al is always warm. Good for snuggles.
(Aidan will absolutely put his cold ass hands/feet on Alfred when he's not expecting it tho)
Aidan is a certified Sweater Thief. "Hey Aidan have you seen that red hoodie with the-" he's wearing it.
Both are big animal lovers - can't imagine them without at least 1 pet tbh. A cat I think, either Alfred's (or Aidan's) that he's had for years or a shelter cat they adopted together. Maybe a big dog later down the line too. (Irish setter/golden retriever mix perhaps? 👀)
So Much Banter - I like the hc that Ire likes people who can keep up with him and his wit and I think Alfred totally can, lots of banter and long discussions/debates and light hearted bickering with these two
Alfred struggles with reading books for fun bc he's very ADHD, but he loooves when Aidan (massive bookworm that he is) reads to him - it's a common pre-bedtime ritual for them
gotta stop here bc I have to go to bed rip BUT pls don't be afraid to send more asks if you wanna chat/share your hcs/ask me for more!! :D
Not the same anin but everything you say makes sense. You are a gem. I am curious now about Alfred and Arthur because I do see them quite similar, just different levels of introversion and the fact that Arthur is denial itself (I love how tsundere he is), what are your thoughts on that? Where do you think they converge and diverge? I won't gush about it but they are well suited.
You are so sweet, oh thank youuuu.
I've written a bit about them here and here about how I picture their dynamics, plus bloggers like Coralcatsea wrote a fantastic post outlining the way the two are actually pretty similar so on the one hand, so I will just direct people there because I feel like for the most part it is kind of ignored by most folk that Alfred and Arthur like... do genuinely enjoy each others company and they both go out of their way to spend time with each other. Alfred more so than Arthur, at least in the modern day strips. Do you ever feel like shaking people and saying: They are friends. I promise.
I think at their core, they both want to be important. Arthur wants it for security purposes, Alfred is a bit more straightforward: he just wants status. You can do a lot of good (and bad) if your top dog. I think of Arthur as being more defensive - he needs to be on top to protect himself - Alfred (in his absolutely most idealistic interpretation) is more offensive - he needs to be on top to direct and lead (and protect??? mmmmmmmmmm....) others.
But haha! I think I disagree with you a little actually!! I do think Alfred is extroverted. He's fine in his own company largely through being forced to from decades of 'salutary neglect' but he's always shown to be very welcoming to people living in his home (Romano, Lithuania, Japan and Belarus for instance), and goes out of his way to spend time with them. I think he's happiest with other people. Maybe not huge groups though, I can see an argument for that.
I also imagine Arthur is more aware of his feelings towards Alfred. Or at least, is far more willing to discuss it, if Alfred ever allowed himself to be vulnerable. Quite a few times they have gotten close to be emotionally open with each other and Arthur has gotten upset, leading to Alfred emotionally backtracking and pulling essentially a 'lol nah I'm just taking the piss' attitude. I suppose it can be partially Alfred realising Arthur is just not emotionally stable enough or it can be him not wanting to be vulnerable faced with a guy who is being vulnerable. Because Alfred really doesn't like to be vulnerable. He's the hero after all, right? No weakness. Even Arthur.
I think Arthur just kind of accepts there are going to be moments in his life where he needs to rely on others for help. He'll bitch, apologise or complain the entire time, but he'll accept it. I don't think Alfred would however. So I imagine that can be a major sticking point at times. Arthur is like 90% held together by his pride, and yet somehow it's not as unwieldy as Alfred's.
America and Canada aren't just brothers. They're twins. As far as I know/from my experience, twins don't typically fight and bicker the way other types of siblings do.
I know you guys think it's funny if they're constantly shitting on each and hating each other, but you fail to realize how much funnier it is if they're best buddies of one mind and one brain cell who are in perfect agreement on their actual favorite pastime: tormenting everyone else.
