Ugghnnnnnn stiff and sore and tired (though I’m sure I went to bed at a halfway reasonable hour) and I just do not want to go to college today.
I’m going anyway.
But I’d rather not.
South African.
I won't lie to you, this blog is pretty much gay Hetalia fanfiction.
Gird your loins.
hit counter
I won't lie to you, this blog is pretty much gay Hetalia fanfiction.
Gird your loins.
hit counter
My Body’s Broken
Surprising Matt is generally considered to be really fucking stupid. Surprising him in the kitchen when he’s holding a knife; doubly so. It was therefore by the skin of his teeth that Alfred managed to escape being gutted like the lambshank that the Canadian had slapped on the chopping board.
But there’s something a little different between surprising Matt so that he almost shanks you with a cleaver and having him frozen in the middle of the kitchen, knuckles white on the handle of his weapon and his chest rising and falling with tremulous breaths.
“Matt? Sorry, dude, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Alfred raised his hands in surrender, trying to show the suddenly feral-looking man that he meant him no ill will. It took several long minutes for Matt to rise from his semi-crouch and shake off his shivers.
His temper, though, remained piqued, as evidenced by the way he slammed the cleaver into the side of meat with enough force to crack the chopping board beneath it and storm from room in high dudgeon.
So Alfred was left to wonder just what it was about kissing his boyfriend on the shoulder warranted that kind of response.
———-
“Hey, Matt?” Alfred asked sleepily, the Canadian seemed to have forgiven him enough to attempt cuddling. “What was all that about earlier?”
“Nothing,” Matt’s answer was not unusually curt, but it did contain an unprecedented chill, given that they were snuggled up in bed and, Alfred was at least, half asleep.
“Hmmn, fine.” Rolling over, Alfred put his arms around the other, subtly trying to turn him over so that he could be the big spoon.
Being violently shoved out of bed didn’t even register until his head smacked into the wooden flooring.
Matt was glaring down at him venomously, and Alfred stared back dazedly, wondering just what it was he had done now as his boyfriend vanished from sight.
“I’ll be on the couch,” he growled before storming off, slamming the door hard enough to send plaster dancing down from the ceiling.
———-
It was after he tapped Matt on the shoulder and the Canadian had turned around and punched him in the jaw before he had time to so much as step away that Alfred realised that Matt had a little bit of an issue with his back. He supposed he should have seen the signs sooner, but in all fairness, he hadn’t had all that much to do with Matt’s back end. The reason for that was now pretty damn obvious.
“Matt. We have to talk,” Alfred announce over breakfast, prompting Matt to spill his coffee all over the morning newspaper. A flash of fear sparked in tired eyes, but was quickly covered with a resigned sigh.
“I’ll be out of your hair by this evening,” he said, getting up and picking up a dishrag to dump in the seeping black oilspill of caffeine that was marching across the front page. And never once did he turn his back to the American.
“What- No, I don’t want to break up with you!” Alfred frowned, scrabbling for another dishtowel before the coffee got all over his floor. “Jesus, Matt, jump to the worst conclusion, why don’t you?”
“I thought I did,” the Canadian muttered, his expression flat.
“Yeah, well, fuck me, why?” the blue-eyed blond shook his head, train of thought successfully derailed.
“I haven’t been behaving very well lately,” Matt shrugged, the dishtowel landing in the metal bowl of the kitchen sink with a visceral splat.
“Well, yeah, but damn it, Matt, I’m not going to break up with you just because you don’t like me touching your back. For fuck’s sake. I just wanted to know why!” Alfred tossed his towel to join Matt’s where they oozed dark, lukewarm coffee down the drain and away.
Matt stood silent for a moment, and Alfred could have sworn that the ever-present shadows around his eyes grew deeper for a moment. Dark and hurt more than he would ever want to understand.
“When I show people my back, usually the first thing they do is stick a knife in it,” he said eventually, shrugging and picking up a roll of paper towels looking at them almost unseeingly, “We should have used these. I ruined your dishcloth.”
“Fuck the dishcloth, Matt! Why would I hurt you like that? Why would you think I would do that?” Alfred demanded, one palm flat on the tabletop, the other in the air, gesturing wildly as though it could conjure forth a diagram or chart of some sort that would help him understand exactly what it was his boyfriend was thinking.
“I don’t. But I didn’t think they would either. Fool me once shame on you,” he shrugged, not meeting Alfred’s air.
“Fool me twice, shame on me,” the other blond finished, taking off his glasses and polishing them on the hem of his shirt, “Jesus, Matt.”
“We’ve been introduced,” Matt’s weak attempt at humour did nothing to soften the American’s worried, frustrated expression.
“How long is it going to take to prove that I don’t want to stick a knife between your ribs?” he asked after a very long silence.
“How many scars do I have?”
