An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
At the End of Kalmar, nothing keeps Sweden around but Norway. As he asks him to leave the union, the words between them stay soft and gentle, but hearts are torn apart anyways.
Alas: After literal years of writingblock, i produced a little tragic oneshot based on an rp of mine and commissioned @lumierew to do an illustration based on it.
It's SuNor, ofc. It's tragic, ofc, so it has mature themes, a lot of angst ♡ it's loosely historically set in 1520, before the start of Swedish War of Liberation and mentions the Treaty of Bergen of 1450 after the short lived War for Norway between Denmark and Sweden! Mentioned DenSuNor because how couldn't I.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 5/?
Fandom: Hetalia (Anime & Manga)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Austria/Spain (Hetalia)
Additional Tags: Antonio and Roderich are down bad for each other no matter the century, Brief Reference to a Historical Instance of Cannibalism in chapter 2, references to infidelity, they're both possessive
Summary:
A collection of love Letters from Roderich Edelstein and Antonio Fernández Carriedo over the years
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
The sun hadn’t even reached it’s peak when the redhead heard the sound of someone trying to make their way across the perilous rocks, the specific sounds so familiar to her it was like her own heartbeat. Sure enough, soon the mermaid saw the human standing before her, the man looking slightly disheveled but smiling brightly nonetheless.
Warnings: Blood, Violence, smut, it's a Hannibal AU so yeah.
Pairing: America/Russia/China
Summary: Alfred is the new investigator in the small town of Adelfa, his days will turn into a spiral of sleepless nights and bloody murder scenes as he has to look for a serial killer whose work exceeds the years of training he's had.
Chapter Preview:
"I'm sorry but I couldn't help but fetch you away, the conversation was getting tiring," Romulus said, pouring two glasses of whiskey and placing them on the desk. "I forgot to ask, but surely a drink won't kill anyone,"
"I hope this one doesn't," Yao chuckled, taking the glass. "These are some nice paintings. Are they Feliciano's work?"
"He's good, but the subject's of his creations have always been so grim," Romulus hummed, his gaze wandering to his drink. "I wonder what crosses his mind when he's creating,"
As I stated in this post, over the past couple of years, I’ve drafted many pieces that, sadly, will likely never be expanded upon.
If anyone is inspired by these, feels they have an idea to continue them, you have my blessing/consent to reblog with your additions, and I’d be delighted to read through them!
This piece was started originally while listening to Delta Rae’s Bottom Of The River, and was going to explore a more fantasy!au with Gil, focusing on a little-forgotten fact that, for many, many centuries, large swaths of what would be part of the greater Prussian Kingdom was built on old marshland, and many, many swamps were drained when the kingdom was truly getting its feet on the ground. Unfortunately, my Muse abandoned me as I kept writing, and I am left unsatisfied.
If anyone has any ideas, please feel free to add more to this post!
I hope you enjoy!
The moonlight was an ivory sheen against the inky blackness of the bog.
A stickiness hung heavily on the air, a murky heat that clung to the skin, weighed down the spirit.
The entire valley hummed with foreboding: a warning to turn back, to scurry home to your safe bed and warm kitchen, to hide away in the protective embrace of daylight.
But you had come too far to turn back now, were resolved to see your mission through to the end.
The air carried distorted songs and off-key calls; the insects were almost familiar, and you were sure those were frogs diving into the waters to your right.
But their melodies were wrong, fragments of abandoned croaks and chirps cast into corrupt chaos.
Most alarming were the footsteps keeping pace to your left, something large and unknown following you from within the shadows. Here-and-there, a flash of bloody red- eyes that you would swear were almost human.
And yet, despite the discordant wrongness of the place, you were growing used to its eerie beauty, gradually becoming familiar with the acrid aroma, the steady, greedy squelch of the muck underfoot, the weight of so many eyes hungrily watching you.
In your old life, in the world beyond this one, you would have been unable to ignore the creeping whispers of fear. But after besting your demons and monsters thought only to live in legend, you knew you could easily overcome any dangers in this place.
Thinking back to your younger years, you decided that, had you known only a few weeks' adventure would help you learn your innermost strengths, you would have gone on this quest years ago.