I love how you describe Ireland and the organized chaos of his house, if you ever wanted to write a little ficlet or drabble about someone (maybe someone used to England's specific brand of hoarding like Canada, or someone overly neat like Prussia) walking into That for the first time and their reaction or some things they notice, I'd eat it for breakfast without any milk 💕 I feel like Ireland is also kinda protective of his space, so he doesn't let just anybody in his house and he doesn't particularly appreciate uninvited visitors. (There are of course exceptions and different levels to this, like I don't think Scotland has needed an invitation for decades, but England should at least call first)
Word count: 1k
Characters: Ireland, Germany
---
‘Whatever you’re thinking of, it will be worse.’
Prussia’s warning was the first thing Germany thought of when Ireland suggested that they take a detour to his house.
‘Forgot my wallet,’ Ireland had told him apologetically as the day’s events wrapped up in Dublin, ‘So we need to swing by mine before we head on out.’
‘I don’t mind paying fo-‘
‘Ah! No you don’t there,’ Ireland looked offended, ‘You’re my guest, I’m not letting you do that. No no, we’ll just pop in to mine and I’ll grab it. It’s not too far anyway and there’s a nice pub nearby- we can eat and drink there before carrying on.’
Germany didn’t really have any reason to argue. Running through old European social rules he’d memorised to see if he was somehow breaking one of them (there were, irritatingly, so many), he couldn’t think of any pertaining to Ireland and so he went, content enough for the brief walk after the long day.
Ireland’s house just outside of the centre of town was nothing fancy- not too large or prominent but a decent size for someone to live in for a few centuries without getting sick of the place. Clean brick amongst similar looking siblings with a neat front garden it looked ordinary enough.
‘Shit everywhere.’ Prussia had said, ‘Stacks of stuff all over the place and never where it should be. That was what pissed me off the most.'
At the time, Germany had pictured a ramshackle house with bits and pieces of it littering the garden and spilling out of windows, odd assortments of items all over the place like a table in the bathroom or clothes in the shed.
This had been about a hundred years ago, so who really knew.
Prussia, as he was far too often for Germany’s liking concerning the ‘old world’, was right.
Inside was chaos.
The door opened up into a foyer. The large windows which would have made the place nice and bright held an assortment of plants, leaves flopping over each other and onto the floor. An old phone table stood nearby; ancient phone dwarfed next to a very ugly looking iron candelabra. In the kitchen beyond, Germany could see a printer open on the floor by an island counter, its innards gone to instead hold what looked to be an assortment of cables. The counter itself-
‘Sit yourself down and get comfortable,’ Ireland said, closing the door behind them and ushering Germany inside, past the kitchen and through to a living room, ‘Want a tea?’
‘…I’m alright, thank you.’
‘You sure? Wee drink won’t do you any harm. How about coffee?’
Germany eyed up a teetering stack of books on an armchair. He got the feeling that etiquette dictated that he was supposed to accept, ‘A coffee sounds good, if that’s alright.’
‘Perfect, wait here a moment.’
Ireland disappeared with a whistle, leaving Germany to search for a place to sit. Aside from the armchair, there was a large sofa which would have been ideal but there was a computer on it. Not a new computer, either a modern laptop or desktop, but one of the fat, old beige-coloured monitors from twenty years ago. It was upside down, the back of it missing, and was empty inside. Next to that was a suitcase, half packed or unpacked with clothes.
He looked about for somewhere to move them to.
The room was very cosy, if nothing else. Mismatched rugs covered the floorboards, half on top of each other, and a generously sized fireplace was covered in photographs, different size and coloured frames higgledy-piggledy on the mantlepiece or hung on nails. Two large bookcases stood flanking it packed with books, CDs, and DVDs, and then paintings covered the remaining walls (a tasteful light green wallpaper, when it could be found).
The more Germany looked, the stranger things became.
On the shelves between some books appeared to be a collection of ornate spoons in a pint glass. On another shelf lay a very large hammer, the Scottish flag rudely scored on the handle. Draped along several others were numerous ties and then one lone hat crowned them all, jauntily placed on a fat tome on the top. On the side facing the back garden, an empty easel stood in front of the large bay windows, a large handsaw balanced against the spine and a watering can resting at its feet.
