Nee nee MAMA~

I can't get that taste out of my head! 

[mxlovinovargas]

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♡—; about me ♡ rules ♡ content warnings ♡ tags ♡ masterlist [constantly updating]

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[mxlovinovargas]

Masterlist I.

Series

Hombre Lobo - 12 Stories of Desire ( x f!Reader)

Fics

Drabbles + Imagines

One-Shots

NOTE: This is constantly updating.

[mxlovinovargas]

ORDINARY MAN — ROMANO x READER

Synopsis: He's alone, but not with you.

Ordinary Man

CW: Stalker Behavior, Obsessive Themes, Allusions to Obsession, Use of Country Names, Reader-Insert.

Word Count: .700

Rome is warm. And the sun shines down, but there’s a subtle breeze that keeps the day chilly enough that Romano shivers a little and crosses his arms over his chest. A thump in his chest is a dull pain, but he ignores it as he stalks down the winding and narrow streets of the city. Cracked sidewalks are like slaps to the soles of his feet, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. 

In the city of cold hearts—

Romano finds himself so absolutely desolate and isolated. He glances left and right. There are no familiar faces, no familiar smiles. No oceanic, bright, and stormy eyes to look upon him like he really did belong. They just walk forward, quiet and brisk, and they don’t offer solace as Romano pauses in his place. The people just split and walk around him like second nature. 

That’s okay. Romano might be alone, but it’s better to be alone than to be surrounded by fakes. By people who really don’t care about him or care that he doesn’t move or that doesn’t really see him for the man he really is. He doesn’t want to even try. There’s no olive branch to extend when the compromise is yourself, when the Cassandra Complex is nothing but prophetic and he’s meant to burn. Romano doesn't find the glory in trying to deflect that truth. He’s used to this. No point in trying to be someone that I’m not. 

But then there’s you. 

His little rites of passage. 

You’re the one who smiles that white-hot flame, and it licks at his soul like no other fire ever has, but Romano doesn’t mind because you’re so beautiful and so true and so righteous. You seem like you know the real Romano, the real him, and you don’t skirt around that fact. You face it with a brazen fury and you take him on like you need him, too, and Romano just knows that you’re more than you seem. 

And you seem like someone who could appreciate the fact, 

He knows that he’s different. 

That I’m no ordinary man. 

And he may seem like an asshole, a douchebag, and some lazy bum who doesn’t do anything but curse those he cares about and apathetically dismisses him. They’re just rumors, and Romano may be explosive and a wildfire that destroys the mountain side of Italy—but he’s just rough around the edges, like a diamond in the rocky shores of Nice. He would tell you this a million times over, no matter how much a shadow of a doubt stretches and grows and you grimace at him grimly before changing the subject. But you just don’t realize that no one understands. They just see the book for its cover. 

Until they’ve fought my fight

They won’t understand the way Romano thinks, acts, or feels. Not a single person. Because it’s that attitude that brings him to your doorstep, weak and weary, and you just don’t realize that he’s doing this for your own good. That he’s no longer alone whenever you’re there and that you make the sun just a little warmer than before. Exactly as I am. You just don’t see it right now. 

Though Rome is warm with its temperate breeze, it ends before it starts. He’s found you. Romano knows where you are and where to find you. Always and forever, he can see that smile in his mind as he raises his fist to rap his knuckles against your doorframe. 

It rattles. And Romano knows that you can hear him, that you know it’s him. You’re nothing like the vipers of this rusty city. You know where to find him, too. The only rules you follow are your own. 

So he knows that you’ll accept him this time. No matter how many times he has to convince you. Over and over, day by day, Rome’s sunlight beats down against his back and shoulders. The door opens. And Romano is ready; because, well, 

I’m no ordinary man.

[mxlovinovargas]

BEGINNER'S LUCK — LITHUANIA x READER

Synopsis: He gets sick because he loves you so much.

Beginner's Luck

CW: Obsession, Thoughts of Obsession, Stalker Behavior, Allusion to Possessiveness, Descriptions of Illness, Use of Country Names, Reader-Insert.

Word Count: .700

All my life I had this funny little feeling—

His stomach hurts. It thuds with dull pains interspersed with sharp stings, something that makes him shiver and tremble and weak in the thighs. Sulfur and hellfire sits at the top of his appetite and ends at the bottom of his palette. He hiccups, tastes bile, and then shudders as he glances up to your photo on the wall. Lithuania's eyebrows furrowed together in a tight bind, one so hard that a splintering pain cracks like lightning between his eyes. An emptiness lurks down below. Hidden away beneath the cavity of his heart, and it comes and goes, time after time, and he struggles to suppress it now. 

Why is true love hard to find?

But whenever he looks at that beautiful photo on the wall of your visage, his pain subsides a little and he’s able to sit up by a fraction from his crouched fetal position. A bout of warmth envelops his body like a cloud made of cotton and polyester. Lithuania's happy, so very happy, and it feels oh-so real whenever he watches you through the photograph and it’s no longer just in his head. Strange tendrils ensnare his body and he feels locked into place as he stares at you, and you stare at him, and the two of you stare at one another like a nebulous coma has surfaced the both of you. Lithuania blinks, but then he averts his gaze from your cute face because staring makes the happiness too real. So real, and you’re so perfect for him and he’s so perfect for you (he can only hope you can see, he wants to be there for you, don’t think him vain—) that it hurts. Lithuania was made for you, to bleed and weep himself open to you. 

He has no ambition, but if you were to just give him a chance, then he’d set the world ablaze at your command and run the wind with you. He would be your loyal lover, through and through, and he wouldn’t look back. If only you’d give him a chance… one tiny chance. No matter how long and winding and wide and hard it may be, he would take it all on for you. He’d do it all once and a million times over. If only you’d be willing. 

I’ve got a plan, you know, I’ve got it all worked out.

Just trust him! Pack away all of your sorrows and doubts, grab that lovely sundress, and take his hand and Lithuania would show the little slice of the world in his palms. His shoulders are so tense that it hurts and he’s so stressed worrying himself to death over you, but all of that could be soothed if only you would just come on and see who Lithuania truly was—if only you’d let him take care of you for his own piece of mind, for his love for you. 

A true love through the worst of times

A true love ‘till the end 

It would work so well, Lithuania thinks, and then he squats down a little more as a wave of sickness overcomes him and he quakes like a leaf in a thunderstorm. The two of you together, complementary and fitting together like the buckle of a belt, and Lithuania knows innately that he was meant to be yours. Together stronger, together better, together allied. The two of you together. 

Forever, to the ends of the Earth—hand-in-hand and toe-to-toe—and Lithuania would guide you to the best of his ability with the strongest of his determination. He’d brave it all with you if you’d do the same for him (he knows for sure that you definitely would because you’re just so sweet). Lithuania would take care of everything, take his hand, take his hand. Interlace your fingers and squeeze, and let him wed you to infinitely. It would be alright, all perfect, and Lithuania knows without any fear that it will all work out in the end with enough hope. 

Lithuania knows it’ll work. 

Just let him try, please. 

Because he can do it— 

And with beginner’s luck, we’ve gotta take the ride.

[mxlovinovargas]

ALL THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS — ENGLAND x READER

Synopsis: Why don't you love him back?