A sharp dip in the ground had your path succumbing to the bog water, that inky, endless darkness still peeking its ugly head out from beneath its sparkling crown of moonlight.
There was no jumping to the next stretch; while you were sure you could make the distance, there was no telling how weak the ground on the other side could be, nor was there any way of knowing what creatures may be hidden just beneath the water's surface, waiting for the perfect opportunity to claim you.
You weren't foolish enough to risk something so reckless.
A raft was out of the question; rumours of old whispered menacingly from memory, stories of how the water would always consume anything that didn't already belong to it.
Forward was unfeasible and down was impossible, up remained your only hope.
A spiderweb of overlapping branches and vines, strange creaks and groans and shrill animal cries all coming into sharp focus, formerly ignored in keeping watch of your steps and a wary eye on the creature following from the shadows.
By luck, there was a vine within reach, the perfect length and width to make the swing over to the next section of path. It was perfect; if you hadn't known better, you would have sworn it was made solely for that purpose.
The following sequence of events came only in a series of flashes:
You carefully wrapped the vine around both your leg and you arm, ensuring you would have a secure grip.
You adjusted your bag, checking to make sure everything was secure and wouldn't fall out during the crossing.
A creeping sensation began climbing around both of your legs, down your arms, quickly moving to wrap around your torso and neck.
Tight, so tight-!
Thundering footsteps, a ghostly figure breaking through the treeline with a sword in hand-
Pain, white-hot, air-!
The dull thud of falling to the ground, the damp seeping through your clothes.
The gasping, blazing rush of freedom.
Your vision came back in clouded fragments- you were lying on the ground, the now-dead vine laying beside you. The same phatasmic figure was squatting several paces from you, tip of their blade slightly buried in the earth. And eyes-
The red eyes!
It took several more moments for your hearing and vision to find harmony, for your mind to connect the words they were speaking to the movements of their lips. incomprehensible as those sounds remained.
"You've been following me."
His expression twisted into some indecipherable thing at your accusation, and you had the strangest suspicion that he was somehow disappointed in you.
"Stupid choice, trusting the Swamp."
You ignored the way his words stung your pride, deciding that offending your rescuer was something to avoid. "Pardon my ignorance; there aren't too many reliable guide books about this place."
His lips curled slightly, reflecting something similar to a smile before he was once again studying you warily. "Yet you still chose to come here."
You knew nothing about him, and even if you did owe him your life, you didn't owe him your story. "So I did."
Another twisted expression, as if he weren't consciously aware of the movements of his own features. It was a strange sequence, though you could definitely make out the distinct flash of pale teeth reflecting the moonlight.
"You're either very brave or incredibly stupid."
Pairing/Characters: America/Romano. Background mentions of Seborga, Veneziano, Canada, and France.
Ratings/Warnings: T for cursing and mildly suggestive dialogue. Pure fluff with no warnings to speak of.
Word Count: 2103
Summary: America throws a snowball at Romano when he’s trying to build a snowman with his brothers. Once Romano tackles America, he has to decide what he wants to do with him.
A/N: Written for @hetalia-fanart-memes, who requested Romerica with the prompt “Don’t throw that snowball” on @helltalia-inc. I hope you enjoy this.
It was snowing in the park only a block away from where the nations had gathered for the world meeting. Romano was never the biggest fan of the cold, so if it had been up to him, he would have gone straight back to the hotel. He was looking forward to taking a flight back to Rome the next day, where he hopefully wouldn’t be dealing with this snow crap. In the unlikely event that it was snowing in Rome, Romano would go to Naples or another city in South Italy not affected as strongly by the winter.
But for today, Marcello, who had come along on this trip with Savino and Feliciano even if he couldn’t attend the official conference, had practically begged Savino to come build a snowman with him after the meeting. Feliciano had begged too, and under the force of two sets of puppy dog eyes, Savino had folded like a paper napkin.
This wasn’t so bad, Romano reflected. Sure, it was cold as shit, but he was relatively protected in his scarf, hat, and gloves, and he got to spend time with his brothers. At least he hadn’t been pelted with a snowball, which many of the nations had, thanks to America and Canada.