Germany hesitated. He had to sit somewhere; it would look incredibly impolite of him to be still standing stiffly in the middle of the room when Ireland returned. There were side tables next to the sofa and armchair but these were also full, and there was a TV stand but instead of a TV stood a very ugly wooden carving of… a gnome? A child…? It was something. Handmade, concerningly. Either way it was large, taking up the whole table greedily with beady eyes and clawed hands that may or may not have been holding a very misshapen baby.
Incredibly unsure of himself, Germany carefully put the computer monitor on the floor and perched delicately on the edge of the sofa.
‘Jesus, you look stiff,’ Ireland told him when he returned minutes later, ‘You alright? Do you want a lay down or something upstairs?’
‘No, thank you.’ Germany forced his back against the sofa. To his surprise, it was incredibly comfortable and he sank back fully against the cushions, ‘I’m perfectly fine, actually.’
'If you say so.' Ireland balanced his own mug amongst one of the bookcases and picked up the stack of books off the armchair with a frustrated tut.
'These are all Arthur's,' he told Germany, 'I've had 'em for months and he hasn't even noticed; you should see the amount of tat he has. Hoarding bastard.'
---
AN:
Hope this fits what you were wishing for, Anon!
And you are totally right about Scotland and England regarding visiting Ireland. Scotland happily pops over whenever but England has never felt as though he's had the right to do that and Ireland doesn't really invite him over anyway. If there's work needed in Dublin, Arthur usually flies or takes the ferry home unless they're there for a while, in which case Ireland would begrudgingly offer to put him up.
(The odd statue is another Wales creation- they all have one somewhere)
ok ok I know you're probably busy and all and you just wrote something for an anon buuuuut im begging for some ireland and north bonding, i loved reading your england and north fic seeing england telling north no but north saying ireland would let him was hilarious tbh. need some irish bois being nice to eachother pls
All for you, Anon
------
Bog Bodies
On his haunches, North took a sip of water from his bottle with one hand and rummaged about his rucksack with the other. The findings were poor: some sandwiches at the bottom under his jacket, now partially squashed, a packet of crisps that had miraculously not popped after he’d sat on the bag forgetting that they were in there, and one lone chunk of Yellowman. Abysmal. He should have thought to pack more, he knew that this wasn’t going to be a short adventure. A Jammey Joey at least.
‘How long do you think they’ll be till they’re done?’ He asked his brother, glancing up at him and jerking his head towards the action they’d spent most of the day secretly watching. ‘Till they finish up here, like.’
Ireland shrugged lazily, ‘Until they’re done finding things, I expect. There’s a lot of peat to cover.’
‘Okay, how long till we’re done.’
‘Till it feels time to go.’
In comparison to North squatting on the floor like a grubby troll- he’d been standing for hours and he was tired- his older brother was leant against a wide, fat oak, his long arms crossed over his chest. He was looking at the happily buzzing archaeologists in the distance carefully, watching for their discoveries or any misbehaviour North couldn’t quite tell. The humans been there ever since the news of the headless corpse the day before, having swarmed the old bog as soon as they’d been alerted, and had been ferrying their equipment to and fro and generally making a big mess of the place ever since. Ireland and North had come to join them not long after, watching them map out the area and begin to excavate whilst the land owners waited on the sidelines.
North eyed Ireland’s own much fatter and well-stocked bag enviously, ‘They’ve already found the most important thing, though.’
Ireland snorted and grinned, ‘That’s subjective.’
‘Not really. Headless ancient corpse versus...?’
Ireland rolled his eyes but didn’t reply.
‘Could always be another in there, I suppose.’ North stood and shook out his feet.
‘Might well be. That sort of thing was common.’
‘They seem to be popping up all the time now.’