All the Beautiful Things

CW: Blasphemy, Sacrilegious Thoughts, Thoughts of Suicide, Suicidal Ideation, Obsession, Obsessive Thoughts, Weird Thoughts, Disturbing Imagery, Use of Country Names, Reader Insert.

Word Count: .600

Sunlight dances across England’s eyes and he wakes up slowly. A groggy groan slips past his lips as he shuffles under the covers, bone-weary and day-weary, but he fights the dregs of sleep that tickle behind his eyelids as he finally opens his eyes. They crack open slowly, like twisting the cap off of a shaken-up soda that hisses and fizzes, and the sun blinds him momentarily. Birds sing outside of his window, loud and sing-song that fiddles with nothing but all the pretty things as they descend from skies so blue and flit about the outskirts of his bedroom window. 

England fully wakes up. 

And he’s no longer in his bedroom, but he’s standing only a few feet away from you with the sun in his eyes again. A sense of forlorn washes over his body as he glances at you with a reprimanded frown and then he casts his eyes away. 

Why can’t I just get with you? 

He knows that it’s only a pipe dream, but it’s a dream so good that he doesn’t want to wake up again. He stands before an altar before he kneels, head bowed and eyes closed as he starts to drift off. He thinks and he prays, he wonders and he imagines. God may help his weary soul, but it’s a sacrament that means nothing whenever that sickly thought of you invades his mind and heart again and he gets frustrated. He rips his eyes open to curse the altar, but whenever the pretty scene of this quaint church lays before his eyes, and then England feels the words die off of his viper tongue. Nothing but a hell-scared pylon in such a place of worship. 

Pray to God that one day I could be your man. 

Birds fly over his head, singing such lovely praises again, and England has to turn his head away from them. He can hear your laughter, can hear everything about you, can feel everything about you. You’re insane. You fill his voids, you’re the perfect puzzle piece to his incomplete self. England knows this is true. 

See all the beautiful things you do—

You’d be the only one in this world for him, friend and lover and family and enemy alike. You’d be the balance to his scale, or maybe you could just be his girl. England makes himself snort and he shakes his head as he stalks off into the unknown. 

He walks and he fades and he hears those blasted birds once more. He goes where no man walks, but would you even care? Would it even bring your day down to know that England faded with the rift of time, lost to a stream that went against the oars of your little happy boat, and he drowned and went away forever? If he passed and was no more but food for the worms—ichor and ire and decay and rot for you to view? Dead before your very visage? England knows that you don’t even care because you don’t even know him. So even if he ran away from this life, the next would be meaningless without you there with him (by his side). 

He’d rather stay here where birds fly over his head whenever you’re around. 

Why can’t I just get with you? 

Where the sunlight dances across England’s eyes and he wakes up carefully. 

[mxlovinovargas]

MY TIMING IS OFF — GERMANY x READER

Synopsis: He tries really hard to woo you.

My Timing Is off

CW: Obsession, Obsessive Thoughts, Creepy Behavior, Stalking, Borderline-Stalker Behavior, Use of Country Names, Reader-Insert.

Word Count: .900

My timing is off.

“I… have come to the conclusion that I… I am in love with you.” 

Germany can tell whenever you look at him with those sad, lidded eyes before you avert your gaze. You don’t say anything, the words have died on the tip of your tongue but Germany leans forward even by just a fraction to hear them. When nothing comes out, he looks back up to your eyes and finds them so cut away that you probably don’t even see him. He swallows hard, and it’s an awkward lump that makes words hard to come out. You just aren’t ready. 

It’s all that I got, to offer you a beautiful bouquet of roses that Germany spent the whole morning picking by hand and snipping off those harsh thorns and tying it up with a ribbon that’s your favorite color—it’s all that Germany bore for the world whenever he confessed to you. He worked so hard for this and he tried really hard, come on, he made sure that even the little diner he chose was one of your favorites. He’s wearing the most crisp and clean suit he owns, Germany doesn’t understand why you don’t recognize all that he’s doing for you. The truth between us cannot hide. Don’t you feel what he feels when his heart bleeds? 

And whenever you murmur out an excuse to leave and then bid your farewells, Germany can only stutter and swallow through a reply as he watches you depart. The situation doesn’t fit. You just weren’t ready. 

Germany furrows his brows and glances down to his laced fingers with just as concentrated of a look. He knows what he feels. He just chose the wrong place, the wrong date, the wrong flowers, the wrong clothes, the wrong everything. That must be why you couldn’t accept him. Germany reprimands himself internally as he stands and stiffly stalks through the diner, the metaphorical weight of all eyes on him as he exits the building and goes back home. 

And I know that this is really… all that Germany can do. He doesn’t think he knows how to face you again. He wishes he could trail after you, romantically confess his feelings, and let his soul bind with yours in a passionate kiss that seals all—but everything it’s all about is the simple and harsh fact that you just walked away from his love. But you’re just not ready. He doesn’t have a single doubt about that. 

My timing is Off. 

“I’m in love with you.” 

Again and again. More and more confident each and every time. Germany grows bolder with his emotions every time he manages to pull himself out of the rubble and truly confess to you. Every time is more real than the last, even with those weary and downcast eyes painted on your lovely face. Sometimes that’s how it all works. You sit there, you listen, and then you leave. Every single time, without a stutter or a skip in your stride. Believe it or not, Germany anticipates it. He thinks about it, fantasizes about the day that he’s able to confess in just the right way to make you swoon into him: to make you his. He doesn’t have a choice anymore, Germany knows this is how it is, the matters of the heart. 

In life, whenever you let yourself free, you have to face the world with grit teeth and a hard face that challenges the coming day. You should ball your face, dip forward, and stride with confidence and bravery, without fear and brazen straight through it all. Germany understands this, he knows this as fact. That’s how he works, and it’s how his love works. With love, there’s the need for a lack of doubt. You have to be ready to love, and you have to be ready to return it. Germany’s ready. 

That’s why he doesn’t care whenever he stops you everywhere to tell you 

“I am in love with you, forever and always. I want to be with you.” 

MY Timing IS off. 

Germany smiles. 

And you wince away from him, standing so demurely in the grocery store, and you don’t quite meet his looming and wide stare that catches all. He knows that this is what you want. He knows that you just need the right kind of man to open himself up to you in the right kind of confession. 

You know that it’s real. 

You can’t deny that whenever Germany holds an assortment of flowers—cloves, arbutus, honeysuckles, bellflowers—in your face so tenderly and smiles at you with that million dollar shine. You know that you love him, too, and you can’t just keep turning him away. Nothing else is more important than this love, right here and now, and you need to understand, you need to know; you need to feel, to think, to breathe, to do, to love to love to love to love to 

Germany smiles harder and gently jostles that bouquet. 

“Be together with me, ja?” 

Tears well in the corners of your eyes. 

This isn’t like that other mess. 

But Germany only reaches forward, ignores the way you move away from him, and wipes the few tears that have spilled over with the back of his finger. They glitter with a translucent sheen. He looks down at it, sees it twinkle, and then he’s back to seeing only you again. 

The flowers at hand.

[mxlovinovargas]

WHAT'S A FELLA GOTTA DO — ROMANIA x READER

Synopsis: Romania goes crazy whenever he thinks of you.

