of all the things to get me to come back and make a post, of course it would be a tumblr poll game. well, anyway, i think it’s about time i gave this account a bit of an update.
first of all, i know it’s been a while. it’s been almost a year since i’ve posted anything, either to my ao3 or here. my departure, abrupt as it was, wasn’t planned, and i do apologize for the works i have posted that haven’t been completed. i’d love to say they will be one day, but i’ll elaborate more on that in a moment. for now, i just want to say that i have no intentions of fully abandoning this account. i love all the fics i’ve written and posted; i love the kind, wonderful comments i’ve received and have no intentions of losing. this account isn’t going anywhere, nor will i abandon my works.
however.
this brings me to my next—and main—point, which is: i am putting this account on a indefinite hiatus. i will not say i’ll never be back, because i likely will. i simply don’t know when. and i am very excited to explain why.
for the past two years, i have spent a long, long time deciding what i want to do with my life outside of fic writing. about a year and a half ago, i decided to go back to school and go for my ma and phd. a year ago, i applied to two schools, both of which are outside of my home-country, but that are ranked within the top ten schools in the world for the program i want to attend. six months ago, i got accepted into my top choice. one month ago, i moved to an entirely new country.
i just concluded my first week of classes, and i, truly, have never been happier. i’ve established a dissertation topic about something i am genuinely passionate about, begun to build a life for myself with my friends who kindly let me move in with them, met new people, made new friends, and fallen back in love with a future i, at one point, never thought i’d care enough to see.
the work load is rigorous and overwhelming (and i’m sure i will curse all of my past decisions at some point this term, alas), but, for right now, this is where i need to be, and this is what i need to do.
which, unfortunately, brings me back to this account. as much as i may want to, i don’t have the time or energy to dedicate to writing fic right now. my focus is on my studies, my future, and my ability to make the most out of what i’ve worked so hard to achieve.
i was never an overtly popular account, nor were my works really well known or considered fandom classics (nor should they be, in my opinion), but i have friends here who i know would like to hear from me, and i’m sorry it isn’t better news in terms of continuing this account. but i’m happy. very happy. and i may very well fall back in love with the stories i’ve written and finish them one day. but it, unfortunately, will not be any time soon, and for that i apologize.
(of course, i’d like to send a very, very big thank you to @lordofspamano for thinking of me and tagging me in a lovely little game. i’m sorry to have broken the chain, and i encourage any and everyone to go check out his work. it’s all wonderful, as is he.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
skip your early classes, let’s learn how our bodies work
chapter two: ii | chapter one
“So,” Lovino starts, speaking slowly and deliberately as he puts the pieces together on what may be the dumbest puzzle he has ever seen, but by God it may just be dumb enough to work. “You want us to get married to get better financial aid. Right?”
Antonio nods. “Right.”
“And then, you want us to get divorced after we graduate. Am I understanding this correctly?”
Antonio nods. Again. “Yes.”
After a minute of deliberative silence on Lovino’s part and impatient, twitching eagerness on Antonio’s, Lovino hums, shrugs, and turns back to his laptop. “Minimum three free meals and a nap. With pasta.”
Or, a story of two idiots in love, as told in three parts.
multichapter, spamano.
Words: 15,186 Chapters: 2/3, Language: English
me??? actually posting something on time?????? instead of immediately dropping off the face of the earth????????? shocking, i know. i even amaze myself. pls forgive any mistakes, as per usual. i am. going blind from staring at this for so long <3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
skip your early classes, let’s learn how our bodies work
chapter one: i
“So,” Lovino starts, speaking slowly and deliberately as he puts the pieces together on what may be the dumbest puzzle he has ever seen, but by God it may just be dumb enough to work. “You want us to get married to get better financial aid. Right?”
Antonio nods. “Right.”
“And then, you want us to get divorced after we graduate. Am I understanding this correctly?”
Antonio nods. Again. “Yes.”
After a minute of deliberative silence on Lovino’s part and impatient, twitching eagerness on Antonio’s, Lovino hums, shrugs, and turns back to his laptop. “Minimum three free meals and a nap. With pasta.”
Or, a story of two idiots in love, as told in three parts.
multichapter, spamano.
Words: 16,000, Chapters: 1/3, Language: English
Fandoms: Hetalia
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: M/M
Relationships: South Italy/Spain (Hetalia), France & Prussia & Spain (Hetalia), Belgium & South Italy (Hetalia)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - College/University, Friends to Husbands to Lovers, because who wouldn’t marry their buddy for some extra money, Fake Marriage, Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Codependency, Antonio and his floaty inner monologue my beloved, this could double as a character study if you squint hard enough, A few other characters do make appearances but not enough to be worth tagging, Appalling use of parentheses and italics (but what else is new)
im hesitant to say im back, but im not not back, y’know? i still have much on my plate and will be prone to sudden bouts of disappearances in the near future, but ive also been sitting on this behemoth for far too long. the plan is to post a chapter a week, but we'll see how that goes. ive never written anything as long as what this fic will be, so be kind, please. ok thx!!!!!!!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
in praise of oranges
“the universe is going to catch you,” romano warned. there was blood beneath his fingernails, and his hands did not shake. “god will catch you.”