‘More in Denmark.’ Ireland ruffled his floppy hair off his forehead and recrossed his arms, ‘But different thing, obviously.’
A bog body was a bog body, as far as North could see. Tanned, leathery skin, well preserved nails and hair. Facial features which looked more lifelike than North would like if he were honest with himself, younger and closer to the modern day than could first be perceived considering the age of some of the finds. Many hundreds, sometimes thousands of years old. Where they came from and how they came to be in the bog in the first place was generally as unknown from one case to another, but the morbid curiosity about them was the same. Quick peeks into the past always held a draw.
This was different though, as Ireland had said. This was theirs. Or rather, the man they had found this time around chopped in half in the peat was Ireland’s.
More than even that, North realised. The discovery of this ancient person was more Patrick’s the person than anyone other than their close family would ever know. Someone he might once have known personally and things he might have owned, a culture he had once shared and understood and encompassed. His personal history as well as his people’s, depending on how old this particular find was.
‘You hoping they find something that you once dumped in there?’ North asked him, trying to sound nonchalant about the question.
Ireland let out a bark of laughter, ‘Not here. Might not look like much now but this place was special. Too special to piss about around.’
‘But you dumped stuff in other places, then.’
‘Not dumped.’ Ireland corrected, ‘I used to leave little wooden figures about here and there.’ He held up his hands about a foot apart, ‘Maybe this big. Added along to ceremonies people held or whenever I passed by alone.’
‘What for?’
‘What for is a question.’ Ireland frowned thoughtfully and glanced back out to the archaeologists. ‘Several reasons. Luck, offerings, promises. Can’t remember all of them. Copied what Mama used to do.’
Several branches of questions opened up at once. His brothers didn’t talk about their mother or childhood often- topics easily brushed off or for some reason hard to bring up in the first place- and North always felt uncomfortable poking at the former. Mama was a parent who was potentially his, but wasn’t, someone he felt that he should love and respect when she was as distant to him as a God was.
Sensing that this was an opportunity he shouldn’t waste, North carefully chose the avenue he felt would yield the most answers.
‘What were the idols of?’
‘People, Gods, us, animals.’ Ireland waved a hand, ‘I’ll make you one sometime. Been a while since I practiced. Or Alisdair can, his used to be half decent. Don’t ask Rhys though, his are shit.’
‘They might find one.’
‘Might do. Wood rots though.’
‘So does skin, and look what happened.’
A scurrying of men and women along their walkway and back to far afield cars made them both pause, something small and wrapped carried amongst them. The spiked edges of their talk floated back to their spot in the trees, high and excited. It was empty landscape, no human activity apart from the archaeology dig, but North could feel a thrum in the air, the last notes of what first called him and his brother to this place. Something he couldn’t name but which connected him to everything.
Stay, stay. Watch, and remember.
North wasn’t really too sure why he was here. This was his brother’s land after all, his brother’s ancient people and lost ways, not his, but still this was connected to him somehow. Or, it was better to say that it was something he was connected to, something that was apparently important for him to witness for his people’s benefit- the circle of time connecting him to his siblings’ past to fill him in on what he had missed.
There was so much of his brothers’ lives which came before him. North felt Croghan Hill at his back, heavy and looming in the summer sun. How many different peoples had that hill seen? How many of North’s own family, past his sibling’s mother and beyond? So many mortal lives caught in its shade, so many centuries before he’d even been thought of. What had any of this got to do with him, he who couldn’t understand the significance of what was being found.
‘This is for you too, you know.’ Ireland seemed to sense something of what North was thinking. He tilted his head to one side, his eyes still on the dig site and the treasures within, ‘All connects back to a point we’re both a part of.’
‘The bog bodies?’
‘Not just them, or any of what they find like this. What they represent.’ He turned to North, the usual jokey expression in his eyes replaced with something more serious, ‘It’s a culture that’s not here anymore but that is still a part of us, even if we can't see it. It matters the same to both of us.’