Romano glanced up when he heard France fussing about his appearance as he attempted to brush snow out of his hair. America, who was obviously the one who had thrown this particular snowball, was laughing in his usual obnoxiously bright, ridiculously loud, attention getting way. So, of course Savino turned to glance in that direction instead. He didn’t really have another choice.
Savino hated how his heart started pounding as soon as he looked at Alfred. It wasn’t fair, damn it. No one should look that handsome while just fucking standing there, hunched over a little as they laughed at their own joke like they were God’s gift to comedy. Alfredo was laughing so hard at himself that his cerulean eyes were narrowed into thin slits and tears were leaking from the corners. The sunlight reflected off his glasses, creating a bright light Savino couldn’t manage to look away from. Alfred’s grin was so big it could swallow the sky whole.
And the bastard had dimples, as if God hadn’t blessed him with too much beauty already. Savino wanted to kiss the corner of the idiota’s mouth, just to feel those dimples under his own lips. Savino swallowed heavily at the thought and told himself to focus on the snowman he’d been working on for the past half hour.
But he was too late. America’s smile had already softened, and he had already noticed that Romano was looking at him.
“What’s up, Little Italy? You feel like joining in on the snowball fight?”
Savino scoffed and forced himself to go back to reshaping his snowman’s head. “Hardly. As you can see, I’m busy at the moment.”
“Are you suuure? It could be a lot of fun.”
“If you want to go run around with America, that’s fine,” Seborga told him. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Romano wasn’t looking at his baby brother. He was looking at America, because he knew that mischievous tone of voice from back when they lived together, and he knew that Alfred was planning something. Fredo was never good at subtlety.
America was rolling a snowball together in his gloved hands with a smirk on his face. Because of course he was.
“I swear to God, if you throw that fucking snowball at me—”
The snowball went sailing through the air, and it hit him square in the chest. Savino was stumbled backwards a little, because Alfred had used way too much fucking force with that throw because of his super-strength. It wasn’t enough to really hurt him, but it was almost enough to knock him off his feet.
The sounds of laughter rang out around him. Alfred, of course, and Feli and Marcello nearby. Canada seemed to be chuckling, though he was too quiet for Romano to actually hear him, and so were the other nations nearby, even the ones like France who had been America’s snowball victims.
And that just wouldn’t fucking stand.
Romano glared at America as viciously as he could manage when he was more irritated than truly pissed off. “Now you’re gonna get it, stronzo!”
Alfred took off running, shrieking with laughter, and Savino chased after him. They ran for a couple minutes, because America could be pretty fast when he wanted to be. But he couldn’t outpace an Italian.
Eventually, Savino tackled him in a snowbank and fell right on top of him. If America had really wanted to get away, Romano would have had no hope of holding him down. But America wasn’t struggling. He relaxed back against the snowy ground, panted for air, and smiled up at Romano sheepishly.
“Looks like you caught me.”
“I guess I did.” Savino moved one of his hands to the side to gather up some snow in his palm. Alfred didn’t notice. He was still too busy grinning up at him.
Alfred giggled, because apparently, he found the idea of being in this position inherently hilarious for God knows what reason. “Now that you have me, what are you gonna do with me?”
Savino gazed down at him thoughtfully. He took a moment to examine the golden blond hair tousled underneath his knit cap and how it perfectly framed his rosy cheeks. He stared at the goofy smile and the electric blue eyes that had distracted him so thoroughly before. He memorized what it felt like to have Alfred’s firm, solid body laid out underneath him.
“I can think of a few things,” Savino admitted quietly. “Not all of them would be appropriate for a public park.”
Alfred’s eyes widened comically behind his glasses, and his face turned red. No, not just red, practically scarlet. His face practically matched the poinsettias that had been decorating the lobby of the office building they were in earlier today. “Vinny, that’s um, that’s, wow, I…”
Romano chuckled at how flustered and tongue-tied he was. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
Alfred nodded frantically, with a desperate look in his eyes. “Please.” He might have been embarrassed, but he was eager too. It was too adorable for Savino to resist.