“let it, and let him,” spain said, “and let them catch us together when they find me.” spain kissed him, and beneath the lingering hints of ash, romano thought he could taste the distant sting of oranges, of sunburn and ocean water, of maybe.
oneshot, spamano
Words: 1,024, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Hetalia
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Categories: M/M
Relationships: South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Additional Tags: Canonical Character Death, in a way? i suppose, more me fiddling with the notion of nation-personifications dying, and coming back to life over and over again, Depictions of Violence, it's not super explicit or graphic i dont think but it's there and i want to give warning, this also isnt as angsty as the tags are making it out to be so dont worry, i just like to be Dramatique™️, and i will forever be enamored with the idea of romano being fussy over battleweary spain, which was mainly my excuse for writing this, i've written it before and lord knows i will do it again
im!!!! alive!!!! and still posting, believe it or not!!!!!!
i did just move so im still settling in, but please enjoy this while i attempt to pull my life together <3333
Not that Spain blames him. Not that Spain isn’t also just as bored, dulled, yearning and longing and aching for the willowed shade of broken sunlight through blooming Juniper trees, warmed by humid air and clouds so soft he could pull them from the skies, if only he had the will to lift a hand to them, to try.
His boss will likely scold him for not paying attention, but Spain can’t be bothered today, too unfocused to listen to off-handed bickering made worse through obligation, not when he can still hear the thumping of rain on the roof, pattering against the windows.
Not when he can watch Romano skate his nails against the table, pressing the soft of his fingertips up and down as if he were writing something, composing something, following the tune of a melody only half-constructed and–
Spain sits up a little straighter, squinting.
Romano keeps his eyes half-lidded and hazy, looking for all the world like he is two seconds away from drifting to sleep, but Spain can see the way his fingers move, curled, as if cradling the neck of an invisible guitar, other hand almost imperceptibly pressing down into the table, plucking notes Spain can almost hear being strummed aloud, if only he tried hard enough to listen.
Spain watches, head propped on an arm that fell asleep about half an hour ago, too lost and transfixed on the image of Romano shirking his duties in favor of– of writing, maybe, or composing, creating something Spain is already desperate to hear, to mold into his life in the way he molds everything Romano does, every noise Romano makes.
He’s out of his seat seconds before they’ve officially been dismissed, but Romano doesn’t notice, still in that world of tabletop timbres and notes unwritten, of hands born to cultivate.
“What are you playing?” Spain asks, and he smiles when Romano startles, eyes widening and fingers dropping, forming into fists atop pages with not one word written on them.
Not that Spain blames him. His own are the same, after all.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Romano snaps, cheeks ruddy with caught-out indignation, and Spain knows he was right, that he’d formed himself an audience for a performer who didn’t know he was being watched.
“You were playing something,” he says, beaming when Romano collects his papers with more stumbled force than necessary, always too combative, too cagey with his vulnerabilities.
Romano huffs, says nothing, brushing past Spain with shoulders that are a little too tense for comfort.
Spain follows, whistling, doing his best to find the cadence of whatever rhythm Romano had been tapping against the table.
It takes two months for Romano to bring it up again, and when he does, it’s by dropping down next to Spain in the sand, feet and ankles damp with dusk-sweetened sea foam, hands steady and curled around a guitar he had always insisted he rarely used, that sits too comfortably in his lap to be anything less than adored.
“Don’t say anything,” is all Romano says, and Spain can only bring himself to smile, arms pressed atop his knees as he feels the kiss of broken waves and clumped seaweed against his toes. He’s more than content to wait, would always be content to wait if it meant Romano pressing himself into the space at Spain’s side, frown on his lips like he’s shy, wary.
Romano shoots him a look—I mean it, bastard!—but Spain only rests his chin on his arms, watching with slowly blinking eyes and a smile he is sure is horrifically besotted.
Romano doesn’t look at him when he plays, head tilted down so his hair falls across his forehead, curling around his eyebrows and the rounds of his ears. Spain bites back the urge to brush it away, and when Romano begins to hum, the softest accompaniment to a tune Spain has never heard, Spain can feel his heartbeat in the palms of his hands, in the urge to mold himself against Romano’s back, to be close and close and close.
Still, he does not move, waiting until Romano’s fingers pluck the final string, mumbling hums and soft breaths petering out until the only noise left is the swell of the ocean and the rustle of air through grains of sand and surf.
Spain blinks—once, twice—and Romano clears his throat, forefinger and thumb drawing absentminded patterns across the guitar’s body.
“I wrote it,” he says, voice low, deep, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been working on it for…fuck, I don’t know how long. A while, I guess. Mostly when I mi–”
He flushes pink, voice cutting off in a choke, and Spain sits up immediately, thinks he knows, and his delight is immeasurable, second only to grand, enamored infatuation.
“When you what?” he asks, because how can he not when Romano is looking like that, like he’s already cursing himself for speaking, as if Spain wouldn’t lay himself and his heart and his soul bare just to find the words humanity hasn’t created yet.