‘But it wasn’t mine is it.’ North dug his hands into his jean pockets, ‘I wasn’t alive to experience it. I don’t even know what any of that was for.’
Ireland looked at him, face unreadable, then looked away. ‘If you say so.’
North looked at him. ‘What?’
Ireland shrugged, ‘If you say so.’
‘What do you mean, if I say so?’
‘If you think this has nothing to do with you, then who am I to tell you any different.’
‘Wh- I don’t..’ North clicked his tongue, ‘What the fuck does that mean.’
‘What? You wanted me to tell you something different?’
‘No-‘
‘You want me to sit here and hold your hand and tell you there there babby, everything’ll be grand?’
‘No! Christ, fuck off, then.’
Ireland shrugged again, one armed and apathetic, and turned away. North felt his cheeks heat up.
‘It’s true, isn’t it? That out there’s for you, that’s your old people.’
‘Sure.’
‘Well then. Then, what’s it got to do with me?’
Ireland shook his head, his mouth downturned in disappointment or frustration. ‘Why are you asking me? You seem to have your own opinion.’
‘Why’d you have to be a cunt about it.’
Ireland snorted, ‘Being a cunt am I-‘
‘You are. You’re-‘
‘Rather that than a thick-headed child.’
‘-brushing me off, it was a valid fucking question.’
‘It wasn’t a question; you were simpering for something.’
North recoiled, ‘Simpering-!’
‘Aye, you were.’ Ireland’s cheeks were ruddy in the high way they did only when he got truly annoyed about something, ‘You wanted me to convince you that this does matter to you, give you a clean old line of evidence that you can take away and make yourself feel better with. I already did that enough and I ain’t arguing my point. You either take what I said and try to make sense of it, or you don’t. I’m not going to stand here and put up with you begging for validation.’
North clenched his jaw, his teeth aching with the pressure of not immediately shouting back.
‘People will take voiced doubt as truth.’ Ireland continued, stepping closer. He was still taller than North, still holding the upper ground, and North had for remind himself not to take the automatic instinct to step back, ‘Makes them question and think when they might not have done before. And you feeding into self-pity is pissing annoying. It’s pathetic; I don’t want to hear it.’
‘It was a question.’ North felt a shameful sting in his eyes. He pushed away the knowledge that his brother had hit on a truth he hadn’t him to voice, ‘I-‘
‘It wasn’t a question, don’t give me that. You wanted me to tell you why any of that-‘ a sharp wave of Ireland’s hand towards the humans on the bog, ‘-is for you.’
North swallowed, the core of it too cleanly said to deny, ‘Yes.’
Ireland shook his head, ‘Think for yourself, boy. Did you feel a need to come here?’
‘Yeah.’
‘If I hadn’t called you, if I hadn’t come, would you have anyway?’
North nodded. He would have, it wasn’t a feeling that could be ignored.
‘Then that’s your confirmation. That’s important for you and yours too, that’s it.’
‘But why.’
‘How the fuck should I know. I don’t have it all written down here in rules, now do I.’ Ireland moved back to his spot against the tree, standing there stiff, ‘You’re supposed to have a brain, you tell me.’
North shrugged helplessly, ‘Because my people are interested? Because it’s news. Because it’s an older culture of this island and people want to look for something recognisable that they’ve kept?’
Ireland’s expression didn’t change, ‘And what do you think is true?’
‘I dunno, all of them?’ North let out a breath, ‘A little bit of all of them for different people.’
As he said it, he felt that it was probably true. There wasn’t one good answer but the fact was that he was here to watch anyway. Ireland was right, that meant something, even if North didn’t know exactly what.
Ireland waited a while before speaking, as if he was waiting for North to say something more or question him again. When neither were forthcoming, he nodded and leant back more easily against the tree trunk, crossing his feet and the ankles to rest on his heels, ‘I’m not here because all in that there bog was a culture I was part of. I’m here to watch it dragged out of the dirt because it’s something that will mark the people today. Look for what’s the same and not what’s different, you’ll never get anywhere otherwise.’
