#alasdair kirkland | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

a-luran · 2 years

Note

Ok so senditothemoonn put Ireland in Mac's place and England in Dee's in that Always Sunny meme redraw, so naturally my first thought was the episode 'The Gang Finds A Dumpster Baby' (Can't remember if Wales or N.Ireland is in Frank's spot, but I can't really imagine Wales telling them to 'put it back' soooo...)

ahahaha I haven't watched that season in ages!

@senditothemoonn did an absolutely stellar job with their art (and just in case someone's missed it you can find it here. Tequila in sunscreen bottles doon at Troon Beach at the Jersey Shore for all. It always gives me a good laugh.)

as for elaborating on my own Always Sunny AU, I can't stay it sticks to canon all that much!

Arthur is in practice the owner, having inherited the pub from his former boss after he died childless. In Arthur's opinion it has been well-earned after years of backbreaking labour trying to keep the business afloat while the old man fucked off with a new sweetheart every other weekend. Was Arthur serving drinks before he was legally sound to do so? perhaps. And are some most of the supply dealings and receipts stamped with a forged signature? maybe so. The point is that the pub is in the black for the first time in it's entire 100-year-existance and Arthur is not above murder to keep it that way.

Daffyd is his first official hire and just brutally slow at his job. It's naw like he'd ever asked for a cocktail but he takes pint pouring with a seriousness it was never intended to have. He also has the vexing (to Arthur) need to make conversation with everyone and their mother and no, he will not interrupt any patron's riveting account on today's weather just because you're wanting to order. He's also been known to 'lose count' of pints and hand out a half on account of a not-even-particularly-well-crafted sob story. It drives Arthur up a wall.

Alasdair has been a regular for so long Arthur can't quite remember when he walked in for his first drink. There's even a good chance he might have been coming in long before Arthur even started pouring them. He was some kind of boxer,— or sailor, or soldier, or something, fat chance of anyone finding out— allegedly, and now serves as their handy man and bouncer. He seems to know anyone and everything and is also tragically farsighted (or perhaps just suffering from the effects of one too may concussions, and more than a little daltonic). He refuses to get glasses or hear anything about it. In any case he is built like a brick shithouse and does his job well so Arthur leaves him to it. (Favouritism? in this pub?? it's more likely than you think.)

Sean and Ross are in theory the co-owners. As highlighted, theory is a key word. They are the root of most of the pub's issues but more often than not also the solution, and the regulars love them. Cannae impress that onto you enough, they are the customer's darlings, their good time boys. They are the lads (said with an affectionate chuckle).

Every time Ross comes into the back office with a sheepish smile and lacking his worst half Arthur knows that something's gone amuck and it takes his misanthropic self every fibre of his being not to cry.

And so it goes! Welcome to O'Connor's, have a seat and have a pint and gnore the shouting coming from the back office. Don't mind the sheep of the towering man carrying it out on his shoulders.

(The running gag much like Charlie and Frank in the og Always Sunny are the hints that they are all related, only it's in increasingly obscure ways. They're cousins, then second cousins, then third cousins once removed. Then Sean's mammy was Arthur's cousin's godmother, who in in turn was Alasdair classmate two years down. And so on and so on, the way people find connections with each other when yous all come from small towns that grew exponentially over a couple of decades.)

#hws uk bros #it's always sunny AU #hws england #hws wales #hws ireland #hws scotland #hws northern ireland #Alasdair Campbell #Arthur Kirkland #Daffyd Owens #Sean O'Cléirigh #Ross O'Cleary #found dysfunctional family my beloved #Arthur and Alasdair do the Devil’s tango in the supply closet #Ross is scarred forever #the supply closet is disgusting and a disgrace and an affront to civility #just like them

30 notes · View notes

historia-vitae-magistras · 2 months

Note

Can we have more lord flufferton? 🥺 I need Matt having a friend.

Snippet of post am-rev. Low point of the flop era when Matt's basically just haunting a spare room at Lord Father's. Uncle Alasdair isn't present, he's basically forsaken in this wretched bitch of an earth but he's got a friend!

Winter, 1780 something.

"I don't know why you're so attached to me." Matt frowned as the sleek, fat orange cat kneaded at his leg under the blankets. "No one else likes me very much."

He got a plaintive meow of agreement and the cat trod across the mattress to be held. Matt hugged him. It'd been been about a year since someone had bothered to give him a squeeze, and the carefully structured reassuring thoughts Matt let rotate in his mind fell apart as the yearling purred and kneaded at his leg. You are loved, Matt told himself. Life is just busy and attention was in short, supply, rationed for when needed.