He started to lean down, and America closed his eyes, because he was innocent and gullible enough to do that. He couldn’t see Romano’s arm lifting with the snowball he’d make earlier. A millisecond before their lips touched, Romano shoved the snowball he’d made earlier directly into the crook of America’s neck, right above his coat collar and scarf, where he was unprotected from the cold.
America’s eyes flew open, and he squawked indignantly. “You tricked me!”
Romano laughed at the offended look on his face. “You made it so fucking easy.” He couldn’t believe America had actually fallen for the oldest trick in the book.
Alfred growled at him, and the low noise sent a tingle down Savino’s spine. “That was evil. I really oughta do something about it.”
Savino snorted. “What the fuck do you think you’re gonna do, Mr. Tough Guy?”
“This.” Before Romano could ask what “this” was, America flipped them over, and in the space of a second, he was pinned underneath someone a lot stronger than him. He couldn’t have escaped if he’d wanted to. Savino couldn’t breathe properly, and he couldn’t tell if it was because of the sudden body slam or the fact that Alfred was on top of him.
To repeat, Alfred was on top of him. His brain couldn’t function at half its normal capacity when he realized that.
Then Alfred was kissing him, and it wasn’t soft, nor gentle, nor sweet. America’s tongue shoved its way into his mouth immediately, without any build-up or finesse, and Romano could feel how frustrated he was. He must have been suppressing this desire for as long as Romano had, because it didn’t just feel like something America wanted. It felt like a raw, animalistic hunger, like he was kissing Romano hard enough to bruise because he might die if he didn’t.
Savino felt the same way. He groaned in the back of his throat, clutched the collar of Alfred’s coat, hauled him close enough to feel the edge of his glasses digging into his face, and kissed him back just as forcefully.
After a while, it had to end. They couldn’t kiss forever because of that whole inconvenient “need to breathe” thing. Alfred disconnected their mouths, sighed happily, and scooted down a little to nuzzle Savino’s cheek.
“Best revenge ever,” Alfred declared triumphantly.
Savino huffed out a laugh. “I’m not sure if that counts as revenge. Revenge is supposed to be something the other person doesn’t like.”
“And you liked kissing me a lot, didn’t you?” America sounded so smug and sure of himself, and ordinarily, Romano would have been annoyed by anyone with that kind of attitude. But with Alfred, the fondness tended to outshine his annoyance. That didn’t happen with most people.
Savino rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I did.”
“I liked kissing you too. I’ve been wanting to kiss you for ages. I could kiss you all day long. Well, except for when I have to go to the bathroom or something like that. But other than that, pretty much all the time.”
Savino shook his head and laughed again. “God, I love you.” The words slipped out, because they were so easy to say. Fredo was a dork who would openly admit to wanting to kiss Savino all the time, and he wasn’t even exaggerating. He looked like a goddamned movie star, but even with his occasional moments of arrogance, he never seemed to realize how ludicrously attractive he was, much less how he could have anyone in the world wrapped around his pinkie finger. America made Romano laugh and smile more than anyone else ever had. Of course Savino loved him.
Alfred blinked in shock, he’d just seen the face of God, but somehow more astounded than that. Then he grinned, with the adoration of a child to its mother or a puppy to its owner, but somehow purer and more loving than that too. Savino’s internal similes were failing him.
Alfred’s words were failing him too. “I love you too! I love you so much, I just—” He didn’t finish his sentence and resorted to covering Savino’s face with ecstatic kisses.
Savino giggled at his overexuberance. “Tesoro, I believe you. You don’t have to prove it, okay?”
“But I want to.”
Fair enough, Savino supposed. He laid there, grinning like an idiot in the snowbank, and let Alfred keep kissing his face. His hat had been knocked off earlier when Alfred flipped them over, and the cold at the back of his head and the nape of his neck was starting to get to him, but he was trying to ignore that.
When he noticed Savino shivering, Alfred sat up and pulled him into his lap. “Better?”
“Much.” Romano saw his hat on the ground and frowned in indecision. It had been laying in the snow for a long time, so it would probably only make his head colder, not warmer.
So instead of reaching over to get his hat, he nestled his head into America’s shoulder. America wrapped both arms around him in a clingy embrace.
