Latest Posts by antesdelanochecer - Page 2

did this lil art trend for funsies

On a similar vein to the last ask, which of your fellow countries would you say is your favourite?

Canada: we may hate each other’s face sometimes but it’s never forever 💛

I'm so sorry if I'm bothering, but reading "The Captain" has seriously floored, contaminated and infected me and I'm making a playlist inspired by it - But I was wondering if you had thoughts on Alfred and his people in that context? Because I... Like cowboy Alfred and I can't emphasize enough how many stories would emerge from Alfred losing a dual, lying dead on the ground, just to be gone by dawn and seen again in the next town over on death row to be hanged, just to be seen alive again some time later?

Like, it gives campfire stories and western-tales! 🥹

The Cowboy

Characters: America

The Captain (England)

The Artist (France)

The Cleaner (Scotland)

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Some say there are monsters out on the plains.

Unholy things. Dangerous things. Things that no man should see, and that would drive him mad if he ever did.

The cowboy does not believe all this. He believes in truth, cold and bitter. Life is hard out here, that is true, and sometimes a hard life does things to a man. Turns him inside out with wanting and regret. Makes him yowl for his momma at night like a child from loneliness. Cold nights, bitter winds, and dust choked skies- miles and miles with nothing but the hot sun and ghosts of old lives nipping at your heels.

Because to choose a life on the plains alone is to have come from something. To go far into the desert and stay there means that there is sanctuary in the sands that cannot be found in a town, or a village. And that life changes those who live it. Makes them see their fears manifested in order to understand them. Forces them to acknowledge their wrongs and mistakes by trapping them alone.

The cowboy is no different. He’s seen many things he wishes he hadn’t. Has done many more besides.

There’d been a boy. Many summers ago.

Bright blue eyes, golden hair. Rough broad hands of a working man, but the expensive clothes of a comfortable one. He’d rolled into town with fear behind his wide smile; twitchy fingers and a need for work with no questions asked. He’d been running from things, that was clear, and the cows don’t ask no questions. Nor do cowboys in need of able hands.

He’d been good. Been quick. Great with horses, could calm even the most spooked or rowdy with just a touch. A real gift for them, and a real love for the plains. He grew tall under the wide blue skies, expanded his chest outwards as he rode in a way that made you look at him. Talked much, talked often, but without saying anything at all.

When he’d died, the cowboy didn’t know who to send for. The boy had never mentioned his father, hadn’t spoken of his momma, not even in passing. No family and not even a family name to claim him. He’d had to leave him out there to the sun, nothing but a bright red blanket over his face to offer him shade and the cowboy’s own rings on his eyes to pay for something he didn’t quite understand. It had felt right. It had felt inadequate.

He’d been too young.

The memory of the boy haunts him. The cowboy sees their final ride in his dreams, sees the herd change direction and sees the boy react too late. Sees him realise across the cattle that he was pinned- rock of the canyon on one side, and the stampede the other. He caught the cowboy’s eye and that, that moment of knowing, seared something into him that the cowboy knows he will never forget.

Over the thunder of a thousand hooves, the boy’s scream is an unanswerable battle cry he still wakes to, even now.

The cowboy keeps moving. The herds do not stop. Rides must be finished. Life goes on.

He goes it alone. Wrings out his soul in the dust, lets it boil over with regret. Then he gets another partner. Then another. The cowboy is older, too old these days to head on out to watch the cattle without someone he trusts at his back. The world is changing around them but this life does not change, does not grow easier. Only harder, as his bones begin to hurt and his eyes can no longer spot unfriendly shapes moving in the shadows.

One night and a shared fire like any other- three men and a dog in the middle of nowhere- the cowboy looks up to see a face he knows all too well. It has been years, decades, but the boy’s face is unchanged. Still milk smooth, still full and whole.

He has a chain around his neck that glitters in the firelight. Thin gold links that hold up familiar rings, unused payment for a journey not taken. He catches the cowboy’s eye over a whisper of long ago screams and nods.

There are monsters out on the plains.

Things that creep around campsites, things that stir in the night. Things that wear the faces of long dead men, that put on old skin like clothes and come to sit quietly by your side.

The cowboy cannot look at him. He hears him breathing as the men around them talk, feels the warmth of the boy’s arm through this jacket.

‘Well met,’ the cowboy manages, and offers his old friend his flask to drink from.

The boy does not take it. He looks up at the stars, bright and endless above them, and holds the cowboy’s rings in one hand.

‘Strange, isn’t it?’ he says softly, ‘What things we can sometimes think we see.’

