#Magnus Densen | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

capricorn-writes1 · 3 years ago

Note

Weird uhh request, I was wandering if you could write maybe Denmark with a ftm s/o who's had bottom (phalloplasty) and top surgery and like s/o is very insecure of his scars and Denmark comforts him on his body?

Andersen Densen, Berwald Oxenstierna, and Lukas Bondevik have a transgender S/O who has had phalloplasty and top surgery.

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This is certainly the weirdest request, anon. But, I will try my best to make this. I am also very sorry if you don't like the result because I'm not experienced writing these kinds of themes, especially in the medical field, but to make it up and as a bonus. I will add Sweden and Norway!

Note: For a Transgender S/O (Female to Male)

Warning: If you hate LGBTQ+, please do not read. I don't want a homophobic comment on this post. Also, OOC characters and grammar errors.

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Magnus Densen - Denmark

Magnus was completely accepting the moment you came out. He didn’t hesitate—just wrapped you in one of his crushing, bear-like hugs. He even bought a pride flag the next day and hung it like a banner in his living room.

He turned into your personal Viking nurse after your top surgery. Magnus insisted on helping with everything: pillows, meds, soup, you name it. He even made a cheesy little “Top Surgery Recovery Throne” with blankets and plushies.

When you felt nervous about public spaces after surgery, he held your hand tighter. If anyone even thought of staring, they’d get a hard stare from the Nordic menace himself. Magnus doesn’t make a big show—he just stands tall beside you like a wall of warmth.

The first time you went shirtless post-op, he howled like you won a gold medal. He whistled and shouted, “Look at my man, looking like a damn Norse god!” It wasn’t objectifying—it was pride, admiration, and joy. He respects every scar and the journey behind it.

You two threw a cheeky little "Binder Retirement Party" after your surgery. He brought tiny drinks, made a paper crown, and gave a toast: “To the end of boob jail and to my brave badass boyfriend!” You laughed so hard, you almost popped a stitch.

First time you used an STP and felt euphoric? He threw imaginary confetti. Magnus may not understand every nuance, but he lives to celebrate your joy. He even made you a “transition wins” scrapbook, stickers and all.

He recognizes when you're quiet and offers comfort without overstepping. He doesn’t always have the words, but his bear hugs say everything. Sometimes he’ll softly say, “You don’t have to prove anything to be real to me.”

He’s the guy who starts fights with transphobes in Facebook comment sections. He uses his loud voice for good, especially when people are too quiet. And he credits you for making him a better person.

Loves walking with his hand in your back pocket or fingers hooked in your belt loop. Sometimes he grins and says, “Mine,” like a possessive caveman—but it’s all in good fun. He never grabs or touches without a look or nod from you.

When the world feels cruel or tiring, he becomes your grounding force. Magnus doesn’t try to “fix” everything—just offers his chest and lets you lean. Sometimes all he says is, “I’ve got you, okay? You’re not alone.”

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You weren’t sure what you expected the first time you told Magnus. Maybe a moment of stunned silence. Maybe some awkward questions, or a forced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, he blinked once, then grinned so wide it looked like his whole face split open. “Wait, seriously? That’s awesome,” he said, wrapping his strong arms around you so tightly you thought your ribs might give out. “You must’ve gone through hell, huh? You’re badass.” Just like that, he made you feel like you hadn’t dropped a confession, but a medal on the table.

Recovery after top surgery was no joke. The pain meds made you dizzy, the drains felt gross, and even turning your head too fast made your chest throb. But Magnus? He was a whirlwind of support. He built you a ridiculous pillow fort on the couch and called it “The Throne of Transformation.” Every time you tried to get up on your own, he pointed at you with a wooden spoon and yelled, “Sit back down, my prince!” You rolled your eyes, but the truth was, he made the ugly parts of healing feel just a little bit beautiful.