“Forget it.” Romano is scowling, bristling in that way he gets when he speaks before thinking, when Spain is close enough to hear him—when he’s paying attention—and Spain couldn’t forget this if he was given a millennium, if he was given an eternity and longer.
“When you what?” he asks again, because he has to, has to, would be a fool not to, would die, maybe, if he doesn’t. “When you…miss me?”
Romano shoots him a look so blistering and venomous that Spain knows he’s right, knows immediately and without question he’s right, and his hand is around Romano’s wrist before Romano even has the chance to stand, to run, because of course he’d run, and Spain can’t bear the weight of solitude right now, anyway.
“You wrote a song for me.”
Romano splutters, snarls. “It is not– I didn’t fucking write it for you!”
Spain could kiss him, wants to, wants to. “I can’t believe you wrote a song for me!”
“Are you even listening to me? I just said I didn’t–”
He’s red, so red, every shade the most beautiful color Spain has ever seen, and he can’t find it within himself to temper the need to touch, to be close and closer still, to kiss, fingers following the curve of ocean-misted waves caught on dark eyelashes, tangling in knots around his knuckles.
“My song,” he insists, lips light as they brush the warm of Romano’s mouth.
“Not what I sai–”
Spain swallows the words he knows are only half-hearted, can feel the truth in the press of the guitar into his sternum, in the hand fisted in his shirt, in the lips humming against his.
Romano startles, head turning over his shoulder as if he were searching for a spy, a conspirator. Sometimes, that’s not unlike how Portugal feels here, always a little too relegated to the outside for comfort, too close to the inside for tranquility or freedom.
He shakes the thought away, eyebrow raised in question at the only other person here who hasn’t exhausted him yet.
Romano’s eyes flick from his face to the windows, to the rain pelting the windowpanes, and he scoffs. “And do what? Get soaked?” His fingers tap the glass in his hand, and Portugal watches with muted disinterest as the wine rocks back and forth, back and forth, an ocean all its own, confined and confined and confined.
“Better than staying here.” Staying here and playing pretend with a government who can only just tell him and Spain apart, and Portugal doesn’t have the stomach anymore for the accent or the language or the face of it all.
Romano tsks, and, for some reason, this infuriates him, as if Romano is content to sit here and be lessened, nothing more than a jewel on a crown on a head who so blatantly picks favorites. Like they’re above it all, the two of them.
He turns, and he leaves, and he doesn’t care enough to see if anyone watches him go.
vi.
“That was–”
Portugal is already pushing up off the bed, flicking hair from his eyes. “Want a drink?”
“Obviously,” Romano snorts, but he sounds like he’s amused, and when Portugal turns around to look at him, all he can see is the way Romano’s lips curl around his teeth, how his cheeks look when he smiles.
ix.
Romano snores when he sleeps, raspy and rough, and when his hair falls in front of his eyes, his nose crinkles with the tickle of it, too deep in dreams to bother moving it away.
We shouldn’t be doing this, Portugal thinks, because things are messy, only getting worse, and he doesn’t understand how Romano doesn’t grow restless beneath a thumb that demands obedience, that is all too comfortable pressing down on the pulse of their throats, hard enough to feel it beating, not hard enough to choke.
“I wish this was easy,” he says instead, and his skin goes cold when he realizes he means it, green eyes already looking down at tanned legs tangled with his, errant curl brushing his collarbone.
He’s gotten used to that, too.
iv.
Portugal can see him on the docks again, hair just as windswept as that first time, waves falling over each other to brush against dark eyelashes, to curl into knots at his hairline.
Spain’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, smile tipping into something that more resembles a bridler than a brother. “You look like you’re thinking hard,” he says, and Portugal hears the warning in it like a bell tolling within his head. “Everything all right?”
“Fine,” Portugal replies. The weight on his shoulder feels suffocating.
vii.
“We should have sex here,” Portugal says, out of the blue and apropos of nothing, voice hushed into a conspiratorial whisper when he leans himself into Romano’s ear.
Romano coughs, splutters, eyes narrowing when Portugal only grins at him.
“Not now, obviously,” he continues, because his brother is here, and his—their, because God forbid any of it is really his—government, too, and he isn’t stupid enough to try anything here, now.
Romano wipes the coughed wine from his lips, arm crossed over his chest as he settles back into the wall behind him. “Please,” he says, and he already sounds scandalized and petulant, “as if I’d settle for anything less than a bed. You think I’d let you fuck me on a settee? Not a chance.”
“I think,” Portugal replies, smiling, “you’d let me fuck you anywhere I want you to.”
Romano scoffs again, furious and blustering, but his shoulder brushes Portugal’s arm, and he doesn’t move it away.
v.
Lively doesn’t adequately describe it when it finally happens.
Romano has him pinned up against the library wall, holding Portugal’s wrists against hand-bound books and shelves which haven’t been dusted in God only knows how long, but all Portugal can think is how difficult it is, when kissing Romano, to push him away, to have him be the one pressed between linen and literature.