He just did such a good job not needing anything. He did as he was told, ate what he was given, and slept where he was allowed. It was a good deal. Better than what most people got and far better than being dead.

The cats renewed purring made him press his face into the cat for a long moment. Just listening to the sound of something reacting to his presence was enough to make him tear up. The cat being happy made him sob. Just once before he collected himself.

"Thank you," He murmured, laying down with the cat curling into his arm. "I don't collect the eggs now. If they didn't have eggs, someone would talk to me more often. They need the eggs." He buried his face into the pillow. "But I'm useless."

They'd gotten a poultry maid when the estate accounts improved and he'd been told it wasn't appropriate for him to be downstairs, sleeping on the banked cooking fires. His small trunk had been carried to a bare bedroom away from the servants quarters and into his father's favourite wing. He was now used to peering around doorframes and corners hoping for things. He said good morning and was happy if he got a grunt in reply sometimes. It happened about once a month if he was fortunate. He ate standing in the kitchen because he wasn't allowed to eat at the servants table but it had been so long since anyone had seen Lord Kirkland sober enough for a sit down dinner that the cook laughed when Matthew asked. He was allowed to use the library but was more often waved away than left to read unless he hid behind the old chesterfield. And there, occasionally Lord Kirkland noticed. But huddled there, clinging to the edge of the pool of warmth the fire in the hearth gave, he wasn't much of a nuisance. He thought it was a good thing, being easy to ignore. Less troublesome.

He was very good at staying out of the way. And regardless, at least he didn't have to worry about dying. He was fed, clothed and loved by someone somewhere. His missed Alfred but he had more than most got. He squeezed the cat a little more and buried his face in his fur.

"I'm glad you like me at least."

#the ask box || probis pateo #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #hws canada

22 notes · View notes

hetagrammy · 1 year

Text

I wanted to start making some family trees with a little info about the characters' family backgrounds for my Regency AU! I decided to do the biggest family first: the Kirkland-Donnelly Family! Even if she's deceased during the course of the plot, I wanted to include Lady Kirkland with all of her disaster children and grandchildren, hence why she's wearing clothing more appropriate for the 1780s-1790s.

Lady Igraine Kirkland had two marriages. Her first was to a rare Catholic member of the landed gentry, with whom she had her first three children. Although she was fond of her first husband, the marriage was arranged rather than Igraine's choice. After the death of her first husband, she remarried by choice to a viscount and had two more children. This is why Alasdair, Seán, and Molly aren't titled, but Alwyn and Arthur are. These marriages also led to inheritance issues: Igraine's first husband left her his property in his will because of Alasdair's youth. However, when she married her second husband, it became his property under coverture and therefore became Alwyn and Arthur's inheritance.

After the death of her second husband, Igraine acted as the family matriarch and managed the family's affairs, as although Alwyn inherited his father's entailed property, he was too young to manage it on his own. When she died of smallpox at 41, Alwyn was still only 15 and relied heavily on Alasdair and Seán for help. Although of lower rank, the three Donnellys are still highly respected within the family unit, and Alwyn frequently includes Alasdair and Seán in running their estate and finances. Though her brothers are more concerned with marrying her off, Molly is also trusted as a caretaker to Arthur's children and she instructs them much in the way a governess would.

After the death of his mother, Arthur joined the Navy at 14. He was very successful and quickly rose through the ranks, eventually becoming an admiral. While at sea, he sired four "natural" children who he has claimed and cares for. There's more information about where they came from here. Despite this, Arthur is still highly respected for his military career and his noble rank. The only problem now is that he needs to settle down and have legitimate children, because as estate is entailed, it cannot legally pass to Alfred. If Arthur doesn't have children, it will pass to one of his older siblings and their children- hence why Arthur wants Molly to marry someone (preferably Protestant) of his choosing in the event it should pass to any sons of her's.