The first time you took your shirt off in front of him after healing, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. Your heart hammered. Would he notice the scars? The swelling? Would he see you differently? Instead, he just stared—and then howled like a maniac. “Look at you!” he yelled, tossing a pillow in the air like confetti. “You look like an actual goddamn Norse legend. I’m gonna have to start lifting again just to deserve standing next to you.” Your laugh came out wet, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

Magnus didn’t just make you feel seen. He made you feel known. On days when dysphoria crept in like a fog, he never tried to fix you. He just sat next to you, thigh against thigh, one hand resting quietly over yours. “You don’t have to talk,” he’d say softly. “Just know I’ve got you.” He didn’t try to untangle your sadness with logic or distraction. He just gave you space to exist exactly as you were.

And gods, did he defend that space. The first time someone at the grocery store gave you a double take after you corrected them on your pronouns, Magnus glared at them like they’d just insulted Thor himself. “Got a problem?” he asked, voice casual but eyes sharp. The person backed off, muttering, and Magnus turned to you with a crooked grin. “You okay? ‘Cause I was this close to throwing a cabbage at them.” You bumped your shoulder into him. “Please don’t get banned from this store.” “No promises.”

When you told him you’d finally tried your STP in public and felt normal, he grabbed your waist and spun you around right there in the kitchen. “Hell yeah, (Y/N)! Pee victory!” he shouted, ignoring the fact you’d just spilled juice all over the counter. Later, you found a sticker on your binder drawer that read: Level Up: Masculinity Maxed Out. He didn’t need to understand every technical detail—he just celebrated every small win like you’d climbed a mountain.

You weren’t sure when it happened—maybe somewhere between his goofy grins and the way he always asked where you were comfortable being touched—but you realized you’d never felt safer. Not just physically, but emotionally. Magnus didn’t just love you as you were. He saw you. Fully. Loudly. Proudly. And for the first time in your life, you felt like being yourself wasn’t something you had to earn. It just was. And that was enough.

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Berwald Oxenstierna - Sweden

When you came out to him, Berwald didn't say much right away—just nodded firmly. He didn’t bombard you with questions. Just stayed close, solid and dependable. Then he reached out, gently squeezed your hand, and said, “O’course. You’re still you.”

Berwald isn’t the talkative type, but he spent hours researching trans healthcare. He read medical sites, watched trans creators, even asked Finland (quietly) about respectful language. He wanted to understand without putting that emotional labor on you.

After your surgeries, Berwald practically transformed into a one-man recovery team. He built you a chest-friendly chair, prepped meals, kept the space quiet and warm. If you winced, he was immediately beside you with pain meds and a soft, “Hurts?”

The first time you let him see your chest post-top surgery, he was silent for a long moment. Then he leaned down and kissed your shoulder, so gently it almost didn’t register. “Y’r brave,” he said, holding you like you might drift away.

Berwald isn't loud with praise, but he shows it in small ways. He leaves your favorite snacks on your desk, adjusts your shirt collar with care. When you walk into a room, his eyes soften—like he's quietly admiring you.

When it came to physical closeness post-op, Berwald was patient to a fault. He never made a move without your go-ahead and always checked in first. His touch is deliberate, careful—not because he’s afraid, but because he wants you to feel safe.

He once carved a small wooden pin in the shape of a binder and gave it to you. “Thought you might like somethin’ t’ remember it by,” he said gruffly. You wore it on your bag like a badge of honor.

Berwald rarely speaks at world meetings, but when someone joked about gender—he stood up. “That’s enough,” he said, voice like steel. The room went silent. He doesn’t argue. He ends conversations.

He made sure your shared space was stocked with whatever made you comfortable. From flat-chested dress shirts to custom boxers—he quietly took notes and bought them. He even adjusted the bathroom so your STP had its own discreet shelf.

He doesn’t forget your pronouns, doesn’t slip up, doesn’t need reminders. He respects your journey like it’s sacred—even the hard parts. If others mess up, his brows knit into a slow, deliberate frown. You’ve never felt more valid than in his presence.

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You never expected Berwald to be the one who made you feel whole. You’d always seen him from a distance—tall, stoic, and unreadable. The kind of person who scared most people off with a single look. But when you came out to him, chest tight and hands cold, he just blinked at you, then slowly nodded. “Alright,” he said. That was it. No confusion, no follow-up questions. Just steady, calm presence. He didn’t ask why. He just asked what you needed.