He manages, only just, and the heady, groaned gasp of surprise he receives pleasantly makes it worth his while.
x.
Portugal can see him on the docks again, hair wind-knotted and wild, exactly like it was that first time, exactly like the second, like every other time, every other time.
He can’t discern the expression on Romano’s face, too far away for detail, sunlight blinding on wave-crested waters, but he can see him turn around, see him walk away, back to that house and that voice and that hand and that crown.
He almost regrets leaving without a goodbye, but he knows, is certain in the knowledge, that expectation for their kind is the heartbeat of disillusionment, and he doesn’t have it in himself to be disappointed by someone so supine as to find comfort here.
Nothing ever gets resolved with avoidance and shame, but their arrangement never really did have room for much else, anyway.
iii.
He has a dream, then, that lingers worse than a bad hangover or a bloody wound. Maybe it’s years after their last conversation, or maybe it’s days, or maybe it’s hours; he can’t be bothered to keep track, not that their kind usually does when it comes to time.
(Hard. He wakes up hard, and that’s not how his dreams usually go—or, not the ones with Romano, at least.)
Romano was over him, or under him, maybe—not that it matters, because it doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that Romano was close, breathing against his neck, sighing his name, and it’s—
It was slow, the way they moved. Tender, close.
Odd.
viii.
He’s gotten used to it—the way Romano’s voice hitches, goes taut, tight as his white-knuckled grip on pearl-hued sheets. He’s gotten used to it.
He’s gotten used to it.
i.
They meet officially, formally—and notably without supervision—on the docks of Almería, both windswept and water-worn, and it makes Portugal wonder how long Romano had been standing there for him to look like that, like he himself had blown in with the breeze of the ocean, side-swept bangs tangling into soft knots at his temples.
He is sure he himself is no better, likely worse—a ribbon can only do so much with the whipping winds that dance themselves through his sails—but he doesn’t bother brushing his hair from his face before approaching, grin ticking at the corners of his lips.
Romano blinks at him, hazel eyes owlish before settling into something calmer, almost bored. “Oh,” he says, “it’s you.”
Portugal smiles and tips his head. “Hello,” he replies. Always best to start with hello.
Romano feels like he’s dancing in his sleep, that shifting, swaying motion like waves across the beach and toes dragging through sand, like water and rhythm pulling his chest high, his shoulders low, stretching out his hips, his knees, his ankles. The soft cotton of his pillowcase scratches and tickles at his cheekbone when he turns his head into it, wisping itself against his clavicle, and he sighs against it, lets it swallow his breath the same way it swallows the heat of his body, an echo of warmed contentment and easy dreaming.
The mattress beneath him dips, and he almost pushes away the palm that slides across his stomach, his sternum, but it’s warm, too, and Romano always liked being warm, and he liked being warm beneath this hand even more. He leans into it, instead, keeps his eyes closed, and he makes a small noise that’s half deliberate and half desultory—because he does mean to acknowledge Spain, but he doesn’t mean to acknowledge him like a cat waking from a nap in lazy, dozy sunbeams, purring.
But that’s fine. That’s fine. He knows Romano sometimes sounds like that when he’s waking, and even not, just sometimes when he’s beneath the pads of Spain’s fingers, and Romano feels fine when the mattress dips again and Spain hovers over him, knees sweetly nudging his apart.
Romano keeps his eyes closed when lips skim his jaw, keeps himself ensconced in the soft sunlight that shines itself across his eyelids. It’s good like this, he thinks. It’s nice. He can hear himself breathe with an awareness he never really has when he’s around Spain, always too preoccupied with other things, irrelevant things—what he’s doing, what he’s not, what he could be doing to Spain, instead. He likes being conscious of it, of his body and his reactions, and he sighs again when that palm moves to his side, his rib cage and lower, fingers skimming over his thigh as they drag heated sheets down, away.
There’s a laugh twinkling in his ear, something bright and charmed, and his skin pricks with cognizance when he feels the breath of it, lips curving into a smile against his cheek. “Awake yet?”
Spain speaks his vowels in a whisper, his consonants always catching on the tip of his tongue, and Romano’s shoulder shifts back in a shiver, presses into the bed when soft breeze meets skin, humid and carrying the smell of midmorning sunrise.
He makes a noise again, some groaned mhm that rumbles itself up his chest and out his throat, that gets lost somewhere around his lips when the heat of Spain’s laughter leaves his cheek and instead drifts across his nipple—and the gasp that leaves him is a surprised one.
He feels stupid like this, naïve, foolish, as if he isn’t war- and weather-worn, born and raised in the echoing, thundered footsteps of the Roman Empire, older than the New World and older still, as if his own sand dunes aren’t his brothers, the rolling fields his sisters. But this is his life now: homes across his country and Spain’s, furnished with soft beds and yellow kitchens and flowing curtains that always let the light in, because neither of them ever really do well when away from the sun, too used to its bite to go without for longer than a day, two. He wakes, now, to sheets that settle across the curves of his body, to someone in his bed, wiggling his legs until they settle around tanned hips, to sea-chapped lips that hum the song of his name until he is something melodious, made of more than sinew and sand, of memory.