What's a Fella Gotta Do

CW: Stalking, Obsessive Thoughts, Slight Dacryphilia, Allusions to Kidnapping or Threatening, Drug Imagery, Use of Country Names, Reader-Insert.

Word Count: .800

Romania glances up from the ground as he leans back against the flat bed of grass tucked underneath his palms, kicking his legs out like a happy little kid and letting his heels bounce off of the red brick wall he sits atop. A grin stretches across his lips and he feels momentarily drunk whenever he catches sight of you. Foolish as it may be, Romania’s feeling bored and trouble’s creeping into his every joint and bone. Some loose gravel and rubble sprays off of the brick after a few more hearty kicks. 

He jumps from the decorative wall with a flourish and lands on the concrete sidewalk with an unceremonious plop. Romania feels a weird itch in his mind, something that tells him that this is stupid and that he’s only inviting in more danger—but, frankly, he can’t seem to arse himself to care as he starts stalking behind you. 

I’ll tell you what’s really making me sad, 

You don’t even spare him a glance as you turn the corner and disappear. 

Your disinterest is driving me mad. 

Romania grooves those pointed incisors into his bottom lip and nips away at scaly flesh. His lips are chapped, but he doesn’t care as he swipes his tongue over them once more and then stuffs both of his hands into his pockets. He tilts his head whenever he thinks about how you’re so fine, so fine that he wishes that he could bury his face into your neck and kiss away like there was no tomorrow. He’d love you right up, but you don’t even spare him a glance. You never do. If only you’d just look at him (give me a sign, my darling!), then maybe Romania would feel confident enough to make a move. He doesn’t. He just follows after your trail like a hungry dog on the prowl. 

What’s a fella gotta do—to spend a little time with you? Romania lets the question rattle around in his head like a flurry of hail and rocks and ice, but he doesn’t let it fade into the background of his mind. He lets it simmer. He lets it drain him until he feels bone-weary and tired. Romania clicks the heels of his boot against the sidewalk as he trapiezes and spins a circle to the rhythm playing in his head. He feels weird and crazed and magical, but he’s high off of the thought of you and the idea of laying into you so sweetly that he lets it amp him up. He knows that he could be more, but he has no purpose. Nothing but the meandering walk after your fleeting form. His thin brows arch upward before they meet in the middle and Romania lets his gaze drift up to the clear blue skies above his head. He ponders for a moment. What would he like? 

Is for you to look in my direction. 

He chuckles a bit at that before his head hangs and he shakes it softly. Nah, nah. That’s not going to happen. You never look over at the eccentric man always eyeballing you up like his next meal—you always turn your head at just the right time, at the perfect moment, and Romania believes that you don’t even know if he’s real or not. Nothing but a specter in the background of your life. But he’s so bored of that reality. 

Romania wants to do anything to attract your attention. He’d welcome a disaster, something hectic and something that wreaked havoc, oh-oh!, maybe something that made you so scared that you looked at it with wide eyes and then maybe you could run into his open arms. Yeah. He wants you to feel that blood coursing through your veins, wants anything to make the heart beat faster, something that’ll rip an ungodly shriek from your throat and will make you heave and pant until you’re sick. And whenever you’re sobbing into his chest, Romania gets this feeling that trickles into his breath. The two of you could be so right together. So perfect. He would hold you in all of the right ways. 

It makes him laugh like a madman, but he brushes the laugh off into quiet chuckles that never quite fully reach the surface as goes. If you were so absolutely distraught and mindblown, you wouldn’t be able to think consciously. You’d be his and Romania would be able to protect you. If you were mine! The thought drives him absolutely mad. A hit of delirium hits him like blunt force trauma and he smokes it up like a joint. He lets the crazy consume him. Walk, step and step, and turn. There you are. 

So pretty and patient, and Romania thinks he knows how to make it happen. How to bring you to him and to hold you so tightly that you can’t ever escape again. Something that’ll keep you trapped with him. Something… something that’ll make you cry those beautiful and warm eyes out whenever he looms over you. Something. 

For you to look in my direction.

[mxlovinovargas]

FRESH BLOOD — RUSSIA x READER

Synopsis: Russia breaks into your home.

Fresh Blood

CW: Stalking, Weird Thoughts, Death, Murder, Killing, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Graphic Descriptions of Death / Murder, Use of Country Names, Reader-Insert.

Word Count: 1k

Sun down on a sunny day, 

There’s absolutely nothing on the dim and desolate street. It’s completely barren and devoid of all life—nothing but shimmering rocks on the path underneath the heavy and dark sky. There’s a scraping, loud and metallic. It rings throughout the place like the hiss of a cat and it burns, burns. There’s nothing that can dispel that wretched sound. 

Russia does not mind the sound one bit. It’s comforting, like the warm hug of a mother, and it envelops his body almost needily and Russia bleeds into it. The sound grows louder as he shifts a large metal pipe from one hand to the other; the sound continues. A street lamp blows out whenever he walks past. Lights flicker on in resting houses, children huddled by nightlights and praying. Waiting. Listening. Russia cocks his head to the side. 

Your house. 

“I know you’re probably getting ready for bed,” Russia comments to no one in particular. His voice is demure and soft, with a hint of childlike innocence. He smiles faintly. The thought of you lingers in his mind. 

Beautiful woman, get out of my head—

He steps forward. Step, step, one at a time, he crunch-crunches over the rocks of the streetway the closer he stalks. Russia moves further, invigorated by a bubbling fizzle deep in his veins. It feels like a million dollars; the burn, the desire, the way that it feels like hot rods are being poked through him—red and green wire meant to run tests on him—as they eat him alive, they simmer and broil. He toasts in his own wallowing feelings and now he’s standing before your door. 

He stares up at your dark house. Not a single soul awake and alive. He blinks almost boredly. 

Russia regards your door thoughtfully for only a moment before his hand stretches outward and his palms flattens across the frame. It remains motionless for another moment. Then, whenever the metal grinding has finally muted, Russia pushes open the door with the sheer brute force of the corded muscles tucked away in his arm. It splinters, then it cracks, and then it explodes open with wood chunks and bits and bobbles that cut into the sensitive flesh of his palm. Russia shakes them out and off. He enters happily through the threshold. Russia cuts his eyes towards your room. 

Sweet baby, I need fresh blood. 

There’s a high-pitched shriek that greets Russia whenever he barges his way through into your room. 

Fresh moonlight now filters in through the window. Dead leaves are pitiful in the light as they wilter and crumble, like dust in the wind, and Russia watches a few leaves break away from their home to flutter down into the abysmal end. Russia tilts his head, like he’s never seen such a thing, and then he hears shuffling from the bed. Everything feels so much colder now whenever he looks at you. Staring at him, staring at you. Watching and learning, waiting with bated breath, like a sea of minnows circling the walk of soft feet and gentle ripples. 

Russia stands alone. 

Help me out of the shape I’m in, 

Then he closes in. 

After the fires before the flood, and all of that nonsense that means nothing now that Russia watches your body freeze before it panics and you start wriggling up and up your mattress and Russia can’t help but feel this sizzling in his fingertips. There a hundreds upon hundreds of shards in his body, ice and glass and everything not nice, and they stab at him and torture him and they prick his heart like busy needles.  He’s gentle with you as he whispers. 