160 notes · View notes

ego-meliorem-esse · 6 months

Note

your character designs are always stunning! absolutely adored that take on the Kirkland brothers (but also I’m guessing they’d come away from that night with a hefty hangover). Amazing work, and please keep it coming ❤️

Imagine this:

They visit 4 pubs in 4 hours. Its 10:45 pm they get home absolutely pissed beyond reason. They set up shop in Arthurs dinning room. Mind you its been only 4 hours. They try to argue about useless shit like what cheeky Nando's is best, then forget what the other said and accidentally agree. The other doesn't notice. They argue for the opposite of what they intended for another hour. As the 11:50 pm mark comes around, Arthur is on the table with his brothers not far behind. ALL bottles are smashed. Someone vomited in the vase by the bookshelf. It was probably Rhys. He certainly denies it tomorrow. Arthur called his kids about 15 times and the conversations lasted about 2 minutes bc he accidentally tapped the end call button. Only Alfred didn't pick up. Arthur has a rant. Alasdair has fallen asleep in the only comfortable place and position, on the couch. No one goes to work tomorrow.

All this happened in about 5 hours and 33 minutes.

#hetalia #hws england #hws scotland #hws ireland #hws wales #ask meli #my headcanons #i am on fire i need to beput down #not on fire in a good way i mean i am hot and melting

41 notes · View notes

fumblingmusings · 9 months

Text

Cardverse 2023

Day Two: Jokers - Curse | Spirits/Hauntings | Escape

@aphcardverse-week

The Kirkland Estate has four boys. As is tradition, the eldest will inherit the Estate and guard the garden; the second will join the church. The younger two, however, have something else in store. Gen | Referenced Minor USUK Romance | Mild Horror

“Peter!” Arthur snapped, yelling at the little boy across the gardens. He ran funny, Peter noted, with no skill in the physical sports that their brothers’ excelled in.

Peter was only young, no more than five, and so he came running when his fifteen year old brother called, meeting him part of the way along the trek.

“You cannot play there alone,” Arthur hissed, shaking the little boy's wrists in a chide born half from anger, half from fear. “You’ll be taken away! How many times has mother told you!”

There were some areas of the garden that were sealed off. Mother had even gone to the effort to fence off the bottom of the garden. Wrought iron gates with a literal skull decorating the main gate. A physical as well as magical barrier.

It had been hammered into all of her sons from the moment they were able to open the glass doors and leave the palace of their own free will: the gardens were free to explore, but leave the gated area alone. The creatures that lived there, spirits that few had the right to speak of, did not take kindly to trespassers.

The Kirkland estate had been built with the intent of gating off that area. Four boys were born to the family, two cousins who came and went as they pleased, and dozens of other second cousins who found interesting ways to make use of the family name. Mother’s husband was dead, conveniently, and she was quite content at running the estate, and the boys, herself. They all knew the rules - why their family mattered.

Protecting the trees and flowers at the base of the vast estate was all that mattered.

“I can’t even get past the fence,” Peter complained, taking to gnawing on Arthur’s grip, moaning whilst his teeth clamped down on his older brother’s bare wrist.

“What?” hissed Arthur. Typical. He wasn’t listening.

“I can’t get past the fence!” Mama’s magic -”

“Then why were you even trying?”

Arthur’s anger was unusual. He was usually a scatterbrain, never quite seeming to be fully listening to the conversation occurring in front of him. He had thrown himself into books as a young child, and developed a keen sense of magic as a result. Mama said he was the most talented magic user she had seen that generation. Arthur had preened like a robin bird, puffing up his chest in jubilation.

He still did not pay attention very well. You always had to speak twice to make him understand what you were saying. It did not bother Peter, who himself also struggled to listen, but Peter had also noticed that Arthur - like himself - had no trouble outside of the house, outside of the estate.

When the other blonde boy came to visit, that little prince, he got Arthur’s full attention. It was weird, the sharp look of relief when Arthur heard the royal family were on a progress through the countryside.

Peter was always ignored when the prince came. Alasdair and Rhys were always elsewhere doing other things, and Arthur clung to the prince like glue. The King and Prince had only left that morning, and Peter, bored and lonely, had wandered outside.

“The people are asking for me!”

Arthur froze, then shook his brother even harder. Peter released his bite from Arthur’s wrists, leaving deep imprints but unpunctured skin.

“You hear them?”

“Hear what?” Peter looked up at his brother, eyes wider than dinner plates.

Arthur stared, face whiter than Peter had ever known. If he were not only five, he would have noted that his brother’s tone had gone from chiding to desperate to hear a confirmation.

But Arthur composed himself, then tossed Peter’s arm away, punting him forward back into the palace.

“Go, you’re supposed to be having your lessons.”

“But I don’t wanna -”

“‘I want’ doesn’t get!” he snapped, quoting mother. “Go!”