Spain whispers his name, a question carried softly through balmy air and that sounds so fucking in love Romano almost opens his eyes, almost gives into the needling whine of it—
But Spain always did his best work when given a task, and Romano knows Spain has no qualms about being set to work on Romano, no end to the things he would let Spain do to him, and though his mouth goes dry as Spain nips at his throat and presses a finger against him, he can only find the energy to laugh, just dry air, enough to breathe Spain in, too.
When Spain dips down and kisses him, Romano kicks the sheets up and over Spain’s back. They are still warm, and so is he.
I should have posted this back in August, but hindsight is always 20/20. Alas.
I am currently on vacation and will be until late October at the earliest, so all work will be paused until November. Due to this, all replies to asks and comments (both on here and AO3) will be a bit delayed, but please know I do still receive everything and will respond as soon as I can.
I am still writing and do have plans for future updates, so bear with me. I will be back soon :)
You keep recommending mangofresca's catalogue. Not to sound rude, but why? I don't read much fic so I don't know what's good writing/bad writing, but you talk about them often. I'm thinking of getting more into reading. If you have any good recs/if they or anyone else have particularly good fics, please share 👀
what's this? a chance to gush about the love of my life? oh boy oh boy oh boy
her characterization of spain and romano are so fucking on point. it's golden. perfection. all of the characters she writes for (especially portugal in this portspamano fic) are really really good. her writing in general is phenomenal. think george devalier, his reputation, except mangofresca is actually worth the hype.
i've drawn fanart for this angel!romano x priest!spain fic she wrote before, but honestly i want to draw stuff for all of her stories. i wrote this in the bookmark notes for her most recent story:
i think i’ll forever be amazed at how every single piece of work by her reads like poetry, like you’re bearing witness to something so holy that simply gazing upon it is tainting its purity, even if the actual material in nothing but sin. i always get an itch in my hands to create after reading these, this one no different, but i never feel i can do the imagery justice. every word — no, every syllable is painted with such mastery, you can feel the pressure of their thoughts weighing down upon your shoulders and making you bubble up with emotions. genuinely, truly powerful work
so not only is her writing fucking amazing, the characters on point and the story full of emotion and the smut is always really really hot too but she's such?? a nice??? person???? like every single time she messages me i always feel my heart swell with joy. i've cried tears of joy more than once from talking to her. she's so supportive of my own writing and my art and she's just an overall positive force in the community. she deserves all the love and praise and support this small fandom can offer and if i have to run this parade by myself, you bet your ass i will.
if @mangofresca has 1000 fans, i'm one of them. if she only has one, it's me. if she has none then assume im dead.
think george devalier, his reputation, except mangofresca is actually worth the hype.
THAT'S NOT TRUE. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY TO THAT???? ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME???
You absolutely did not have to be this sweet to me, and I don't even know where to begin with the fact that not only are you getting anons about me (HELLO??????), but you are always the most supportive and uplifting person, beyond what I could ever ask for.
Maybe one day I'll be able to see something like this and not be reduced to a teary mess, but today is not that day. A million kisses to you.
Dude genuinely, I cannot describe how incredible your writing makes me feel. You are one of the most skilled and creative writers I've met out there, your vivid and rich descriptions the way you connect so many words with still such a natural flow is just breathtaking. Everything is so incredibly tangible and authentic to imagine. Seriously jaw dropping. Like idgaf you've become my favorite writer atp I think.
I've already commented on your fic on Ao3 (red wine and honey), but i just had to voice it again. Currently I'm reading another fic of yours (māvors) and it already has me sobbing. Your writing style is seriously insane and pulls tears from me that no other fics have done - and smut at that. It's so hard to write smut in such a stunning and emotional way, but you've mastered it. Like atp I'm afraid to read your stuff because I just know I'll cry again, but it's so addicting still.
And please, oh lord, can we talk about the way you depict Spamano in your fics - they're always so warm and tender and easygoing, yet somehow mature and passionate and so, so red and you bring that dynamic/vibe across perfectly. Like God I love them so much, Spamano melts my heart whenever it merely crosses my mind and I'm so happy to have found a fellow writer in 2024 who appreciates them just as much, if not more. (Plus you may or may not have infiltrated my brain with some new headcanons about them, possibly within the realm of Antonio having a tear/reaction kink…) Man. I desperately need spamano mutuals that get me, do u perchance wanna be friends 👉👈
Alright sorry for the essay. There's just genuinely no way to even try to describe how in love I am with your writing and how much it inspires me with my own, while also keeping myself short. Ken out🫡
↑ accurate representation of my reaction upon reading this ask
No, but really. I have been sitting on this since you sent it to me, trying to find the words to describe not only my appreciation, but my gratitude. I've read and reread this so many times I could probably recite it from memory, and even that doesn't come close to how much I wish I could print this out and eat it or frame it or frame it and then eat it.