The cowboy’s heartbeat beats loud in his ears, ‘Too much sun does things to a man.’

‘It does.’ The boy turns and looks back. His eyes are old, hard things, ‘I’ve heard people tell all sorts of tales. Drunken ghost stories no sane man would believe.’

The cowboy’s gut screams a warning, that he is but prey in front of predator. He knows to listen, has enough sense not to question, ‘I’m too sane to believe most things.’

He meets the boy’s eye and does not look away. The fire before them cracks, and the boy breathes. There is no other sound. Then, he smiles, teeth emerging white and gleaming. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Maybe, it never did.

‘Well met, friend.’ the boys says. He claps the cowboy’s shoulder and settles back. The cowboy’s chest feels lighter, ‘I think we’ll get along just fine.’

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I couldn't help myself Sunny, I was instantly inspired and it's all your fault

As it was written so quickly this may well change, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone and I had to get it out there

If this story is to have a song, it's 'Ghost Rider's' by Johnny Cash which is, and always will be, an utter banger.

The way you draw the squishy baby faces are so adorable- If you have the time and motivation I'd love to see the babies hang out together! Since Alfred and Matthew are a bit older they are probably really curious about the baby Lud!

I gotchu, Anon! I like to imagine Ludwig took his first steps towards them

north usa & south canada

face

Congratulations, Feliks!

Based on the “There can only be blond” poll by @acemapleeh !

Bernwald and his very formidable dog

Hetalia World ☆ Stars - Chapter 460 Original Translation: spaghettifelice // donamoeba Scanlation: donamoeba // loaf // jammerlea 

Ladies, ladies, not all at once [blocking pornbots left and right]

I’ve written a little drabble along with this below, because I just- I just needed this

(”Marry me, Archie” by Flyte, sets the scene)

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Ms. Mexico!

She's the shortest of the North America Trio but she's the one you don't want to mess with. Yes, she's a sentimental history nerd, but she's also a trained boxer. (That's how she got the broken nose)

She's an amazing cook who loves to kick back with a cold soda. She could tell you stories for hours. But no folk stories or tall tales. Why would she tell you that when she could tell you about that one time she and a friend got chased by the most persistent vulture she'd ever met? Yeah, the battle of Pueblo happened later that month, but still!

I'm gonna clean up the sketch and colors here for the final drawing, and maybe add in some funny sketches with her and the brothers. So if there's anything y'all think I need to add to her design/personality please feel free to send it my way!

I did give them matching sweaters, you’re right!

Frater Familias

Words: 5,719

Summary: Churchill lies, Singapore falls, an empire abandons his children in a sea of wolves. When their brother finds out, there will be hell to pay.In early 1942, Alfred Jones travels across the globe to save his baby brother and sister from the betrayal of their father. When Arthur Kirkland returns at long last, his eldest is waiting for him, ready to spill blood.

Warnings: Language, mentions of death and bodily injury.

Author’s Note: I kept things very vague to make it easier for myself, but this takes place not too long after the Battle of Coral Sea in May 1942.

You can also read on Ao3 if you prefer

————–

Alfred Jones hadn’t wanted to kill his father this badly since 1781. Come to think of it, Alfred wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted to kill his father as much as he did now.

Sure, he hadn’t been pleased that President Roosevelt acquiesced to Britain’s insistence on a Germany-first strategy. The scar of Pearl Harbor was still fresh and livid, and he was spoiling for a chance to hunt Kiko down personally. Even so, he’d kept his mouth diplomatically shut and had taken heart when Churchill assured him that British forces in the pacific would hold, that the ANZACs would have plenty of reinforcements to hold allied territories there.

That, as it turned out, had been a massive lie. Gargantuan. Colossal. Titanic, in fact. His father might as well have designed the ship himself, stuck his two youngest on board without lifeboats bound straight for an ice field, and stayed cozy in Belfast while Alfred broke his back feeding coal to the Carpathia in a blind, unplanned panic. Churchill fiddled while Singapore fell, and Father fiddled along with him.

“Where is he?” Alfred demanded, ignoring the guard at the entrance who was trying to slow him down.“

“I’m sorry?” Asked the startled British soldier stationed at the war room door.

“Arthur Kirkland. Where is he?”

The soldier took a few tries to say, “General Kirkland hasn’t yet arrived, sir.”

“Fine. Which room will be his?”

“Sir, I’m so sorry, can I get your name, I’ll need to ask–”

“Where?” Alfred demanded, and there was something in his too-perfect voice, his too-blue eyes, that made the soldier startle and point immediately down the hall.

“End of the hall, on the left.”