Peter grumbled, but met with the governess at the base of the stairs, complaining but ready to return up to the nursery. Arthur remained behind, staring at the black fence half a kilometre away. The iron seemed to shudder, as if something had thrown itself against the metal. Arthur told himself it was eye strain from looking at something so far away in the garden, and slammed the doors shut.

*****

“You’re really gonna become Queen.”

“Hm?”

“You said yes to Alfred?” Peter said, rephrasing the question.

Arthur’s inability to listen had grown worse, and his desire to leave home had only grown stronger over the years.

“Oh. Yes.”

Worst of all, as much as his listening skills had declined, so had his eloquence. Rarely did the man speak in anything more than monosyllabic sentences. It was as though he was only half in the real world anymore, his attention and mind split between two realms. Peter had long assumed it was the result of magic, but every now and then he caught Arthur watching the gates, almost as often as Peter himself found himself walking by his mother’s magic. What was once every other month had become a weekly walk, which was now daily.

The pressure to visit multiple times was almost overwhelming, if not for the fact that proprietary etiquette dictated that going on the same walk more than once a day was just a step too shameful. As silly as it sounded, Peter was glad for the feeling of embarrassment.

“You’ll be Queen,” Peter said.

Arthur’s blonde hair appeared from under his sheets. He had been curled up, like a snail’s shell.

“Looks like it.”

“Everyone’ll bow to you.”

“As they should.”

Peter laughed, then sobered up abruptly.

“Do you want to be Queen?”

“Yes.” Arthur waved at Peter, who was lingering by the doorway. His little brother bustled over, joining Arthur on his bed. He collapsed into a heap, pinning Arthur under the sheets. “Alasdair will run the estate with ma, Rhys is nearly prepared to join the Church… I got lucky.”

“Lucky how?”

“I’m useful to the family. Alfred is… he is good. He will be a good King.”

“Do you like him?”

“Do I what?”

“Like him. I saw you kissing in the garden.”

Arthur choked on air, regretting not having caught Peter’s first attempt at asking.

“Never mind that,” he spluttered. From underneath the sheets, Peter could not see his brother’s face burn red. “It is more than we could have hoped for.”

“But do you like him?”

Peter heard Arthur chew his tongue.

“When I am with him, time stops.”

Even a twelve year old child thought it romantic. But…

“What about me?”

“What about you?” Arthur said, noting the misery in his brother’s voice.

“What will I do?”

“Traditionally when you have a lot of boys one joins the army. Or the navy?”

“I don’t like sailing.”

“Army then. You can protect me when I’m Queen.”

Peter was quiet, thinking for a while. Arthur emerged from under the sheets. “You don’t want to?” he prodded.

His little brother shook his head. “You always say I never listen.”

“At least you know it.”

“I could never follow orders.”

Arthur’s hand patted Peter’s straw like hair. “Then you are free to choose. Do what you want. Just be sure to pick something. Be an artist or a musician. Buy your own land and start a business. Whatever you want Peter.”

“Do you want to be Queen?”

Arthur was very quiet, then let his hand fall away.

“Yes.”

Peter stared out the oversized glass windows. Arthur had pulled open the sash windows slightly, and the gauzy curtains fluttered in the breeze.

“Really?”

“It’s what I wanted,” Arthur said unhelpfully. Still, Peter did not get the impression he was lying.

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Well. You are only twelve.”

Peter turned around, shuffling until he could join Arthur under the covers. Arthur allowed him to do so, one last time.

“I’ll miss you when you go,” Peter muttered, face down into a pillow.

Arthur snorted, unable to stop smiling. “I’m not dying Peter. Just moving.”

“But you’ll be busy. Are you going to keep studying magic?”

“It’s one of the reasons I was chosen.”

“Then you won’t have time for me anymore. Alasdair doesn’t. Rhys doesn’t. Mama is barely…”

“You’ll be alright. It’s part of growing up. You came later than us four, it’s all happening at once. Alsadair will still be here. You just have to wait until Wintertide, he’ll be back from his studies then.”

Peter made a sad noise, and Arthur did not know what to say.

Silence passed for a while, and Arthur believed his little brother was falling asleep. It was not so uncommon for him to crawl into Arthur’s bed at night, though he had not done it for at least a year. Arthur was leaving the day after tomorrow however, so he simply assumed it was no more than a feeling of nostalgia, for things to be as they once were. Change was frightening, especially for a child on the cusp of adolescence. The world seemed to be leaving him behind, and his older brother’s had destinies that - to be frank - Peter had no chance of matching.