From the bottom of my heart: thank you. This is everything I've ever wanted to hear, and to know that my writing struck a chord with you enough to make you send me something so heart-wrenchingly kind...it really is all I've ever wanted. Your favorite writer? That's beyond words to me, and I simply cannot fathom someone enjoying my writing enough to label me as a favorite. Thank you.
Spamano especially brings out something primal in me, and it always makes me so happy to know others see them the same way and enjoy how I portray them in my fics. Thank you for loving my interpretations of them, and thank you even more for making me cry with your compliments. (And you can pry Spain's tear/crying/reaction kink from my cold, dead hands. That is one of the foundations of my interpretation of him, and I will die on the hill that nothing gets him going quite like Romano turning into an overstimulated mess at his hand.)
I would love nothing more than to be friends, and you are welcome to message me with whatever thoughts you have. I am currently on vacation, so I may not be the fastest at replying, but you have absolutely made not only my day, but my year, and I would adore talking to you more.
THANK YOU???????????? cannot express how fuckin BANGIN this art is. thank you so much for drawing the hottest man alive and for pulling him DIRECTLY from my brain. no words can describe what my face did when i saw that man in THAT pose, ON TOP OF the other jawdropping art you created. like. truly what a fuckin gift, a girl can only say thank you so many times before it starts sounding like a broken record, but thank you. i cannot wait to be so obsessed with these that they become part of my bone structure ♥️
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
footprint nostalgia
And sometimes, Spain watches Romano walk across the sands of his beaches, and he imprints the image of his footprint to memory, a twinkling haze of nostalgia and melancholy and the most desperate plea to see it again tomorrow, to see it again forever, with his following right behind.
Spamano, oneshot.
Words: 5,380, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Hetalia
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: M/M
Relationships: South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Additional Tags: Fluff, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Making Love, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, this was mainly my excuse to write top romano bc no one ever lets my man have anything, could be seen as a companion piece to red wine and honey but also could be read alone, also an unholy amount of italics because!!! i like them!!!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY @renonv!!!!!! HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
now pardon me while i go to bed. i have to wake up at 1 am in the morning for my flight. everyone keep your fingers crossed that i dont miss my plane!!!!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
call me achilles the way my ankle hurts
“I’m surprised. Is my irmãozinho not enough for you?” Portugal’s eyes flit over to Spain for a loaded second before settling back on Romano, and Spain has to physically bite his tongue to stop the retort that’s already halfway up his throat, a futile defense of—what, he doesn’t know. Himself, maybe? Romano?
Not that it seems Romano minds all that much, considering the shaky breath he inhales, eyes narrowing when Portugal grins conspiratorially at him.
Romano’s eyes stay narrowed, guarded, and Spain smiles despite himself, glad, at least, that Romano isn’t totally charmed. “Don’t be a dick,” he says. “It’s not about enough. It’s about different.”
Portugal's grin widens marginally, just enough for Spain to notice and feel his stomach coil with something a little too close to jealousy for his liking. “Now now, you just need someone to take care of you, hm?” He reaches out, tugging lightly on one of Romano’s waves before gently tucking it behind his ear.
(Or: hurting Romano is Spain’s achille’s heel, so they find someone who doesn’t have the same…hesitations.)
Part 1 of crown shyness. spaportmano. spamanoport? portmanospa? it’s a threesome. or the beginnings of. you’ll see.
Words: 14,937, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Hetalia
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: M/M
Relationships: South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Additional Tags: Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, but they’re not very under lbr, Choking, Spanking, Overstimulation, Hair-pulling, Comeplay, Come Swallowing, Cock Warming, Cuckolding, but it’s used as a vehicle for other things dont you worry friends, i know i usually write spain as being so down for marking tf out of romano, but we’re gonna take that vision and put it on the backburner for now, we’re really channeling that old guilt complex and portugal has to come smack Spain out of it, while also smacking his dick into romanos mouth you know how it is, just trust me i havent failed you all yet, and if i have…lie to me
do not look at the word count to this. or at me. i have no excuse.
i have some traveling coming up soon, so ill likely be disappearing for short periods at a time. but i will be back soon. dont miss me too much ♥️
He’s handsy. More than anything he had been expecting, Romano is handsy, and Portugal does not need to be any sort of psychologist or poet to understand why. What catches him, though—and what he often spends his time considering—is the when, that variable shift from companionable air to congenial leading, amicable to insinuative to bold, before settling somewhere in the vicinity of amatory caressing.
He’s handsy, and Portugal, within his own personal revelations, likes it more than he tolerates it, indulges in it more than he expected, revels in it more frequently than he is willing to count.
And this, he knows, is Romano’s biggest fantasy, the thing that makes him hot and flushed and brazen, steadfast and sure beneath hands that have long since lost their hesitation. For all his blustering and posturing, Romano only ever cared for that which left him unsure, and Portugal understands in his own way, even relates to a certain degree. He expected it and he hadn’t.
It’s a truth that existed long before their paths wove themselves together so intrinsically, bonded in gold and sweetly-scented lavender, one that would exist long after their time in each other’s presence diverged, a truth that was laid out so plainly before him that he all but tripped and fell into it when he actually allowed himself to look. A truth Portugal could pluck from the skies of Alqueva and Lecce, shimmering like stars embedded in the outskirts of unwavering constellations, glittering fantastically before his eyes—a skittish, despairing, lonely truth.