The ancient hill and the shiny metal cars that now drove around it, small and modern under forgotten giants. The same could be said about them and the archaeologists: Ireland watching the return of something he’d lost, and North watching it unfold to learn what would become a part of him, as the humans picked it all from the peat. The old and new, two sides of the same coin used for any purpose humans chose.
North pressed his lips together, his throat feeling tight. ‘Yeah. I get it.’ He paused, ‘Thanks.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ireland shake his head with a small smile, ‘You called me a cunt.’
‘You are a cunt.’
‘Ouch.’ Ireland held a hand to his chest in mock injury, ‘That hurt my feelings.’
‘You don’t have any feelings.’
‘In that case, I won’t share what’s in my bag.’
North looked to it, then back to his brother. His stomach rumbled, ‘I was wrong.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re not a cunt.’
‘I know, I’m so lovely.’
‘What’s in the bag?’
Ireland toed it with his shoe and grinned, ‘Just cheese sandwiches.’
‘I take it back; you are a cunt.’
‘Your loss.’
--------
AN:
Bog Bodies are human remains found in old peat bogs. The make up of the soil- the lack of oxygen and the particular mineral make up- is wonderful for preserving organic material by tanning it to almost leather. The result is perfectly preserved people, down to the hair on their heads or the pores of their skin
This story is set in 2003 and the discovery of Old Croghan Man, noted in different sources to have been found in May or June near Croghan Hill which the man was named after. The hill is very old and part of ancient and surviving modern local mythology, but the area itself was also regarded as something very special, a portal from our world to another beyond
Bog bodies ended up where they did for a variety of reasons: murder, accident, or even sacrifice. The old Irish Kings, as is one theory suspected for Old Croghan Man, could be held responsible for bad weather, or a bad harvest, and sacrificed to appease the Gods in the bog
More sources, if you're interested:
Welcome to the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin & Castlebar covering Archaeology, Decorative Arts, Folk & Country Life, & Natural Histor
The bodies of two Iron Age murder victims have been recovered from peat bogs in Ireland. Experts say one man used hair gel in a likely bid t
sort of adding on to the would Scotland chuck England out a window question but not really
How do you think their body types are, as well as their eating/sleeping habits are
(I'll stop annoying you now)
I'm always happy to talk about the Uk+Ireland bros, so don't stop on my account!
Ireland: Tall Wacky Waving Inflatable Tube Guy™. He’s all limbs and wiry muscles, makes him swift on his feet and great at boxing. Has difficulty gaining weight even if he can eat for a whole army. Always carry snacks on him at all times (a habit he picked up after the famine). Likes to explore new foods, but anything remotely spicy will probably kill him. His body is 90% tea. Goes to bed ridiculously late but somehow still an early riser. The one who takes the whole bed, limbs all over the place, worst person to share a bed with. Can also nap on any surface available.
Scotland: Tall Beefcake™ who can bench press all his brothers at once. Gives one hell of a bear hug and running into him is like hitting a brick wall. The guy who can whip out a masterpiece of a meal with just the bare minimum of ingredients. Enjoys spicy food but the bathroom aftermath isn’t worth it. Sleeps like a log, one would think he’s dead if it wasn’t for his snores. He’s a human furnace, something his brothers will take advantage of if they share a bed (much to his annoyance).
Wales: The definition of Soft™. He’s stocky in build with a soft belly (gets a bit fuller around Christmas) but that doesn’t stop him from rugby tackle you. Keeps a healthy diet and the one who follows vegan trends the most, though he doesn’t stick to it for long. Pastries are his weakness, doesn’t help that he’s a excellent baker (even participated at the Great British Bake-Off once). The one that says: “going to bed at 9pm is pretty late.” His bed has more pillows than the entirety of Ikea, it’s basically a nest. No one is allowed to disturb his sleep unless you want a death wish (North once did, and lived to tell the tale). Not a morning person, glares daggers until he has his coffee.