“Sunflower,” and then you pause in your wake and Russia palms his way onto the foot of your bed. You breathe with short pants and your chest heaves when you move. Russia studies the way the shadows fall on your face in the pale moonlight. Then, “I need fresh blood.” 

Your eyes go as wide as saucers as Russia strikes. He’s on you in an instant, hot and ready and on fire, and you scream again. It’s so loud, the wail makes his ears ring, and Russia briefly winces away. The metal pipe in his hand falls away, clatters to the floor, and his hands are free to wrap around your throat. You try to howl to the heavens, but there’s no breath left in your lungs and you simply just gape and gape and your lips tremble so sweetly. They look like sugar and sunshine and Russia leans forward to plant a chaste kiss against them. 

His voice is barely a decibel recognizable as he murmurs, “Whatever trepidation you may feel… in your heart, you know it’s not real.” 

Your eyebrows scrunch together and your tongue darts out to flick across your lips to whet them. You eyes start going fuzzy, so Russia tightens the embrace of your neck and squeezes just a little harder. It sounds like a cacophony in his head, loud music and drums and bass and breakbeat that blares and squalls and yowls, and Russia can feel it pressing down on the back of his head like a gold band—a crown of misery and despair and insanity and sin and guilt. This human concept weighs down on him and the smiles of his fingernails groove hollows into your throat. 

There’s a moment of clarity, a hint of clarity, some little act of clarity that touches your eyes gingerly and you meet Russia’s gaze. 

Hollowness looks back at you. 

Russia giggles. 

“You’ve got to pull me out of this mud,” is your only vice. 

Because then the clarity fades and this foggy glaze replaces what once was. Russia doesn’t let go. He just holds and holds and then he starts to kiss the tears off of the apples of your face. Your body stills. Nothing is left. A pulse that matched his own dulls under his fingers and it’s like lava cooled. Nothing but dust and ash remain after the erosion of ocean storms. 

Russia kisses your lips one last time—

I need fresh blood.

[mxlovinovargas]

THE LONGING — NORWAY x READER

Synopsis: Norway pines after you.

The Longing

CW: Obsessive Thoughts, Spiraling Thoughts, Weird Thoughts, Uncomfortable Scenario Allusions, Use of Country Names, Reader-Insert.

Word Count: 1k

Norway winces heavily. A dull pain thuds to life in his chest, something hollow but oh-so filling in that naked cavity and he rolls over to his side. His body curls around a fat and feathery pillow, some of the calamuses stick out and poke him but that’s not what’s keeping him awake. Another pain. 

The longing is a pain. 

He squeezes the pillow to his chest tighter, but the cool fabric offers no solace to the pain cinching up body. Norway’s shoulders pinch together tightly, and his elbows jut out, and that midriff splits in the middle to compress. His body bounces once, twice, and you’d think he was crying. But Norway doesn’t shed a single tear. A heavy pressure on my chest, is all he regards this as. Nothing more, nothing less. It rarely leaves. Norway knows this. 

Yet, there is no escape from this. This everlasting pain that seems to linger on no matter how many times he tosses and turns in bed. No matter how far he wanders, or how close he remains. No matter what he does or doesn’t do, whether he cares or not. It’s always welcomed. Norway stares with blank eyes at the flat ceiling. A hum of cars rev in the distant city, electricity buzzes quietly. He knows. He sees you instead of that boring old ceiling. 

Norway tries not to think about you. It always makes the pain in his chest worse. But with one image of you comes another, then another. And then suddenly Norway’s being suffocated with some many different visages and emotions and magic and wonder and Norway wonders if you’re not really human with the way you affect his erratic mind. This is nonsensical, and foolish. He shouldn’t be this childish. Some silly crush shouldn’t hurt him so badly that another thud happens in his heart and Norway feels a forsaken tear prick at his eye. He needs to forget about it all. 

Surely there are other things to life, Norway tosses to his other side and lets the pillow flop from his body with a muted sound, but I can’t think of one single thing. Not whenever you’re there, disrupting the busy sheep hopping around in his mind. They mimic him—mock him—and the lack of sleep makes Norway irritable as he grumbles and grimaces tightly. Nothing matters more to him besides seeing you. 

Norway knows these thoughts aren’t really true. He knows that he needs water, food, air, and sleep to keep living. He knows that his people and his country must be attended to like one waters a plant and lets it blossom in the sunlight. He understands that he has other friends and family that he must maintain a relationship with. He has a job, a business meeting, to go to tomorrow. There are many things in life he has and that he must do. But. But… whenever you’re there, staring right back at him with those lovely eyes, Norway just can’t seem to wrap his head around it. 

Your smile, your touch, your smell, your laugh. It’s all there, categorized so neatly in his mind and Norway feels himself swell like hot air. He billows for a moment, floating on a cloud as he inhales something long and hard and then exhales almost pitifully. You leave on his breath and Norway almost wants to suck you back up, but he realizes that he’s being weird and stops himself from breathing now. He holds his breath in a daze. 

The longing is a friend. 

Whenever his lungs ache and Norway feels like he’s really and truly floating this time for sure, he doesn’t take another breath. He lets himself simmer. He lets the thoughts consume him and he lets your lovely lips eat him up like he was your sweet little morsel. It’s black magic, how badly you’ve got to him. Or maybe Norway’s just obsessed. 

He doesn’t want to think about that. It’s not part of you. You’re not something ugly and disdainful. 

Because whenever he thinks about you, it’s a comfort. Even though the pain that wreaks havoc on his body is so sudden and onset, and it feels like his nerve endings are being torched by a cigarette lighter, and it feels like all of his limbs could just shiver off—it’s a way to stay close, and feel like you’re here. 

That you can comb your dainty hands through his silky strands of hair, that you can push them out of his face and put them in nordic braids and then kiss the tip of his nose and then maybe things will feel alright. You would know. You know. You would still kiss him and Norway, 

Norway would die for you. It’s not just words, he really would. He would give up everything just to have you look at him with a darling little expression and maybe you would warm up a little. You would thaw his heart and maybe you could even get Norway to crack a smile. Damn, wouldn’t that just be so nice? You would give him everything with the breadth of one of your own smiles and Norway would try his damnedest to make the world a safer place for you. He really could, he really believes he could. 

He could hold you in his embrace, on his side where the window reflects moonlight on his ajar eyes, and you would lay into him like he was the only thing in the world that knew what you needed. He just needs to see you tomorrow. 

Your tears, your sorrow, your faults, your doubts. 

Norway knows that you’ll show him that whenever he comes to visit you tomorrow night. You’ll show him everything he ever wanted. You’ll give him that raw you. 

He loves them all.

[mxlovinovargas]

TREMENDOUS DYNAMITE — PRUSSIA x READER

Synopsis: He's after you.

Tremendous Dynamite

CW: Stalking, Predator-Prey Scenario, Obsessive Thoughts, Obsessive Behavior, Creepy Behavior, Uncomfortable Scenario, Use of Country Names, Reader-Insert.

Word Count: .800

I am El Hombre Lobo. 

But you?