Romano wants to be wanted. Not coveted nor revered nor exalted. Romano wants to be wanted, and Portugal, for reasons that dawned on him slowly at first then entirely all-encompassingly, wants him.
The notion of acting on this newly unearthed want had once been wholly at odds with Portugal’s nature. Romano has long existed within a sphere beyond Portugal’s notice, purview, and grasp, and he never cared to make any motion to extend his interest into that particular area of his brother’s imperium.
The nature of nations, Portugal knows, is that they are bonded to their people first and foremost. The nature of immortals, though, is that they are bonded to each other beyond what any human could ever conceivably fathom. As beings who live in the nebulous middle, their lives are only ever dictated by flux and wavering posture. All the more reason, then, he muses, to understand each other.
He knows Romano would laugh at the very thought of it, of being understood, of understanding those who have only ever burned his bridges. But—or so Portugal likes to believe—that was why they differed: he hadn’t intended to try, and Romano certainly hadn’t intended to deliver. To Romano’s endless annoyance and even more infinite delight, Portugal doesn’t care if he fails. This pleases him, and Romano, in return, gives, because nothing is expected of him and every gift, every action, every physical admiration is received like it’s all Portugal wants, with no expectation of other.
And maybe, Portugal wonders, just maybe, it is.
It’s a small thing, only a tease, a tempt with none of the promise, but as they leave their table from a shared lunch one blinding, blistering afternoon, Romano reaches behind him, pulls the hand from Portugal’s pocket, and places it on the small of his back, beneath the flutter of his pristine suit jacket. His eyes flick over his shoulder, and Portugal is already watching, already receiving, delighted in that way he gets when he makes a particularly good dig or catches an underhanded comment, revelry adorned in equanimity.
Portugal lets his lips turn up into a smile, hand pressing just that much more against Romano’s back, thumb tracing the line of his spine, and Romano grins at him, the keeper of a secret he doesn’t know he’s already shared.
He isn’t sure where it comes from, but it’s an urge that rises suddenly, all-consumingly, with no hunger or warning to prelude it, like a countdown placed upon his life only seen as it hits zero—a flash of red, and suddenly every second ticking by is another second too late, another moment lost.
Lovino is smiling so brightly that the simmering heat of Agrigento’s summer seems more akin to the frigid winds of winter. He’s laughing—not a snort, not the contrite brush aside or sardonic smirk he gets when he thinks he’s being clever—head thrown back and shoulders shaking with mirth.
Alfred forgets how to speak, how to think or move or breathe, forgets everything except how to stare—gawk, his brain helpfully supplies, very obviously—regarding Lovino as if he was the one to paint the stars across the sky, to sprinkle indigo and amethyst across the midnight horizon, to use hardened hands to cradle the sun and bring lighted warmth to the world. As if he was something beautiful, ethereal, untouchable.
Except, he’s not; he’s not untouchable in the way Alfred previously perceived him to be, distanced by water and antiquity and a complex Lovino tends to wear like his own form of bastardized battle armor. He is there, right there, laughing, and Alfred wants to reach out a hand and–
And.
He’s touching Lovino’s face before he’s even thought the action through, before he’s even realized he’s done it, cupping his hand around the swell of a cheek and feeling the heat of it still flushed with laughter and wondrously-worn glee. He feels the expression under his palm calm as that smile fades, replaced instead with slowly-dawning confusion, soft in its perplexity, and he traces his thumb across the dip of Lovino’s under-eye, if only to savor the way those dark eyelashes flutter.
“Alfred?” Lovino asks, painfully sincere, with a tone that melds between a question and vague, befuddled acknowledgement. His eyes are wide. He does not move away.
“Would it be cool if I kissed you right now?” It’s a reply in the technical sense, an answer to a question that had seemingly been hanging in the air for longer than he realized. His own voice is startlingly soft considering the pressing urgency he feels tugging at his gut, his hands, his tongue, like if he can’t have this nownownow he’ll die, starved, stripped of life before he’d even realized he was bleeding.
Lovino gapes at him, blinking slowly. The cheek beneath Alfred’s palm burns warm, and he almost expected Lovino to blush, to feel skin stain itself scarlet beneath the pads of his fingers. He wonders if he should ask why it doesn’t.
There’s a moment where hazel eyes flick from his down to his lips before rising again, and Lovino makes a noise in the back of his throat like a hum, a huh, like he’s realized something about himself and the world and the universe. Like the knowledge of whatever it is has only just settled, and now he must contend with life now that he has it.
He blinks at Alfred again. “Yeah.”
He says it like it’s easy, like it’s always been easy, like permission would have always been granted had Alfred ever had the wherewithal to ask. Alfred files that away for later, wondering, not for the first time, if he missed something in the tones of Lovino’s voice, if something else existed in the recesses of cutting words and huffed musings and trite insults that were never really all that insulting to begin with. But that’s for another time, or maybe never, because Alfred never really cared to indulge in worries and preclusions, and Lovino is too good to be wasted on half-baked ruminations when the now was so much better.