Alfred stormed in that direction without a word. The soldier blinked a few times. A deer released from headlights, it took him a moment to get his bearings.

“Wait,” he called after Alfred, quickly jogging after him. “Wait sir, you’re not allowed to-” but Alfred was already inside, going around to sit in the officer’s chair behind the empty letter desk. “Sir, the General won’t be here for another five, six hours.”

“Fine,” Alfred said, and had this young Australian known him better, he would have known to be frightened by his stoic, collected anger. Facial expression unchanging, the American wheeled back in the chair and propped his feet on the desk. “I’ll wait.”

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bunnies

potato

durians i like. durians i need.

I commissioned @ashafox for a picture of Alfred with his hair grown out, because it's always been my personal headcanon that it curls like Matthew's. They presented me with this Absolutely Beautiful piece of art:

(Very much recommend viewing their artwork and a commission of your own.)

I HATE FOOTBALL I HATE FOOTBALL I HATE FOOTBALL I HATE FOOTBALL

Hetalia World ☆ Stars - Chapter 456 Original Translation: spaghettifelice // donamoeba Scanlation: loaf // jammerlea 

Finland is the kind of person who starts getting into Christmas mood as early as November. From late November, however, it’s the period where the Krampus wander around and punish naughty kids, until Saint Nicholas comes to tame them on December 6th. Because of this, December 5th is symbolically the day of the Krampus, right before Saint Nicholas puts them into chains. … Austria kind of feels their influence and can’t stand Christmas-related things before December 6th. On December 5th, his unsufferableness peaks. Not the best day for these two to meet, I bet lol.

Based on this meme, but I got the idea after drawing Austria as a Krampus for Hima’s April’s Fool thing … So, thanks Hima for accidentally inspiring me for something I’ve been planning to draw since April lmao

why would yall encourage me??? anyway I made more in-universe hetalia memes.

bonus meme on which I refuse to elaborate

I'm not intelligent enough to do all the existential philosophical ones yall are doing so here's my contribution of in-universe memes from the 2020 election

The man in question : Germany

So I Gave up on their hair but I actually ended up liking it so 🪂🪂🏓🧉

I wanted to join the fun

I made a bunch of in-universe memes for some reason and they’re completely incomprehensible. can you imagine how fucking awful mainstream and social media would be in the hetalia universe though?

Alfred’s favourite holiday is Halloween, because he gets to see his little brother again

Purgatory

Whumptober Day 8: Back from the dead 

Summary: ​​ Vietnam, 1967. Marine Captain Alfred F. Jones, born on July 4th 1942, is killed in action at 0930 hours, twenty klicks from Quang Tri city. This is the aftermath. 

Or: Alfred, through the eyes of one of his men. Because not every human’s experience coming face-to-face with their nation is a good one. 

Notes: CW for violence, death, graphic injuries, war, depictions of PTSD, murder and Cold War-era imperialism. This fic leans hard on the darker side of ‘nations as creepy as hell eldritches and their relationship with war’; citizenship, loyalty and nationhood can cut many ways can’t it? 

“VC” refers to the Viet Cong— the Vietnamese guerrillas who fought against both the US-backed South Vietnamese military and US forces. They were allied with, but distinct from the regular ARVN (aka, the North Vietnamese military). “Charlie” became a slang for the Viet Cong, because the NATO phonetic alphabet reads “V.C” as “Victor Charlie.” [3.2k words]

Read on AO3

One week after Jones dies, a VC sniper nails me twice in the right thigh on a night patrol, with all the suddenness and wrath of a prayer answered by the Almighty. 

Maybe Charlie had been aiming for my balls and had missed, the helo pilot on the medevac chopper had guffawed. He’d seen people in worse shape than me, I’d live, so just sit tight and shut up. 

It enters my leg at a diagonal, it hurts like a bitch, fractures my thigh bone, shreds a whole lot of muscle and nerve tissue, nicks a major artery; I lose buckets of blood. The surgeon at the field hospital in Khe Sanh who ties the artery, fishes out the bullet fragments and sews me back together tells me that at best, I’d walk with a painful limp all my life—if I even recover that much function. Then, I get a raging infection. I burn and I freeze; my temperature shoots to a hundred and three, I’m pumped with antibiotics, I’m told I nearly died—but I don’t give a shit. 

I’m giddy, delirious and incoherent, hopped up on morphine and euphoria. 

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i am never gonna fucking finish these but look at them anyway

Do yall remember that time when the fandom treated England like the victim of the Revolutionary War 💀 like that mf isn't like 25+ beefing with a 13-16 year old over taxes like let's be fuckin fr 😭😭😭