You were something that made Prussia quack in his very wake, like a sick puppy staring into the mouth of a deadly disease that wanted to open its maw and swallow whole, like there was a blade chopping down and his head would roll. You were a force—something beautiful and something clean, dirtied only by the blood on your knuckles and the skin of your teeth that glistened with the sweat from a battle. Prussia always turned his head whenever you walked into the room. 

Nothing short of a thrusting storm, of a hurricane carrying the ichor of the sea ready to sweep him off of his feet; like the day dips into the horizon, and Prussia was on the prowl for a restless night. 

He dodged behind the crevice of two tightly pressed together business buildings, unimportant and his only source of shelter, as he staked you out like a cat hunts a mouse. You walked so boldly, so sure even in the dead of the night and Prussia felt the rhythm of his head pound away like parade drums in his head. The spin of color guard flags, the sound they make as fabric pulls taut and flaps, the way the wind blows through them. The trumpets on high, the tuba on low—of screeching flutes and humming trombones, Prussia hears the whole damn thing playing in his frustrated head and he grimaces thickly. This was a game Prussia was messing with that he knew could end in explosions galore that shatter through his very soul to send him running for the hills to never be seen again (messing with you was always like that), but he’s got a fuse that he can light. He flicks the flame of a match, shh chaaa, and red spindles flicker like seeding fireweed. 

She’s tremendous, she’s dynamite—

Prussia steps out into the limelight, doused by pale yellow from dinky old street lamps that don't offer much but enough to cast deep shadows across his grim face. The shadows dance for a brief moment as he moves forward, following following following, as Prussia trails after your retreating form. You don't notice. 

Or, at least, Prussia thinks you don't notice. 

His first footfall makes an echoing clap that resounds off of the wall, reverberates like bubblegum and glue, and clings to the shell of his ear like a formidable gunshot. Then, you run. Prussia splutters like a dying lemon’s transmission before he sprints forward like his life depended on it. He grits his teeth so harshly that they make a terrible squeak in his mouth as he balls his fists and chops his arms to the pace of his running feet. He should have expected nothing less! The grit turns into a halfhearted smirk. Oil spills of maroon and violet eat up your form as Prussia stares, watches your every move and every turn. He twists his body to follow after you. You are one helluva little opponent—Prussia knew it wouldn't be this easy. 

She could put up a hard-won fight. 

You’re so clever. If Prussia didn’t know these streets like the back of his hand, he would have definitely lost you by now; fortunately, for the dastardly man chasing after you, he did and he was gaining on you fast. Your head might be screwed on real tight, but there's only some many bobs and weaves you can do until—

until you're at a dead end. 

And this, this truly is your birthright. 

Tremendous dynamite you may be, but every explosion has its smoke and mirrors before it evanescences and then disappears in the fade of char and misery. 

I am El Hombre Lobo, Prussia thinks to himself as he stands so tall and so looming behind you, in front of you, before you. He traps off your escape and he can see your shoulders heaving. He stalks forward, leering with those schmears of red and purple looking so insanely pleased and victorious. Prussia takes in all you have to offer, basking in it so appraisingly and so willingly and so greedily and so needily. He can't help but feel giddy, can't help but feel the sparks of electricity in the tips of his fingers as he draws near. The way your shoulders pinch, the way your breath seems to hitch in fear at each of Prussia's footsteps. The heels of his boot click like a bomb by the second and he's so close that if he opened his mouth to breathe you in, he would taste you too. 

On the prowl, Prussia comes, and then he sees you turn so demurely that it feels like slow music and he can hear the band in his head go into a slow rocky jazz that leaves a one-two riff strumming in his aching eardrums. It’s past midnight. You turn around fully. And Prussia’s dartin’ under the town’s searchlight as he closes in totally. 

But it’s all worth it to take a bite. 

You're tremendous, you’re dynamite.

[mxlovinovargas]

IN MY DREAMS — ITALY x READER

Synopsis: Italy has a dream with you.

In My Dreams

CW: Obsessive Thoughts, Allusions to Obsession, Clingy Behavior, Use of Country Names, Reader-Insert.

Word Count: 1.2k

Soft, gentle rays of sunlight gleam down in hazy cords of glitter and gold. They tickle across the tip of Italy’s nose as he lays flat and prostrate against a fluffy green meadow. Wisps of tall grass weep and sway in a gentle breeze that carries the smell of warm pasta and wildflowers. They brush up against Italy’s sides, feathering him gingerly; and, bathing in the sun and soaking it all up, Italy can't help but feel like he's trapped in a dream. 

A hand kisses against the side of his and Italy turns his head slowly to see its owner. You, right there, by his side (My Love is always just as she seems). Your eyes look so wondrous and mischievous as you gaze at him so sternly through lidded crescent moons. He finds himself absolutely lost in the humor and the magic that seems to swallow him all the longer he stares. Your hand grasps at him softly like you didn't want to hurt him and Italy finds himself blushing. The sound of the rustling field is just like the quiet and hushed strum of an acoustic guitar. 

And there, lost in the music, Italy finds himself sweeping upward with you. The two of you go and traverse and fly before the sky is just so absolutely baby blue and the clouds are way below your feet. The ground is nothing but tiny squares of different colors and textures, and not a single person is visible. The world dwarfs and Italy feels a strange tingling in his joints, deep within his limbs and tucked away in his bone marrow. The height of you and him combined—the way it seems like your feet are draped down into the clear water of a pool. His toes wriggle. You take Italy a little higher. And Italy meets your gaze and there’s a fire behind your eyes. 

A force of nature to be reckoned with; a shiver traces down Italy's spine and he feels his heartbeat speed up significantly. But that fire is not hatred, not evil, not regret, not remorse, not disdain. No. Italy feels the blush on his cheeks crawl down to his neck. He’s hot, so hot that he emits a panicked noise and squeezes his eyes shut. His love for you is a gale of conflagration, an explosion of embers and licks of flame that hunger and thirst for more more more moremoremore. Italy feels his waist bend at the middle a little and he starts to veer off to the left—off to the bad side of love again—until your hand squeezes his and Italy’s eyes fly open. Then, with a twirl of your lips, you draw near and you kiss him. A kiss redeems. 

Italy melts like never before in your embrace whenever your saccharine and smooth lips pull at his own, and he feels that right now, right here, that right above the clouds looking down at the world and all it has to offer is Heaven. You giggle against the kiss and Italy presses himself closer. We laugh, Italy feels his head start to hurt but it’s not really a rational hurt so he tries to quell the thought by giggling with you and throwing his arms around your waist to pull you in in in, and it’s there in my dreams; in my dreams. Like a fever that makes his head swell and mits two fat balloons over his hands, Italy burns and he blazes and he feels you come into him and he goes into you and the clouds seem a little thicker than they did before. 

The two of you are soaring, weeping open again and Italy just buries his face in the nape of your neck as the wind flicks through the strands of auburn brown hair strewn across his forehead. His brows pinch together fearfully, but you hug him like your life depended on it, too, and Italy feels like he could do this. So the two of you spin, like a dandelion seed in the wind. Round and round, and everything blurs and streaks around Italy but one remains true: you. 