“Do you hear them still?” Peter whispered.

“Who?” Arthur asked.

“The spirits at the bottom of the garden.”

Arthur's breathing stopped, and when it resumed, it was shallow and fast, like a panting cat.

“What do they say to you?” he whispered, terrified of the answer.

“They say they're stuck. What do you hear?”

“Pardon?”

“You hear them too, I know you do. But you don’t hear them around Prince Alfred.”

Arthur was quiet again, closing his eyes.

“No.”

“Is that why you're becoming Queen?”

“Only a little.”

“Do Ali or Rhys hear it too?”

“No, just us.”

“Why?”

Arthur said nothing, and Peter made a grumpy sound. “You’re being annoying.”

His elder brother smacked him on the head, not too harshly, but it made Peter hiss.

“I don’t know Peter. I don’t know why you hear them. It is supposed to just be me that hears them.”

Peter latched on to this piece of information, and in his excitement he began to babble,

“Why? What do you hear them say? They always ask to be let out because they want to play with me. I don’t believe them, because Mama is always so serious when she talks about them, and she wouldn’t hurt someone without a good reason, and the King asked her to protect it, right?”

“...Right.”

“So they can be as nice as they want, I don’t believe them.” He looked to Arthur, expression expecting praise. He was disappointed, however, to see that his brother’s face was pale and withdrawn. Frightened.

“What are they, Arthur?” Peter asked. “What do they say to you?”

“Nothing nice.”

“What -”

“Go to sleep Peter. Listen to mother, and me. The moment you can, leave home. Okay? I’ve been driven half mad by what they tell me. They’ll run out of patience with you in time.”

“What do they tell you?” Peter argued, “Ma won’t say anything about it, I can’t tell her!”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “What do you mean you haven’t told her?”

He scrambled to get out of bed, Peter losing his balance and falling off the mattress in turn.

“Wait -”

“She needs to know Peter!”

The brothers went into the hallway, Peter trailing after Arthur, panicked. He threw his weight around, trying to slow Arthur down. There were no servants, it was too late for them to be roaming the halls. There was just the two brothers, arguing like children.

But Peter was a child. He was just a child. It was Arthur that should have known better.

“No, don't tell mama, please!”

“Why?”

“Because I’m strong enough to ignore them! They’ve never been mean to me, they talk and keep me company when you’re all too busy for me.”

The childish spite made Arthur snort, but it did not last long. Whatever pity Arthur felt for his little brother was smothered in a blinding fright. The buzzing in the back of his head, forever present and only sometimes understandable, was growing louder, a pressing shrill noise behind the eyes that was making him feel partially blind. His limbs moved jerkily, the confusion in his mind not letting him move smoothly. He never had been very elegant.

“That’s not the point! If you’re cursed like me -”

It was the wrong word to use.

“I’m not cursed!”

Immediately Arthur realised his mistake, and tried to get his arms around Peter, who had now backed several steps away, towards the grand staircase and the main entrance.

“Peter -” Arthur began, approaching the boy like a wild animal. The boy’s eyes were wet with tears, and the ringing in Arthur’s head grew louder.

“Why would you say that?” Peter cried. “You’re so high and mighty just because you’re gonna be Queen huh? You’re the one that’s cursed! They’ve never said a mean thing to me my entire life - what did you do to anger them?”

Arthur went to grab Peter’s wrist, only to miss as the boy ducked and began to run down the stairs.

“Nothing that’s the -”

A distinct boyish laughter filled Arthur’s head, making him fling himself away from the stairwell. Like his little brother, his eyes flooded with tears. Furious at himself, at the voice in his head, he finally shrieked, speaking to them for the first time, “Shut up! Shut up!”

His screaming only served to further frighten Peter, and Arthur gaped as Peter ducked under the stairs. He was heading for the glass doors that led to the garden.

“No! Wait, wait Peter! Peter come back.” Halfway down the stairs, he thought better of it and thought to pull in his mother, whose commanding presence would have Peter calm down and come back inside. She needed to know.

Some Queen he would be. He could not even get his brother to listen to him.

Turning and tripping back up the steps and down the polished halls, Arthur called out, “Mother! Ma! Ma!”

Arthur threw himself into his mother’s room, only to find that she was not there.

“Where the fuck…”

Another laugh, ghostly and ghastly, snide and mocking and making Arthur’s heart leap into his throat. Wasting time. He was wasting time.

Arthur followed his brother outside.