“Now it’s perfect,” Savino decided.
Alfred kissed the top of his head. “Damn right it is.”
Savino wasn’t quite warm due to the temperature outside, but he was content and drowsy. The rhythm of Alfred’s breathing was oddly soothing.
That rhythm was interrupted by an abrupt laugh. “Dude, I just realized. If someone came by looking for us, they’d find you curled up in my lap instead of running after me and throwing snowballs. They’d be confused as hell.”
“Let ‘em be confused. I don’t really care what they think, do you?”
Alfred squeezed him a little tighter, and Savino didn’t have to look up to know that he was smiling.
“I never did. I’m just happy to be holding you.”
Savino’s face was warm, and he was blushing at least as badly as Alfred had been earlier, after Savino had implied he might do something to him that wasn’t appropriate for a public park. He wasn’t used to this much affection, and maybe he never would be.
But Romano didn’t care who might walk by and see him blushing with a cheesy grin on his face. He was happy, Alfred was holding him, and that was all that fucking mattered.
Hey hetalia fandom, I'm searching for a fanfic that I read years ago and can't find it. I don't remember a some of it but it was basically about the end of the world due to global warming. I specifically remember it talking about England, Japan and other island countries being dead since they were completely flooded and along with a lot of costal nations being dead or nearly completely submerged. I also remember that it talked about how part parts of America were on fire. There were Switzerland centeric chapters were he took care of himself and Lichtenstein. Then Hungary found him and went to go talk to Lichtenstein but turns out she was dead the whole time. Switz had just gone mad and hallucinated her still being alive because he couldn't bare to lose her.
Please tell me someone else read this and knows where I can find it/has the link to it. Or was that fanfic just a horrible fever dream of mine?
Appearance drabble for Vietnam because the Hetalia fandom really be out here not giving her much content smh 😔 (seriously though she’s SO underrated and I don’t get it)
Written in the illegal 2nd person. Enjoy; feedback and criticism are welcome and appreciated!
~~~
Lien reminds you of bamboo.
Perhaps it is because of the soft green of her clothes, or the way her body seems to only consist of straight lines, the rare curves sloping gently, subtly;
(even her hair is straight, despite whether it is tied up in her usual low ponytail or hangs loosely down, waist length and inky black;)
or perhaps it is the way she looks graceful and slender, how all her actions are smooth and fluid, and all her movements devoid of the superfluous.
(Almost like the way the bamboo stalks bend gently in the wind, a swathe of gently bending lines, clean and minimal.)
Or perhaps it is something else: something inexplicable and almost uncanny that renders her so alike to the willowy bamboo forest.
Like the way the others have mistook her appearance to mean plain, harmless, never fathoming the depths underneath.
(She is reminded of the weapons she made against them; the stout, blunt ends of the bamboo rod turned sharp, keen and cutting: able to wound, able to kill.)
Like the way she has regrown, time after time, sprouting up from the soil that they had ravaged and burned, sprouting fresh and green and ready to begin again.
Like how she has stood strong and firm, weathering invasion after invasion;
(First it was Yao, who stayed for almost a thousand years, and then a long peace, (the calm before the storm), before the rest came rushing at her like typhoons to her shores.)
coming out with gashes in her sleeves and scratches on her paddle, but always whole, always standing tall.
Or maybe it is simply the way she seems so at peace among them, so at ease. As though the bamboo grove is her birthplace, her family and home, the place she will return when she dies. They seem to be part of her being, holding her up when she is beaten and tired, like a second skeleton that supports her, protects her, gives her the strength to continue.
The bamboo is her body, her soul, and her home.
~~~
Additional (head)canons for Vietnam and China because I have Thoughts:
Vietnam was the one born from the bamboo grove; China was born from the river. Vietnam’s core strength is perseverance; China’s core strength is flexibility. Like the bamboo, Vietnam grows and regrows, and at its core, the bamboo is a woody grass; Vietnam’s bones are strong, and she has resisted domination time and time again through her persistence and her patience. Like the river, China is fluid and adaptable, and the river twists and turns, forging new paths through the mud; China is flexible and plays the long game, transforming himself into something that will survive and endure.