It was the way he showed up after your surgeries that caught you off guard. The way he carefully helped you sit upright with pillows he'd positioned just right, making sure not to press too hard on your back. He never hovered. He’d just be in the next room, reading or knitting quietly, appearing the second you shifted in discomfort. Once, you tried to thank him for it, voice weak and uneven. He looked over from his book and said, “You don’t need t’ thank me. You matter.”

The first time you saw your post-op chest in the mirror, your breath caught. The scars were angry and red, the bruising dark. You flinched before you could stop yourself. Berwald stepped up behind you, hands warm on your shoulders, eyes calm in the reflection. “Looks strong,” he said. “Looks like you.” You blinked hard. It wasn’t praise in the way others gave it—it was more like reverence. As if your body had never been anything but worthy.

Sometimes, words felt too big for your mouth. Especially when dysphoria whispered lies in the back of your mind. On those days, Berwald didn’t ask you to talk. He’d sit beside you on the floor, back pressed to the couch, letting the silence stretch. At some point he’d hand you a blanket, or your favorite tea, or one of the little wooden animals he carved. A badger. A fox. A small bear. Always quiet, always thoughtful. It made you feel seen in a way no one else had managed.

He didn’t correct people with anger—he didn’t need to. One look from Berwald was enough to silence misgendering strangers or nosy coworkers. His calm held weight. The kind of silence that made people second-guess their own words. “That’s my boyfriend,” he’d say plainly, with that almost-smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. No dramatics. No hesitation. Just certainty. You could lean on that like a pillar.

And then there were the quiet nights. You lying in bed, shirtless now, no longer afraid of how you looked under the warm light. Berwald brushing his fingers gently across your side, always waiting for your nod before going further. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he’d murmur, voice rough with care. He never reached for you with assumptions. He reached with intention. With trust. With love that felt like gravity—unshakable and ever-present.

You used to think you had to prove you were enough. That being transgender meant you had to fight for recognition, to explain every scar and story. But with Berwald, there was no proving. Just being. He loved you in a way that was quiet but vast. The kind of love that didn’t need to be spoken every day, because it was in everything he did. And maybe, in the stillness of that love, you found something deeper than comfort. You found peace.

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Lukas Bondevik - Norway

When you told him you were transgender, Lukas didn’t flinch or look away. He nodded, calm as ever, eyes unreadable but focused entirely on you. There were no flowery speeches, just a quiet “Okay. I get it.”

Lukas doesn't draw attention to your journey unless you want him to. But he remembers every detail: your preferred words, your healing dates, your boundaries. He adjusts his language without being asked, never slips up. He respects your identity like a rune

Post-op, you’d wake up and somehow the water was already next to your bed. The light was dimmed. Your meds organized. Lukas was always close, like a shadow. You barely heard him move, but you always felt his presence. Even when you slept, he kept vigil—reading or humming old Nordic lullabies softly.

He never assumes. Always asks. “Can I touch here?” and then “Are you okay with this?” There’s something almost ritualistic in how he respects your body. Not out of fear, but reverence. He doesn’t treat your scars like flaws.

On rough dysphoria days, he doesn’t push you to talk. Instead, he’ll light a few candles and draw quiet little sigils on paper. “You’re not cursed,” he murmurs once, tracing a rune along your palm. “I think the world just took longer to meet the right version of you.”

There’s never a pause when he says your name. Never a second thought. He corrects people once calmly, without drama and expects them to remember. You’re not his trans boyfriend. You’re just his boyfriend. To him, that’s never been complicated.

Lukas may seem distant, but he braids your hair when you're recovering in bed. He presses soft kisses to your sternum, where your scars meet skin. Sometimes he leaves sea glass or little charms on your pillow.

If someone dares say something ignorant, Lukas doesn’t raise his voice. He just says something so precise and cold it shuts the entire room down. Then calmly returns to his tea like nothing happened.

He prepares your favorite tea every morning—served in the mug you like. Lays out your binder or post-op support wear without you asking. When your energy is low, he’ll read aloud in his quiet, lulling voice.