“Fifty,” Alfred hazarded, looking at the little nicks that littered Matt’s hands, the slices, gashes and bite-marks that littered his forearms, the monstrous gashes that peaked from under the open neck of his shirt. Everywhere that he had seen was touched with scar tissue. Lines of puffy pink, sunken silver and livid red carved a hard life’s roadmap across the Canadian’s skin.
‘Hundreds,’ Matt corrected.
————
Alfred is bare and bronzed; tan-lines curve across the swell of love-handles and Matt eyed him with a mix of apprehension and appreciation as the American did a slow turn; arms outstretched.
“I’m unarmed, I’ve got nothing to hide and I come in peace.”
“I’m calling bullshit,” Matt snorted, setting aside his book and narrowing his eyes in suspicion; not even daring to take them off the other when his book slipped from the nightstand and landed with the universal sound of paperback on floors, “What are you planning?”
“I just want to try something,” Alfred shrugged, taking a step closer to the bed, “If you promise not to hit me.”
“Tell me what it is before I agree to it,” the Canadian hedged, pulling his hair back into a rubber band from where it had been curling peaceably around his shoulders.
“If you could just try to let me touch your back,” Alfred pleaded, practically begging, “Just try. I won’t hurt you, I swear it. And if I do, you can beat me to a bloody pulp; I won’t stop you. I want to see your scars. Please?”
Silence dragged and on and on, sagging and spiraling into the vast chasm that seemed to span the two metres between them.
Matt nodded, pulling off his shirt with hands that refused to stop shaking; from fright or tension, Alfred couldn’t guess as he clambered onto the bed.
The uneven latticework of scar tissue made Alfred’s stomach turn. So many, layer upon layer of marred skin, feather-light touches of white staining, livid, puckered flesh where wounds had sealed. Starburst marks where something more like a pole had been used, or where a broken rib had punched through skin. The American wondered how the other could still stand.
Matt was so very, very close to getting up off the bed and leaving the room, leaving the house, leaving the country, this dimension Alfred, all of it. He just wanted this situation not to be happening. The only scenario that was playing out in his head was one where Alfred pulled out a pipe or a pole - some kind of metal rod, he didn’t know where from - and pinned him to the mattress like a bug to a corkboard.
Soft touches, lips, starting at his shoulder and working downwards. Alfred needed some lip balm, but his kisses were more painfully tender than any scar Matt had. And with each kiss a whispered phrase.
“I love you.”
“You’re gorgeous.”
“You’re strong.”Over and over again until Matt was shaking, swaying slightly, his hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets until they ripped beneath his hands.
“Do you want me to stop?” Alfred asked, his chin on Matt’s shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around the Canadian, and it felt like he had his back to a wall. Walls were safe and strong and if you had your back to a wall then no one would stab it.
“No.”
I did my very first full make-up application in class today on the lovely Quintessentila, using my new Inglot make-up
Oh look, glasses!
Arthur Kirkland Regrets
The dialogue is probably wrong –it’s also un-translated. Consult your nearest compendium of Shakespeare.
Dank, dirty light fell half-heartedly through the high windows of the white tower. Smog coloured the London air yellow and brown and cast flickering, filthy shadows over the blonde man who sat in the spiral staircase of the keep. Arthur sat on the steps, centuries’ worth of filth and memories ingrained themselves into the seat of his trousers as though he already didn’t have them. The faint trains of twenty-first century life could barely be heard, and he couldn’t tell his he was distant or if it was just his mind. Of all the beautiful places in his lovely country, he liked this place least. There was so much history here. Almost all of it, he wanted to forget, and none of it he could, no matter how hard he tried. So after a while he stopped trying to resist and simply spent time here, within the dark walls
Oh my god, I wish I could do this! Or know someone who could do this! It also makes me envy girls. Seriously, you gal’s get some kick ass costumes.
I’m doing this next time I do my make up. especially the Batman one gfndjgnfdgkfdnkgsfdg
Make sure to post it so I can see the results!
(Source: fuckyeahihaveagazebo)
Fuck. What is plot?
senshibyne replied to your post:I’ll delete your browser history for you, don’t worry :)
I have the best friends.
iraya replied to your post:ohh are you writing one? or just reading one? O o O )//curious
I’m gonna write and draw one!
Okay, attempting PruCan Doujin. If I don’t make it out alive, Xena, you know my password. Or at least you should.
what falls at the speed of gravity?
r
Brother Dearest
To make up for me being a bad author, have one of my old stories; now on tumblr.
The first thing that people had told Arthur and Francis when their surrogate mother dropped twins was that they should join a support group. The second thing people told them was that the twins should be encouraged to develop separate identities. This was stressed above everything else.
God bless them, they tried, but the boys were having none of it.
there are reasons you don’t do the harlem shake
This is the only good harlem shake video on the internet