Italy focuses on you, the way your face looks whenever you look at him like he’s the only thing in your sweet little world; they way that it seems like your eyes flutter and they seem to frost over with so many emotions that Italy just can’t keep up. He’s lost and he’s spinning, his limbs are askew and he feels so limber with the way he moves with you, towards you. Italy feels a chill that isn’t quite there and all he can do is let you fill his vapid mind. He lets his lips butterfly over the column of your throat tenderly, lovingly. You release a tiny moan that eats Italy alive and he dives right back in. Then, whenever Italy lets his lips rove your skin like a freeway, he feels the two of you swoop and then suddenly the world is plummeting and the two of you are speeding and racing through time itself. Down, down, further down, and Italy can’t even feel the drop because all he cares about is right here in his arms—you, you you you, youyouyouyouyou. You’re all that matters to Italy in this very moment, and whenever he feels his body skydive and swivel around like a yo-yo, he doesn’t even comprehend the twist of his ankle nor the crunch of his fall as the balls of his feet flex out to catch the ground. He just thinks about you. And that face. Your face. Your beautiful, darling, winsome, and handsome face.

And whenever the heels of his ankles touch the ground, it’s like the snap of a twig that awakens Italy. 

My love is resting under a tree. 

Italy’s eyes blink rapidly for a few moments before one slow, drawn-out blink, and then he stares with eyes as wide as saucers as he turns his head to look at you. Sound asleep, your lips slightly parted and a few dewdrops of drool collected at the edge of your mouth. Whenever Italy stretches his arm out to touch yours, you jolt to life with a breathy gasp that isn’t quite all the way there and blink those bleary eyes before you look at him. Once you see it’s only Italy, you visibly relax and Italy feels a heat schmear like quicksilver through his veins. You smile before you whisper, 

“That was the funnest day,” and your eyes beam altogether. 

Italy feels his pulse in his entire body like an oncoming wardrum. His hand curls beneath your palm before he cups it, raises it to his lips, and plants a small smooch against your knuckles. You watch him the entire time. Italy doesn’t let go of your hand as he raises his eyes to level your own. 

Staring at you. 

And it’s all there in my dreams, in my dreams.

[mxlovinovargas]

LILAC BREEZE — SPAIN x READER

Synopsis: He's drunk and he's raring to go. He needs you.

Lilac Breeze

CW: Drunken Behavior, Possessive Thoughts and Behavior, Obsessive Thoughts and Behavior, Blood, Mention of Injury, Slight Petting, Dub-Con / Non-Con Implications at the End, Use of Country Names, Reader-Insert.

Word Count: 1k

Lilac blowin’ through the warm summer air. 

Electricity crackles in the sky, unlike anything or any storm chocolate amber eyes have ever witnessed before as white tendrils flex and claw over deep indigo smattered with dying rays of sunlight. Sniff. Huff. Blood trickles from a fractured nose, dribbling over a pair of beautifully full lips parched with strong liquor and heavy sorrow. A tongue darts out, swipes, and saliva dries to leave the surface even more chapped than before. There's another clap of lightning. 

Spain’s eyes are fuzzy, and his head really hurts. There’s an alcohol headache perched on his shoulders and whenever he crosses his eyes in just the wrong way, pain surmounted builds like a bent pencil before it cracks and sharp stabbings get right between the eyes. There’s a stiff ache that lumps at the base of his head—like his nervous system was eating him alive, but Spain just sniffs again and stumbles through the dark. 

He can smell your perfume. 

The storm in the air backs his body up, like a budding pressure desperately growing and expanding and inflating; a desire, an insurmountable longing that makes his chest burn and his navel turn inwards and his hands shaky. Spain flaps his hands off a couple of times in a vain attempt to quell his nerves, but the alcohol keeps it coming back for more. Crows cry out in the distance, another bolt, and insects chirrup loudly, the air grows thick, and a hungry stray dog howls to the skies that open up and pour. 

Spain feels a panic in his limbs, but it’s not from anything that scares him. He feels tightness, a hurt that runs so thoroughly inside that each step feels like the jolt of a needle, like the lash of a whip, like the snap of a fox trap—all ready to pounce pounce pounce. Spain needs something. He needs to get out of here, go forward, move, do anything! He bumbles through the threshold into a dark house. 

The rhythm of the home, the baseline of the storm, the drumming of the rain, the guitar riffs of electrical storms—it’s all pulsing to life, bleeding through Spain’s every fiber and making his fingertips thump to the pace of his heartbeat and all he can do is feel it as it runs. Dim, dying rays of sunlight fade with the going wind and suddenly night is bred alive in the place. In your home. 

Spain thinks he can hear you through the music of seedy bars revving in his ears, so he steps and he blunders and he haphazardly shambles his way to you. 

Baby, don’t leave me so lovelorn. 

He wants you. He can smell you everywhere. In the air, the room, the couch, the floor, the wall, the ceiling, his body, his mind, his heart, his soul. You’re in everything. It echoes long in the lilac breeze. And its reverberation is so loud it feels like a sudden oncoming bout of muted tinnitus that makes Spain’s inner ears feel so full and makes everything so deaf that all he can hear is the ringing, and all he can smell is you, and all he can do is walk to your room. 

And it’s sad and pathetic how Spain shambles so clumsily and so blindly to your room and slumps halfheartedly against your door. He fumbles with the doorknob, sniffling and grimacing like there was a sour taste in his mouth—himself—before he snags the knob, turns, and now the door is ajar. Then, he crosses in. 

Girl, I want it ba-aaad. 

Girl, I want it bad. 

You're sound asleep, lost blissfully to this world and gone to the beyond. Spain feels his heart thud in his chest and he stands there, looming his shadow over your figure like a boogeyman and staring down at your body like a mangy wolf. He feels the groove of his own body as he presses the ball of his knee to the bed and begins to leer. Spain’s chest heaves and he feels so desperately sick as he flattens his palm to the mattress and crawls his fingers upward. The tips of his fingers kiss your side and you emit a delicate little sound that makes Spain’s fuzzy head spin. You stir to life and Spain swallows hard. 

This is how it should be. You lean into his touch momentarily, a moan on the end of your tongue as you roll a little and twist at the waist to see what’s feeling you up. Spain just paints a pretty smile on his face, extra goofy and dopey and he makes sure you can see the way his eyes are lidded so that you know that he’s not playing. But whenever your eyes squint and you blink at him through the mist of sleep that dances between your eyes, Spain knows you're not pleased to see him. He doesn't mind. He knows how to make you smile. 

So he grabs you by the thigh and shakes you a little, but you just hum and let your head hit the pillow again. Spain squeezes your thigh next before they tickle up, tracing nonsensical patterns against your flesh before they pause at your hip and he grabs a handful. 

We got somethin’ to start—

Your eyes crack open briefly, glazed with that lovely blur of sleep that makes them all puffy and watery, and you whine at him quietly. Spain’s smile curls a little before he dips his hand down. 

He whistled a sad tune that the storm, the wind, the blackbirds repeat back as his hand traverses and you slide your thighs together with a nervous scrape. Spain just keeps smiling. The liquor in his mind has bubbled over like gurgling magma and it’s like lava as it seeps through his every action. Spain needs you so bad—how can he get it through your pretty little head? He needs it so bad that he trembles with each breath he takes and he tilts his head questioningly at you whenever you whimper and shake your head no. Why won’t you hear me? Spain feels sick in the furthest reach of his palette as he finally curves his palm and traces right where he wants most. 