“Peter… Peter!”

The garden was black, with what little light there was from the house did not stretch down all the way to the gated area. Arthur could no longer see Peter, but it was not difficult to tell where he had gone. The wind was strong, blowing his ragged hair across his forehead.

The laughter in his head, as always, grew louder when he approached the gates. The air seemed to thrum with power, the iron shaking and groaning terribly, like a dying man’s last breaths.

“Peter? Peter I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

His hand hovered over the gate, but he could not bring himself to touch. Few could gain entry. Mother, being one, Arthur, being the other. It was a gift of their magic. A terrible awful gift. They alone could hear the spirits, they alone could contain them, they alone could break them out.

Or so they had thought.

And it was not although all spirits were bad. Arthur knew plenty of fairies and brownies and goblins and other creatures who, provided they were treated with respect and given suitable compensation for their assistance, were good to have on side.

These creatures could not be bargained with. They answered to no-one, held loyalty to nothing. The King’s response had been to lock them away - of course they loathed the family which held the keys. Who did not wish harm against their jailer?

Arthur was so stupid. He knew Peter could hear things. He had just assumed that mother would have also known, that she would have had a handle on things. Instead, the family’s habit of bottling everything up had come back to bite them in the arse. Again.

Arthur did not touch the gate, unsure if Peter had entered.

“Peter!” he tried once more. Arthur turned, desperately trying to see into the dark, but there was no sign of the little boy.

The iron cracked.

A shockwave threw Arthur back flat on his back. Gasping at the blinding light that burned his eyes, he sat up as soon as he was relieved of the pressure to his chest.

The garden, the hidden garden of rotted plants and dead trees, fallen leaves and iron red soil, throbbed.

Peter was inside, back to Arthur facing the largest tree: a long dead oak with a gaping hole in its trunk. Arthur had been told that the hole spread to the ground, deep, deep into the ground. Where it went, not even mother knew. But she spoke of it like a mouth. A hungry maw half starved.

Arthur tried to get up, rise to his feet, drag Peter back past the ruined gates and fling as best a barrier spell as he could, but Peter was moving faster, not even looking back as he clambered up over the straggling roots, curling up and towards the mouth.

“Wait! Peter, don’t!”

His little brother gave no signs of hearing, and with an eerie silence, entered the mouth, and dropped out of sight.

“Peter!”

The laughing in Arthur’s head became unbearable, and he collapsed back to the damp earth with a scream.

Curled into a ball, Arthur clamped his hands over his hears, pitifully calling out for his mother, wherever she was, as if she could make the voices stop, as if she could undo what had been done, as if she had a chance of bringing Peter back and reversing the spirits escape.

Arthur sobbed, beating his fists against his temple. The spirits spoke to him one last time as they fled the garden, ready to embark on whatever chaos they saw fit, never to be heard within Arthur’s mind again.

He would never forget their words, nor the promises they had made all his life, a promise he finally understood.

Congratulations to the new Queen. Congratulations to our new Joker.

#hetalia #fanfic #cardverse 2023 #op #hws england #hws sealand #cardverse

23 notes · View notes

senditothemoonn · 4 months

Text

Headcanons

#my art #scotfra #francis bonnefoy #alasdair kirkland #hws scotland #hws france #aph france #aph scotland #hetalia france #hetalia scotland #hetalia scotfra #hetalia

403 notes · View notes

needcake · 1 year

Text

Day 3: rebuild

Engport | G | 600 words

@engportevents

Obituary, 19th of March, 1979:

It is with profound sadness that the family of George Kirkland announces his passing after prolonged illness, at the age of 89. Mr. Kirkland is survived by his five children and loving wife.

The funeral service will be held at South London Crematorium, Rowan Road at 12pm on Sunday 25th March. All are welcome to attend. Please make any charitable donations to The British Heart Foundation.

Job posting, 22nd of June, 1979:

Caretaker for elderly widow

Requirements: experience in the position, fluent English. Desirable: good conversationalist, knows how to play bridge. 10£/hour. Details by phone: 020-35844783

Ad, 4th of May, 1982:

The Flying Cod

GRAND OPENING

Join the Kirkland brothers in the grand opening of The Flying Cod

On Saturday, May 8th - 9577 Mill Lane London

Free chips until stocks run out!

News excerpt, 14th of January, 1983:

The police could not determine who started the fire, but from eye-witness accounts it is believed that the owners of the establishment had a disagreement and that it escalated throughout the night, resulting in an all-out brawl. Luckily, they were able to evacuate the premises before the fire reached the second story of the building, but medical teams reported two wounded from the fight.