Lovino says it like it’s easy, and when Alfred ducks his head down and leans in, it certainly feels easy, easier than maybe he expected. It feels like old nights spent tucked beneath the dim lights of New York speakeasies, of hushed conversations held in the stacks of his library, like something big and bright and cosmic had settled off somewhere far away, a revelation exploding in the periphery of his universe, vast and grand in its own private corner.
Lovino’s hand settles boldly on his shoulder, fingers brushing the hairline at the back of his neck, and Alfred can feel every inch of it burn through his clothes. Lovino tastes like vintage wine and the cigarette he had been smoking not ten minutes ago, and even though Alfred hates the smell, he thinks he can learn to like the taste if it’s been tempered by sweet reds and the natural soft of Lovino’s tongue brushing past his lips. Alfred feels Lovino’s cheek move beneath his palm, and he doesn’t quite get why until he realizes that Lovino is smiling, pulling away enough that they look like two kids grinning into each other’s mouths, lost and dumb and found.
“Been wanting to do that for a while?” Lovino sounds smug, but his eyes are bright, sparkly, pretty, his hand fisting the back of Alfred’s shirt.
For a moment, Alfred thinks, if you count eighty seconds ago a while, sure, but that doesn’t seem right, isn’t right, and Alfred can feel certain pieces of their histories click into place—not any sort of life-altering change, but instead something soft, the clink of a plate placed in front of him on the nights when he wouldn’t bother with sleep, the fresh scent of pasta and garlic bread the only thing to bring him back into his own body, the reminder that he existed within the scope of four walls, the person as well as the land.
Lovino is so close, close enough for Alfred to feel the tickle of his bangs against his forehead, and suddenly every word and every gaze and every laugh pulled from scowling lips all align and glimmer like radiant galaxies, all with Lovino at the center.
“Nah,” he says, grinning at the eye roll. “Just thought of it now.” But that doesn’t stop him from doing it again.
“I dreamt that you died last night,” he said suddenly, and Romano half-turned, surprised at the admission, at the tonelessness of it, that emotionless void a chasm he almost fell into, tangible in its brusqueness. He’d been strange all day, oddly quiet and unsettlingly depressed, barely speaking to any of them, always one step behind Romano, with hands in clenched fists and a mouth set in a bitter frown, every inch the raging empire in collapse.
Somehow, Romano knew that his fingernails would leave dark crescents in his palms. He wondered if Spain even noticed the pain. He wondered if Spain even counted it as pain at all, considering all else he’d been through. All else he’d caused.
Romano blinked, floundered, mouth opening and closing around a voice he couldn’t seem to find, the air in his lungs leaden enough to stay with him, refusing to leave, heavy and cloying. Not that it matters, his mind supplied. Nothing you can say will change anything. He knows that.
Spain stared into the distance, skin illuminated in tangerine and fire beneath the radiant sky of sunset, eyes locked on a horizon they had walked beneath for decades, centuries, dancing around willowing orange trees and sleeping beneath midday haze. Romano wondered what Spain saw when he looked out at a landscape of memories turned antique with change. Romano wondered what Spain saw when he looked at him.
He didn’t say anything, only watched Spain stare into the rolling fields of a land Romano would never call his own.
“Y’know what the worst part is?” Spain’s voice was soft, feather-light and delicate, only just carried from bloodied lips to Romano’s ears through a breeze scented with citrus and perfidy. “When I woke up, I felt disappointed that it was just a dream.”
The air in Romano’s body felt poisonous, rancid, fetid with betrayal and hurt and a grief so profound it felt tangible, like a mass within his body that he could hold, mold, could wrap his fingers around and see the validation of his sorrow. Like he could hold it out to Spain as proof of his apology, words he could never say lost to the inevitability of the future, a timeline of events to which he could only play spectator.
Romano supposed he should be glad Spain hated him. Maybe at one point it meant he had been loved.
The setting sun lengthened their shadows, and Spain’s silhouette was touching his, melding them together into the way they used to be—one form, one being, a single heart beating between the two of them, held together by dewy tomatoes and freshly-made churros and the echoes of tarantella across the tiles of Spain’s floors.
Romano pushed away, gagging on the sour taste of nostalgia grown cold, of yearning for that which could only bite, could only hurt, made bitter and beautiful in its lack of reprieve, of sentimentalities honeyed with war-ravaged brutality. He heard, after a moment, the rustle of grass and the footfalls of steps behind him, and he stopped in surprise when scarred arms linked around his waist, when a chest pressed against his back, when a voice laced with sorrow and imperial madness danced the shell of his ear.
“I hope you and Venezito do well.”
Romano stared at him—his eyes were always green, so green, he noted distantly, vaguely, green and earnest and too fucking good at burning hot with hatred—before shaking him off, walking away, forcing more distance between them, the too-steep edge of a cliff neither of them were willing to cross.
Spain didn’t run after him this time. Romano couldn’t bring himself to feel disappointed.
