Hey Can I Just Say That The Way You Draw Alfred Is Just A+?? His Glasses Just Look SO GOOD On Him!!!

Mochi America as big chungus

Talked with @ask-risorgimento-italy about nation conscious and nation death last night, and here’s kind of my take on it. They are people, but there’s something different simmering underneath.

dad-and-son snapshot #3—(aka, additional Prohibition-era…incidents. this scene ended up going in a slightly different direction—but thank you so much for the inspiration @jessaverant lmao!)

New York City, 1924 redux

Alfred will admit that he had, as usual, mostly spaced out by the time he arrived at the British Consul-General’s residence on Fifth Avenue. Hey, he’d had had a shitty week and was only too happy to escape Washington D.C for a nice pad with a view of Central Park, alright? 

He sinks into an overstuffed floral chintz armchair, and takes in the large windows and expensive-looking furnishings. “Wow, Sir Gloster Armstrong is letting you have free run of this place? Damn.” 

“He’s on vacation and his name is Harry, you ridiculous lad. Gloster is his middle name.” Arthur retorts. Well, Alfred thought, that was still leagues better than Fly-from-Fornication.

Anyway, shit, these were really nice, Consul-General worthy digs. Even the floral chintz was kind of stylish with the rest of the well-appointed décor. In the dimming twilight of the encroaching night, the soft, warm lighting made the whole place exude cosiness. “Y’know, I could get used to living here, old man.” 

“You could also get used to cleaning your apartment,” his father remarks drily, getting out the decanter and several glasses. “Harry took pity on me upon hearing of my ordeal residing with you the last time around.” 

“What the fuck, man—I was an awesome host. You enjoyed getting smashed at those speakeasies I brought you to! The jazz was great too, you said so!”

Before Arthur can make his counterargument, they’re interrupted by the loud jangling of the telephone in the study. The older man clucks his tongue in annoyance and heads into the adjoining room to take the call. 

When Arthur doesn’t return within five minutes, Alfred glances around. Where the heck were the drinks? His father totally promised there would be great booze, and that nobody from the Consul-General to the house-staff cared. They too, being reasonable human beings, were unable to tolerate the barbarity of Prohibition, after all. Getting up, he spies a rather strange-looking bottle on the sideboard, positioned next to the other crystal decanters. There was no label, but it was obviously some sort of wine, packaged in a novelty, collectible bottle.

(Later, Alfred will blame it all on a combination of fatigue and the dim lighting inexcusably affecting his normally impeccable and flawless judgment.)

The seal of the bottle looks strange but is quickly dispatched by the bottle opener. The liquid sloshes into the glass easily—but it goes down hideously stale and viscous in his mouth. Fucking hell, it was disgusting—what kind of horrible wine was this? 

“You said there was good, finely-aged wine but this tastes like trash!” Alfred directs an accusing gaze at Arthur, who has just returned. 

But instead of launching into a long lecture about the art of wine-tasting and how Alfred lacked the requisite patience to appreciate fine wines older than his government or some other tedious bullshit—his father’s eyes only narrow in bewilderment as they fix onto the bottle Alfred has clutched in his hands. And then—much to Alfred’s annoyance—he bursts into wild laughter. 

“You absolute—absolute plonker, Alfred Bloody Fucking Jones—my word— the Curator will be furious but oh my, this is just too good—” His father is actually breathless. There are actually tears in the old fart’s eyes. 

“Care to get a hold of yourself and explain exactly what folly I have committed, old man?” He says sulkily, as he rinses his mouth out with water from a nearby jug of water. “Have I drunk toilet cleaner or liquid fertiliser or whatever it is that you Europeans routinely keep on your sideboards?” 

Arthur sniggers. He almost dissolves into another round of cackling, and only just manages to collect himself. 

“Oh, you drank finely-aged wine, alright. Just not the one I got for us—this one was found in the cellar of a Roman nobleman’s villa in Wiltshire. Somehow, it got mixed up and left behind instead of being packed away for delivery to your Met Museum—it’s on loan from us to the Roman gallery. Anyway—brilliant job, lad! It’s been mouldering away for some 1600 years!”

I relate to this so much.

“On the negative side, studies show that some former military brats struggle to develop and maintain deep, lasting relationships, and can feel like outsiders to U.S. civilian culture. The transitory lifestyle can hinder potential for constructing concrete relationships with people and developing emotional attachments to specific places.”

“Although neither a clearly negative or positive trait, studies also show that many adult military brats report difficulty settling down in one geographic location and also report a desire to move (relocate) every few years, many adult military brats call this "the itch”.“

"A significant percentage of Military brats report difficulty in forming strong relations with people or places, but very often do form strong connections with (or in some cases aversion to) the notion of a military base and the communities in which they find themselves. This is because the knowledge, experience, values, ideas, attitudes, skills, tastes, and techniques that are associated with the military can sometimes differ from civilian culture.”

“The comfort, or sense of restriction, (or both) that can be found on military bases is not limited to the physical trappings, but can be fortified via some of the consistent rituals common to them. When moving around the world, these rituals can help brats feel at home in their new community. Even though the faces and geography change, the "base” can remain recognizable because the rituals are often uniform.“

"Recent studies show that, although brats move on average every 3 years, they do not grow accustomed to moving. The constantly changing environment and openness to others has a price. Rather than develop problem-solving skills, there is a temptation to simply leave a problem without resolving it. If a person does not like somebody or gets into a fight, they know that in a few years somebody will move and the problem will disappear.”

“As adults, military brats sometimes try to reunite with their brat heritage. A recent study, "Military Brats: Issues and Associations in Adulthood,” identified several reasons why some military brats, as adults, seek out brat organizations. Military Brats can feel a “sense of euphoria” when they discover that other brats share the same feelings and emotions. According to the study, brats share a bond with one another through common experiences that transcends race, religion, and nationality.“

{Source}

I am officially late for my antisocial appointment.

Meanwhile in the USSR

Russia: So. Who broke it? I’m not mad. I just wanna know.

Ukraine: I did. I broke it…

Russia: No. No, you didn’t. Belarus?

Belarus: Don’t look at me. Look at Lithuania.

Lithuania: What? I didn’t break it.

Belarus: Huh. That’s weird. How did you even know it was broken?

Lithuania: Because it’s sitting right in front of us and it’s broken!

Belarus: Suspicious.

Lithuania: No, it’s not!

Moldova: If it matters, probably not… Estonia was the last one to use it.

Estonia: Liar! I don’t even drink that crap!

Moldova: Oh really? Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier?

Estonia: I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles. Everyone knows that, Moldova!

Ukraine: Alright let’s not fight. I broke it, let me pay for it, Russia.

Russia: No. Who broke it?

Belarus, whispering: Brother, Latvia has been awfully quiet…

Latvia: Really?!

Belarus: Yeah, really!

…

Russia: I broke it. I burned my hand so I punched it. I predict ten minutes from now, they’ll be at each other’s throats with warpaint on their faces and a pig head on a stick. Good. It was getting a little chummy around here.

Princess Louise Margaret, Duchess of Connaught (right) and sister Marie, Princess of Netherlands. Early 1880s

芋LOG Pixiv ID: 49449985 Member: 1695756 - もんたろ

※Posted with the artist’s permission ~Please ask the artist first if you want to repost the artist’s art~

Could you draw some swissfra?

yess gladly!!! :D

since i love cardverse!swissfra so much, here’s some of that au :>

this is why basch never smiles