Neither Mr. Kirkland could be reached for comment.

Ad, 28th of March, 1983:

The Flying Cod II

RE-INAUGURATION

Join the Kirkland brothers once more to celebrate the re-inauguration of our favorite pub!

On Saturday, April 2nd - 9577 Mill Lane London

No free chips

Job posting, 12th of April, 1983:

Bar manager

Requirements: being fucking good at your job, not being an arsehole. Availability to start right away. Details by phone: 020-35844783

Job posting, 13th of April, 1983:

Bartender

Requirements: not being an idiot, ability to serve drinks and keep glasses clean without breaking them, can’t be that fucking hard. Availability to start right away. Details by phone: 020-35844783

News excerpt, 27th of April, 1983:

The owners of the pub, Arthur and Alasdair Kirkland, were taken by the police to the station after the fight, where they will have to answer for charges of Actual Bodily Harm (ABH) and Assault On A Police Constable In The Execution Of His Or Her Duty. Both Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Kirkland’s lawyers advised their clients to give no comment to this newspaper.

Obituary, 29th of April, 1983:

It is with profound sadness that the family of Áine Kirkland announces her passing, at the age of 86. Mrs. Kirkland is survived by her five children.

The funeral service will be held at South London Crematorium, Rowan Road at 12pm on Thursday 5th May. All are welcome to attend. Please make any charitable donations to The British Heart Foundation.

Sales posting, 12th of May, 1983:

Pub glassware and kitchenware for sale. Details by phone: 020-35844783

Headline, 7th of August, 1983:

Former Pub Owner Hit By Double-Decker Bus

Job posting, 12nd of August, 1983:

Caretaker for snobbish brother

Requirements: experience in the position, the patience of a saint. Desirable: good looking bloke with a Portuguese accent, knows how to play bridge. 12£/hour. Details by phone: 020-35844783

News excerpt, 23rd of October, 1983:

A neighbor approached our reporter to say that she has filed a complaint against the noise with the building manager: “They are at it every night, my cats are traumatized!”

Ad, 21st of December, 1983:

The Flying Cod III

RE-INAUGURATION – THE LAST ONE!

Join us to celebrate the final re-inauguration of our favorite pub!

On Christmas Day, December 25th - 9577 Mill Lane London

Free fish and chips until 8p.m.

Drag shows on Tuesdays!

#engportweekevent #engportweek #engport #hws england #hws portugal #hetalia #a wild fic appears

29 notes · View notes

mpregfrance · 1 year

Note

❤️‍🔥🔥 you know I can’t NOT ask for some scotfra opinions

ok so like

scotfra is my sanctuary ship, like i want nothing bad to happen to them ever, no abuse little angst (tho i'm a sucker for hurt/comfort)

they are an extremely codependent couple of two very different yet very similar people. they are obviously so loveydovey and tenderhearted. the peach and coconut analogy is incredibly accurate. not codependent in a toxic way, codependent in a 'can't function without you' way where they bring out the best in each other. they're both big criers, though aly can be stoic. also they have lots of physical relations.... passionate, gentle, lovemaking and rough nasty fucking... it's always respectful tho

alasdair is super overprotective of franny and can be a little controlling, using that whole big man thing to his advantage, but he is never outright abusive like this man is pure and good (comfort character vibes not gonna lie) and everything he does is bc he loves his wee wifey. King Simp as we know.

as for francis, he usually likes this behavior, but sometimes if he's getting fed up he'll storm off or throw a hissy fit. something he also loves to do is make his man jealous. it's soooo hot.... but it actually kinda hurts Alasdair if he does it too often and he has to remind franny that he's Daddy

#thank u ScotFra queen #ask and ye shall receive #ScotFra #Scotland hetalia #aph France #francis bonnefoy #alasdair kirkland #also i love when alasdair is Pining and they eventually get together

16 notes · View notes

thegreatdeprussian · 1 year

Text

Matthew's a perfectly behaved kid but if you ask him to wipe his nose, he'll reach for Alasdair 's sleeves

#hetalia #hws canada #hws scotland #matthew williams #alasdair kirkland #alistair kirkland #i believe arthur did the same when he was younger #and he totally supports matthew

31 notes · View notes

gremlins-hotel · 8 months

Note

ooh also.