You cry, but Spain can only think about one thing: 

Lilac blowin’ through the warm summer air. 

[mxlovinovargas]

THAT LOOK YOU GIVE THAT GUY — SWITZERLAND x READER

Synopsis: Switzerland watches you, then he daydreams.

That Look You Give That Guy

CW: Obsessive thoughts, Possessive thoughts, General Uncomfortable Vibes, Use of Country Names, Reader-Insert.

Word Count: 1k

I see you with your man, your eyes just shine—

Foggy steam billows from a lone coffee cup and laps gale in strong winds before they evanesce. The cup sits alone, at a table for two, abandoned by its drinker. There, forlorn at a table for two, sits Switzerland with pointed eyes glaring down into his glazy reflection staring right back at him. It shimmers in a slight breeze, then settles with a rumble. 

Laughter. 

His face twitches slightly. Rich seafoam green eyes cross as they glance off to the side. His gaze drifts up, panning up so slowly like a film, and he sees you. That warm and tender face, painted by a darling smile that smears such youthful vigor and lightheartedness. And those eyes, glowing very dimly set on a luminescence, coruscate with this winsome beauty that leaves Switzerland swallowing a hard lump down his throat with a powerful gulp that resounds deep in his ears. You’re so bright and gleaming that everything around you pales so fast that Switzerland can’t even focus on it. 

But you’re not looking at him. 

That look you give that guy. 

Switzerland scoffs now before he turns his nose up and redirects his attention back to his lukewarm coffee rippling in the summer sun. The scent is sharp and it fills the air with every sparse gust of wind that tickles Switzerland's nose. It’s like a slap to the face and Switzerland damn near contemplates getting up and storming away from the scene. 

He doesn’t need to stick around. Not whenever you’re not here for him (you never are). And it’s not like he particularly cares about that, either (if I could be that guy instead of me, I would never let you down). 

Switzerland’s face blanks for a solid, strong second and he wonders where that thought came from. Something intrusive, something stupid, something dramatic. He’s not here to make a fuss, dammit. Switzerland’s just here for a refreshing cup of java. He doesn’t care about any sort of useless relationship drama, the bickering and the fighting and the arguing and the ability to be able to hold your hand and peer into those lovely jewels crescenting on your face whenever you look up at him. 

An aggravated sound escapes Switzerland and he quickly balls his fist, grooving the smiles of his nails into his calloused palm as a correction. He’s furrowed his brows so heavily that a dull pang thrums to life behind his eyes and he almost feels nauseous. If only you would look at him like that… 

You always seems so jovial, so ready for life, so exhilarating—you’re like a fresh kiss of dew in the morning, the sprinkles that make bare feet wet whenever you run across the open fields of the early sun and the fluttering birds and the humdrum of morning songs; like you’re going somewhere better than where you’ve been before. Sometimes, whenever Switzerland really lets his mind and body relax, he can see himself standing in those fields with you. 

He imagines you running to him, looking right at him the same way you look at that man to your right, and your eyes are so squinted that tears brim at the corners and your smile is so wide that the apples of your face look puffy and ripe. That he could finally let down his walls, sweep his arms out so wide, and scoop your body up into an embrace that never stops coming. 

But that’s not him. Switzerland is nothing like that. His face feels hot just from thinking about such a foolish and childish dream for even a split second. 

I’m nothing like what I’d like to be—not a good fit for you, anyway. He’s a stingy and reserved old soul trapped in a young man. Switzerland knows that he’ll never change his ways, that he’s too set in them. And that will never be anything like what you need. You wouldn’t even look his way; not like you do now either, though. Switzerland feels sticky saliva in his mouth at that, but no amount of swallowing makes the damp cotton go away. 

But you do. You look at him with a slight confusion and concern etched across your features and Switzerland's curses the way his heart pitter-patters in response to your expression. You look so kind, so sweet, so like the coffee that once brewed like white hot lava in front of him before he let it cool. Whenever you give him that look…

Switzerland briefly lets himself imagine that things can work out like they do in his head. 

He loses himself momentarily, dazed and seeing only fantasies, and he imagines that you really are looking at him with that precious painting of a stare that leaves Switzerland speechless and floundering like a fish out of water internally. That you rely on him and he takes care of you despite his hardships—that the day is made better by your grace and touch and your presence and the drift of wildflowers and eucalyptus that seems to linger in your bubble; that you would really tear him like a laceration unhealed. He would melt like caramel in your hands and then he would pour between the vee of your fingers and you would just lap him up so sweetly. 

He pulls on the collar of his jacket and clears his throat. Red burns across Switzerland’s cheeks and he ducks away from your watchful eye. You find him regardless. Switzerland realizes that maybe, just maybe, you always know where to find him. 

If only he were that guy standing so boldly and so cheerfully and so tall, interlacing your knuckles together. 

Switzerland would never let you down. 

[mxlovinovargas]

PRIZEFIGHTER — DENMARK x READER

Synopsis: Denmark doesn't really like your boyfriend. So, to make up for that, he dances with you instead.

Prizefighter

CW: Drinking, Heavy Drinking, Drunken Behavior, Possessiveness, Possessive Thoughts, Yandere Themes, Allusions to Abuse, Allusions to Abusive Relationship. Use of Country Names. Reader-Insert.

Word Count: 1.6k

Well, if you need me I'm right here. 

Denmark feels the rhythm of the bar. There’s something heavy hanging in the air. He cocks his head, regarding the spread thoughtfully. Bright stage lights filtering warm lighting, heady beer and liquor, and polished stools and elongated tops feather out from the centerpiece of the main bar. The front bar is lined with drunk people leaned up and conglomerated together the later the night goes on. Denmark’s arch rests on the foot rail and he bounces his leg excitedly as he stretches his back out and spots you. 

He watches you dance. The way you move, the way you slink through the crowds. There’s a coy little smile plastered across your face and Denmark feels his chest swell in excitement. He pushes away from his seat and crosses the wayward. 

You grin up at him whenever he approaches. Denmark feels like he’s walking on a series of clouds with each step, but he just grooves with the flow and then extends his hand out. A twangy rhythm—low guitar strummed with some soft rock and off-brand country—pilfers through the bar, pouring out of speakers and drumming subwoofers that make Denmark’s ears ring the closer your hands draw. 

A small spark engages between your fingertips whenever they touch and Denmark feels a little lighter than before. Every time, without fail. His hands clasps through yours and he’s pulling you closer—always near. He looks like a madman as he stares down at you, but you just laugh and roll into his embrace with a twirl. 

Eyes watch him from the sidelines, but Denmark takes it in stride as he hops with his left leg and then pulls you back with his sway. There’s a giggle that escapes your lips as your cheek brushes his chest and the rest of the bar melts away. You laugh again. 

“You’ve been drinking too much tonight, Dan,” your voice is demure and lovely. Denmark feels like a million bucks as he laughs too and shrugs it off. 

