#aph-englands

[fiftystars]

🌠 @aph-englands

  he’s pouting. it wouldn’t be the FIRST time england’s shot down an idea of his —- honestly, it would be more out of the ordinary if arthur agreed. and alfred isn’t offended or insulted by england’s disagreement (like he said, happens too often for it to be a real issue anymore) but he is a little put out. mostly because he thought his idea was pretty fucking kick - ass and a clear winner this time around. well, more so than the other times, anyway. like, legit genius. all the countries would be wowed by his mental and strategy prowess ,  he’d be hailed as a hero for solving the hypothetical future problem ,  award season comes ,  blah blah blah.

❝       i still say my idea was great,  ❞      he mumbles, crossing his arms as he tries hard not to pout still.     ❝   i mean, at least i came up with one. and with visual aids too !  those drawings couldn’t have been any clearer of how great a plan i came up with. maybe you’re just getting blind with your old age, england. ❞  

[fuerdichundwhateverfuckyou-blog1]

Gilbert scowled back, crossing his arms and standing up straighter to emphasize his height. He was upset that he had to be tied down into a marriage. He knew that his father had specially chosen this man for him, but Gilbert was a wild man, often throwing his own large parties and flirting with people everywhere he went. There were times he had even woken up with someone else in his bed. Which was something he liked, something he was used to. So he was less than pleased when his father announced it was time for him to settle down. "I wouldn't be very proud to call you an acquaintance. I have never met someone who is as plain seeming as you. Und you're certainly not someone I'd call kind. Don't expect pet names from me." @aph-englands

[lamariannc-blog]

@aph-englands

   The makeshift hospital left a lasting impression of horror upon Marianne’s eyes as she was lead through the rows upon rows of dead, wounded, and dying soldiers; all of them staring, with wide eyes, full of pain and terror. She couldn’t handle it -- multiple times she had to stop, and she barely managed to keep herself from vomiting violently outside the tent.

   The woman who was leading her through the rows spoke rigidly, with a certain fervor that was present only with someone who was used to such work, and just wanted to get it over with. But Marianne could not bring herself to listen, and she only watched with fear and horror as a man, coated in blood and groaning, was carried in by a stretcher. She paled -- if only she hadn’t been squeamish. But, such was the way of things -- she would have to make sacrifices, as would the rest of them.

    Upon being lead to a room, Marianne found herself at a loss of what to do. A paralyzed man, in a bed unlike most of the soldiers -- he was staring outside as if he were already dead. The head nurse said nothing but his name to her, wished her good luck, and left the room.

[lamariannc-blog]

@aph-englands

If the fact that Marianne hadn’t spoken to Arthur after his drunken fiasco didn’t prove anything, then perhaps the way she cast her eyes downward when they passed each other did -- the way she seemed to shrink in on herself, nearly clutching at her breast as the pain in her heart made her gut wrench. She remembered the way he so ruthlessly insulted her -- no, not just her -- her entire life. Everything she stood for.

And so, as the meeting dragged on, Marianne made sure to sit as far away from Arthur as she could. To her dismay, they were seated beside one another -- but that didn’t keep her from sitting on the edge of her seat, tense and with a deeply seated frown on her lips. She occasionally sucked on her teeth, and shot glances toward the back of Arthur’s head. But, it wasn’t until the meeting had ended that Marianne cracked, if even slightly.

She headed for the hall, where there was likely to be no one -- pulling out a cigarette and a lighter, she takes a deep drag, before exhaling a pillar of smoke. She was dropping back into bad habits.

[musselsandfries-blog]

Kissed ☆

Send ‘Kissed’and I’ll generate a number from 1 to 45 to determine where your muse has kissed mine and how my muse reacts!

20. Pulse point

“My Arthur,” she lets out a breathy laugh, hand drifting automatically to that particular spot underneath her jaw where his lips had touched her skin fleetingly. “Is it a strong pulse, might I ask?”

[lamariannc-blog]

@aph-englands from x

   The soft sound of padding paws echoed through Marianne’s chateau, as one of her cats bounded toward her armchair. She sat upon it, legs folded beneath her, book on some form of chemical in her lap. The cat jumped into her lap, and she patted it gently -- only to jerk as her phone went off with a sudden trill. It was late -- perhaps past midnight, when Arthur sent the text. She peers at her cell with tired eyes, which soon widen with surprise as they scanned over the text she was sent.

   The things he said hurt her -- because she knew they were true. She was a slut, a tramp; any other cruel word in the book. But she knew that normally, he would not have said such things. She hurriedly stands, grabbing an overcoat to throw over her skimpy nightgown, resigning to throwing on a pair of flats to make her way to Arthur’s home.

   When she arrived, she goes to open the door -- not even a knock, or a shout to convey her presence. She simply walks in, calling out gently as she does so. Her tone was shaky, as if she were afraid.

   ❝ Arthur? ❞ her accent was thick, ❝ I’m here. ❞

[lamariannc-blog]

@aph-englands

   At the turn of the 19th century, Marianne had a high reputation to uphold. She needed to be strong, poised, and ruthless -- only one of which she was. She was weak, even if her empire was strong. Not that she wasn’t affected by Napoleon’s reign -- she had become domineering and harsh over the years, brought on by both the man and the revolution. 

   She was weak. This she knew, because her heart fluttered at the idea of paying her little brother a visit. Napoleon, being as cunning as he was, would not tolerate her being anyway near the island nation. Fortunately, Marianne was still well-off, even following the upheaval that was the French Revolution. She paid off guards to keep their mouths shut, and paid ship captains to cart her across the Channel.

   Bare feet come into contact with soft sands as Marianne hikes up the skirts of her nightgown, waving off the ship captain with a flourish of the hand. Making her way up the beach, she comes to a stop at a small cove, uninhabited save for sand creatures and crabs. It was there that Marianne found the place that Arthur had spoken of.

   Holding herself in the cold night wind, Marianne waited for her clandestine lover’s arrival.

[sokrovennyi]

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