Scotland can caber toss France the same way he can do england, he does it too, just gently and onto the bed instead of with the intent to defenestrate him.

Alisdair has SHITTY vision, all the isles do to me, and even with glasses the man can't make out colours.

"That's brown."

"That's maroon."

"That's also brown."

"That's burgundy."

"That's brown."

"That's oxblood."

i think everyone deserves to defenestrate arthur kirkland at least once in their lives (i say this as affectionately as possible). glad to see that alasdair doesn't defenestrate his favorite frenchman though.

and you saying the color thing just SMACKS of my poor dad, thank you

#callsign gremlin checking in

14 notes · View notes

a-luran · 9 months

Note

Oh my gosh I want to know more about all of them but in particular the Kirkland revivals band sounds very intriguing and is giving me visions of the bros in a band and I am losing my mind 👀 and PLEASE I need to know more about the werewolf au

phi-phil! hello! it is in fact a band fic like the title implies. I may posted a bit about it before but in essence:

Sean, Alasdair, Rhys and Arthur all grow up on the road and on top of each other, all of them the children of legacy folk musicians from across the UK. Sean and Alasdair are part of the older lot of children kicking about, doing odd jobs until Sean graduates into performing backing vocals and instrumentals when he vaults over seventeen. Alasdair could be doing the same if he wanted to, he certainly has the voice and the composition skill, but he is finds his niche in their mismatched community as a technician; a jack of all trades with a technical degree. Arthur spends his early teenage years watching Alasdair fix and carry equipment like it weighs nothing and learns something that tastes a lot like craving. Something more visceral than longing. Rhys is an easy child, stubborn and well loved although comes up chaffing against the constant travel. They grow up around each other, on top of each other, camper vans and sleeping bags under nylon, under the stars. They are a good draw together, talented and brought up like kin. They have never known anything except this; the road, the music, and each other.

(And what Arthur treasures most: the mornings when he slips into Alasdair's camper to share his warmth. The evenings when Alasdair will tune his violin for him and strum along on his guitar to whatever Arthur composes, slowly coming into his own as a musician. This fic is not scoteng-centric exactly, but it does take a shine on his relationship with Alasdair especially. And his journey as a trans man and a singer.)

A lot of things come to head and inevitably the band falls apart. Rhys applies to university and gets in, and although he only tells Arthur it puts a strain on his relationship with everyone. Sean is constantly fighting the people who manage them, for valid reasons but also partly because he is on a warpath after his biological father contacts him. Alasdair is getting more and more responsibilities piled on him under the guise of 'we are all family here; surely this is not labour exploitation'; they barely see his hide around. What deals the final blow is when Arthur comes into rehearsals one morning, a few months shy of eighteen, with his hair shorn off. He'd spent some three years at that point negotiating how he presented when it was just 'their family' and being pressured to keep up appearances when performing. Rhys having the courage to apply for uni is what tips him off, that and the realisation that he doesn't want to spend the rest of his life pretending he isn't a man just to save face. And now, Arthur has always been headstrong but the way he shouts back that day when their 'manager' confronts him is the end of it. Alasdair misses the shouting match and only realises that Arthur finally cut his hair when Arthur comes to find him after his nights shift. He cards his fingers through the choppy nape of his neck and doesn't know what to say. His silence is plenty though, and Arthur makes up his mind.

He prepares, sees his eighteenth quietly, and three weeks later he is gone. Slips away early in the morning and takes only what he can carry with him. Clothes that belonged to each of them; Sean's fiddle. What little cash he has to his name.

The rest of the fic follows him as he busks his was from the UK to Nashville. Francis takes him on as a manager and helps set him up and support his gender transition with gigs. The others don't hear from him until Rhys does a mad dash to the radio when he recognises Arthur's voice crooning form an ocean away. I honestly love thinking about this fic and I spend a lot of time just adding songs to a playlist for it.

The werewolf AU was born from an extremely self indulgent idea. It is 60% smut, 25% fighting 15% more smut. Alasdair and Arthur grow in a group home but become estranged by well over a decade after Arthur runs away. The both end up resenting and missing each other by equal parts. Alasdair is attacked by a werewolf while he's out in the woods one night and with his body spiralling out of control the only person he can think of (and that he instinctively seeks out) is Arthur who has been carving out a life for himself. Francis is a necromancer living across the street from him in this one and again 10/10 just pure self-indulgence on my part.

Thank you for asking about these! I'm so happy to talk about them.

#scoteng #freagradh

20 notes · View notes