England: Lean body with bony elbows perfect to jab someone in the stomach. Toned body but it’s hidden with a bit of softness. Nags North to eat proper meals but catch him have a cup of tea for dinner. He’s a bit of a workaholic and that causes him to forget to eat or have meals super late. Experiments with recipes, there’s a 50/50 chance it will either catch on fire or be super delicious. Forces himself to go to sleep by midnight if he wants to avoid being super cranky in the morning (wishful thinking). Moves a lot in his sleep and will hoard the blanket like his life depends on it. Often falls asleep at his desk and ends up with a torticollis.
North: Stuck in the awkward ‘before the growth spurt’ body of a 14 years old. Will probably have the body type of England in the future but a bit more lanky. Eats like a broke college student but somehow his health checks come out with flying colours. Will have a bowl of popcorn if he’s too lazy to cook something. Can be bribed with apple pies and is forever grateful for Canada for introducing him to pineapple pizza. Night owl is his middle name. The one who wakes up at 1pm. Is a bit of a insomniac and it takes him at least 1h to fall asleep. Burrito himself with blankets and will search for any source of warmth to shove his cold hands and feet to it (Scotland is often the victim in this).
sorry if this is burning you out on the uk bros but your headcanons of them are so good! since the previous anon ask about wales and England's relationship, do you have any on ireland and england? I'd love to hear your view on their rocky relationship. I hope your doing well!
Other brit bro headcannons can be found here:
The whole gang (Relationships & History)
Scotland (Appearance)
Wales (Relationship)
Ireland (Appearance)
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England and Ireland are an interesting pair
Overall, I’d say they’re the least close out of the UK siblings. Their personalities clash but without a redeeming quality that helps them make up for it: England and Scotland both have hot tempers but they cool easily which allows them to move on from things. Wales goes silent and moody but is hard to rile or annoy in the first place and has a lot of patience, so England’s fiery temper doesn’t affect him so much.
Ireland, however, also has a short temper and is quick to change moods. He blows up just as easily as England does but not as explosively, so whereas England will assume something is not a big deal because Ireland hasn’t screamed obscenities at him, actually it is a Very Big Deal indeed. Ireland can go very silky polite when truly angry and England, with his stubborn pride and need to have things over and done with as quickly as possible, will wrongly interpret these behaviours as ‘oh he’s trying to brush it aside, he’s seen my way of things.’ Actually, Ireland is more opposed than ever before and now has given up on whatever it was they were arguing about- he cannot be bothered to try to change England’s mind or resolve things and so he walks away stewing and angry, whereas England walks away calm again but confused.
England also doesn’t deal with passive aggression well; it’s not how he operates and prefers to be very overt in both his opinions and actions. This blunt force way of handling things is very intense for Ireland, who simmers on his feelings and enjoys a healthy argument where both parties pick fault and go around and around in circles but without intending offense. England, whose main way of communicating disapproval is through arguments, does not gel well with this- he takes Ireland picking fault as a personal attack against him, rather than Ireland just making a point and this then leads to the inevitable real explosion.
Ireland and Scotland still work despite Scotland’s hot temper because Scotland is a lot more laid back and confident in himself. He doesn’t read into behaviours or words for a sly attack and his pride doesn’t warp his perception of himself. You can criticise Scotland all you want, he’ll either agree that you have a point, or disagree and call you a twat but he doesn’t take it personally. England does and this is why he and Ireland experience the most friction- England can’t let things go and Ireland hides his hurt in silences so they both end up driving each other batty.
The two are also very different people hobby-wise. On paper they should get along: Ireland loves poetry and debating, as does England, and they’re both very skilled in both. However, their preferred types of each are different and rather than happily discussing the differences, they end up fighting about ‘who is right’ instead.