“But you like it, anyway! Don’t-cha?” you can’t argue with that. Denmark does another move and the two of you are doing a slide down the bar, feeling like rednecks and hillbillies shucking a lasso and Denmark can’t help but pick up his pace. He steps around the dynamite of his feet and lets it pump him alive. 

Denmark dips his chin down into the nape of your neck; the faintest whiff of flowers and something super sweet tickles his nostrils, so he sucks in a tiny gasp and then he can feel those eyes boring into him burn. But he doesn’t care! He’s been through a lot, some shitty boyfriend’s not going to scare him off from you. 

You whisper, “He doesn’t like you.” 

Denmark nods. He stands up tall, the barometric pressure changes and Denmark feels frustrated now. Maybe he’s flustered—it doesn’t matter; not when you’re here, in his arms, he can’t lose this. Just one more dance. Denmark drags your feet over the floor, towards the bar, and he’s swiped up another drink before you can protest. The music thumps louder. Alcohol sits hard behind his temples. Denmark chugs a nice wallow down before he hands it to you with a giddy chuckle. You accept with a bout of laughs before the glass bore kisses your lips and you tilt your head back for a drink. 

One swig, then two. Amber liquid swills at the bottom of a glass bottle, dollops with a splash, and then stills. The bottle glitters in the light, grasped by paled knuckles. 

You hand the bottle back to Denmark before you wipe your mouth off with the back of your hands. Beer schmears across your lips and then you’re glancing off to the side. Denmark knows who you’re looking at. Who cares about him? Don’t let him get you down, baby. He can’t do anything to you. No matter what—I’m a prizefighter. I’ll break through anything for you. 

Dane smiles, anyway. This long, and wide, and nice smile that stretches from cheek to cheek; the kind that shows off those lipped pearly white teeth. The corners of his eyes are squinted, full of budding tears that don't fall. Rich cornflower blue eyes shimmer before they blink, another swig before the beer’s polished off. 

His mouth is close to the shell of your ear as he says, “Tell me all. I can go all night for you anytime.” 

He vaguely gestures with the empty bottle, but Denmark’s looking so intensely at you that you understand immediately what he’s implying. Something akin to amusement blossoms across your face before your arms wrap around his waist and the two of you are shambling back out to the dancefloor. 

Denmark’s happy—so happy. And whenever Denmark looks down at you there, in his arms gazing up at him with that pretty little head, he can’t help but let out a laugh himself. It’s funny! Really funny. So funny that Denmark doesn’t even realize he’s shedding tears of jubilation. 

You lean on him, prodding your nose against his left shoulder and Denmark finds himself veering into it. There’s some sort of twinkle blushing your face as you look at him, shaded by the dim orange lighting of the bar and the flush of alcohol, and it’s something that makes his heart beat faster. You mean so much to him, tucked beneath his jaw and clung to his body. This feels so unreal, like a dream. A dream that Denmark never wants to wake up from even though each step brings you closer to leaving. But then he levels your gaze again. 

You’ve been crying, He can see your puffy eyes, those ruddy whites, and the dips of incisors into your bottom lip. Denmark doesn’t comment on it because that’s unnecessary. Negativity has no place between the two of you, between the press of your bodies. More laughter. 

But Denmark’s cornflowers find your boyfriend absolutely sloshed against the bar, hiccupping and picking random fights with guys who have nothing better to do except entertain him. That’s the reason you’re so down and alone. He scoffs. 

“Jerk.” 

Denmark brushes that off with a flick of his head and a cheer. He’s not. You know he’s not. That sound had not been meant for you, Denmark knows you know. There’s just something so carefree about the way that he listens to you; the way his eyes seem so large whenever he stares at you as you speak and as you relay your stories and you just can’t take it. Denmark is passionate, that’s the root of all evils. He’s so enthralled that he can’t do anything but look at you. Soft music hums in the air now, and whenever Denmark sniffs the film of dewdrops from his eyes and the distinct sting of alcohol hazes his senses… Nah, nothing’s going to get him down. He’s with you!

You can always go to him. Denmark will always be here for you. You glance at your boyfriend. 

He tells you, “There’s nothing gonna change over here on my end.”

You can always go to him—he’s a true friend. Someone who just loves you so much that it physically pains him in all of his joints and right below his ribs whenever you stare for too long at that bastard of a man. 

“You know I’ll always care.”

Are words so ginger that Denmark turns red in the face, and he doesn’t quite understand whenever you place your palm against his chest and push away from him. He follows you with a curious gaze and a quirked brow, but you just shake your head softly and smile. You gesture vaguely over your shoulder, towards that shitty boyfriend you’ve snagged, and then wave Denmark off. A look of concern doesn’t present itself, but Denmark just grins and grins and memorizes and studies. 

“I’ll win your heart one day,” he murmurs as you enthusiastically roll your eyes. 

One last swig. 

Denmark feels restless as he watches you. An itch of explosions beneath his skin, vibrating in his wrists. He takes a step and the heel of his boot makes a loud clap whenever he thunders back onto the ground—the world and its gravity mean nothing to him as his eyes constrict, as blackness swallows up everything but you and you’re all Denmark can see. A half-full bottle of beer rumbles in his stomach. You wince, Denmark sheepishly curls his lips, and then you’re back to gazing at one another. It’s so intense. Denmark feels heat in his heart, right where his blood pumps and where adrenaline is born. You go in for one last hug and Denmark is not short on the draw. 

His arms engulf your whole body, and he squeezes. The world feels a little foggy whenever you brush your bodies together. He whispers something that you can’t hear and something Denmark doesn’t feel like bringing to light, but his glare conflagrates through your boyfriend. Another drink, anything for you. 

“Let it start, let it start.” 

One day—For now, Denmark’s eyes close and he hugs tighter. Closer. One Day. He lets go. Your heat leaves his front and a chill traces down his spine, breeding gooseflesh and resentful feelings that Denmark only shows with that boyish vigor and optimism. You titter, so cutely, and he feels a pluck at his heartstrings. 

Denmark watches you go, but not without a last: 

“Come on, baby, if you just dare me.” 

that you never hear whenever you link arms with him. 

[mxlovinovargas]

HOMBRE LOBO

Want—ever long in the ephemeral past and present and future—is one with the human condition, thus explored in these stories through thought, actions, and words that speak more than just a silly little craving. These are 12 stories of longing, restlessness, and desire. This is Hombre Lobo.

Prizefighter - [Denmark x f!Reader]

That Look You Give That Guy - [Switzerland x f!Reader]

Lilac Breeze - [Spain x f!Reader]

In My Dreams - [Italy x f!Reader]

Tremendous Dynamite - [Prussia x f!Reader]

The Longing - [Norway x f!Reader]

Fresh Blood - [Russia x f!Reader]

What's a Fella Gotta Do - [Romania x f!Reader]

My Timing Is off - [Germany x f!Reader]

All the Beautiful Things - [England x f!Reader]

Beginner's Luck - [Lithuania x f!Reader]

Ordinary Man - [Romano x f!Reader]

DISCLAIMER: These are strictly fictional one-shots. They have no basis nor do they reflect reality. These are not meant to be read as a foundation for your sexual, romantic, or platonic relationships. These are not a guide. They have dark content, dark themes, and dark outcomes. As the title says, "Werewolf", and it should be inferred no differently. Thank you.