I’m not going to go into the history history of England and Ireland and how this shaped their view of each other. As I said in my Wales and England headcanon, I don’t believe nations in Hetalia can influence their government, nor can they control them. They exist as a cultural representative of their people, to guide them, help them, and remember them. England and Ireland had no role in the actions their governments had upon each other, but that doesn’t mean that they weren’t influenced by them and the English in Ireland haven’t been much of a positive influence. English Kings saw Ireland as an opportunity to gain and expand English influence and power so, although England himself didn’t do any of these actions or want them necessarily, he was still caught and tied up in it. Maybe he was shipped across the Irish sea to fight with him men, or maybe he wanted to go to be with them for support. Maybe England didn’t fight his rulers as much as he could have done in the cruel decisions they made, or maybe he let his own pride and need for recognition in Europe to help persuade him that what his leaders were doing was doing was justified.
I don’t feel comfortable digging that intimately into it, but I do believe that England defiantly didn’t do enough to stop what his government was doing and was very weak willed and shitty in how he conducted himself around these points in time. Ireland cannot blame England personally for the things his government did, but he can blame Arthur for how he personally acted, and Arthur did not act well, with his giant ego and need to be right at all times. The lingering bad blood and mistrust is very much deserved and England is aware that he Fucked Up.
For a long time, he didn’t want to accept this. He would blame others, blame Ireland, or try to minimise both how badly he’d behaved and how devastating his government’s actions were (‘he’s just sensitive! Look at the good side of things!’). It took him many, many years to accept his role in things and recognise that they were bad, and then even more years to admit this to Ireland himself. As England grew and matured and suffered his own losses, this understanding increased and eventually he was forced to accept things from Ireland’s side and admit that his actions weren’t the positive picture he liked to paint for himself. This pushed him to try and apologise, something he very rarely does.
These days, the two of them are better with each other. They’re trying, both of them. Sometimes England will say an ill-worded, offhand comment and Ireland will give him the benefit of the doubt and not jump down his throat. Sometimes Ireland will call him out, but England won’t brush the comment aside like he would have done a few decades previously, or instantly go on the defensive. They’re both working on listening and talking more, but things can still get strained at times, such as around easter, around North, around the EU, etc.
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Nonny, I’m so sorry for how late this is orz. I hope that you see this, thanks so much for the ask! (These sort sof things never burn me out, don’t you worry about that)
Scotland: Mountain of a man at 6 foot 3 inches that looms over you on a good day. When in public places or crowds, he's the designated landmark for his brothers if they get lost. Will use his height to his advantage to hide the last bag of Mackie’s crisps. The kind of guy who says ‘how’s the weather down there?’ Uses North's head as an armrest.
Ireland: With a height of 6 foot, his lanky figure makes him look like an inflatable tube man. Often reminds Scotland that just because he’s the tallest doesn’t mean he’s the oldest. The one who purposely puts England’s favourite tea in the deeper part of the upper cupboard whenever he visits.
England: At a respectable 5 foot 10 inches, he’s more than happy of his height because as a gremlin child, he was tiny. Like unusually small for a child and Scotland took advantage of it many times. In retaliation, he always makes fun of Scotland and Ireland whenever they need to hunch down or duck their heads to avoid smacking into something.
Wales: Technically, he’s the same height as England but he’s a sloucher. So everyone believes he’s shorter by an inch or two and he doesn’t bother to correct them. For a hot second, when they were kids, he was taller than Scotland for some reason until Scotland desperately caught up to him and surpassed him. Will subtly move around Ireland or Scotland just so to block out a light glare, and they still hadn’t caught on.
Northern Ireland: Smol bean at 5 foot 4. The poor guy has been stuck with 14-15 years old body for at least 2 decades now. He yearns for his growth spurt like a pearl clutching maiden waiting for her husband to return from the war. He’s already the baby of the family, he doesn’t need a constant reminder he’s the shortest. Though, according to Wales, he may be as tall as Ireland when he reaches adulthood (much to England’s laments). He will climb the countertop to find that Mackie’s crisps bag. In retaliation of being an armrest for Scotland, he jumps over his brother’s shoulders to use him as a watchtower when looking for the others.