There’s a button from your old binder in his drawer. A photo of you grinning in a post-op hoodie tucked inside his book. He doesn’t make a show of it. You only found out by accident. But he carries your strength like a quiet talisman.

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You never expected Lukas to be the one who made silence feel safe. Not empty, not cold, just peaceful. The kind of quiet that let your thoughts breathe without pressure. When you told him you were transgender, your voice barely held steady, and your chest felt like it might collapse from holding it all in. Lukas didn’t say much. Just a blink, a slow nod, and a simple, “Okay.” He’d paused, only to brush his thumb against the edge of your hand. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until that moment.

Recovery after surgery was painful, slow, and messy, physically and mentally. You didn’t want anyone to see you like that: bloated, stitched, exhausted. But Lukas stayed. Not hovering. Just there. When the meds wore off too soon or the mirror was too cruel, he lit a few candles and sat on the floor beside your bed, book in hand, occasionally reading aloud in soft Norwegian syllables that lulled the storm in your chest. He never told you that you were brave. He simply acted like you’d already survived the hardest part.

One morning, still sore and groggy, you caught your reflection. Your chest was bare, bruised, scarred, healing, but undeniably yours. For a second, fear rose, uninvited. You turned, expecting Lukas to avert his eyes or shrink away. Instead, he met your gaze in the mirror. “Looks like you,” he said, voice low and sure. There was no weight to the words, and yet they carried more than any long-winded praise. He didn’t see a mistake. He saw you.

Some days, dysphoria still clawed through the calm. On those days, Lukas didn’t ask you to explain. He brewed your favorite tea and left it on the windowsill, warm and fragrant. He’d quietly leave a small paper charm near your pillow, inked with symbols you didn’t fully understand, but felt like comfort all the same. You once asked if he believed in magic. He replied, “Not all magic needs belief to work,” then pressed a soft kiss to your temple and let you rest.

When others misgendered you or stumbled over your name, Lukas handled it with eerie precision. No lectures. No fury. Just a calm stare and a corrected “Boyfriend,” in a tone colder than the sea. People rarely made the same mistake twice. He never made a scene. He didn’t need to. His silence was sharper than most people’s shouting, and it always made you feel safe, like he’d carved out space for you in a world too quick to question.

Late at night, in the low orange glow of his bedroom, Lukas traced the edges of your body like he was learning constellations. Every touch was a question, every kiss a promise. He didn’t rush. Didn’t assume. He asked if something was okay with a glance, a pause, a murmured “Mm?” that you learned to recognize. In his arms, you didn’t feel broken. You felt sculpted. Real. Yours.

Loving Lukas wasn’t loud, but it was endless. He didn’t write you poems or shout from rooftops. Instead, he sharpened your name like a blade and used it to cut through every doubt. He stayed when the pain was ugly. Held you when your voice shook. Let you be every version of yourself without asking you to shrink. With him, there was no performance. Just presence. And maybe that was the real magic—you were finally allowed to exist without apology.

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gybas-blog · 3 years ago

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Prince's Diary AU

I said I would make it and here it is.

Summary: Mathias Kohler is an 18 year old student, he lives a normal life in America with his mom. One day he arrives from school and finds his mother having tea with a stranger. The man tells him that he is the only heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Delar and that his real name is Magnus Densen. Mathias has to go to Delar and prepare to become King. Once in Delar, his life will change for the better.

Characters: Mathias Kohler/Magnus Densen- Mathias just turned 18 and is about to graduate, but has to leave his life behind to become the future king of Delar. Mrs. Kohler- She's Mathias' mom. She met Mathias' dad when they were young, they had a child and got engaged. She wasn't accepted by the royal family, so she moved to America. Alfred F. Jones- He's Mathias best friend, they grew up together and promised they would always be friends. When Mathias left, Alfred followed him. He helps Mathias in any way he can. Arthur Kirkland- He was the Queen's secretary, so when she and her son died, he had to find the only heir and make sure he learns everything he needs to know to become king. He and Alfred fight a lot at first, but then, they become very close. Lukas Bondevik- The heir prince to the throne of Pufliaria, the neihboring kingdom of Delar. As the future King, he has to get along with the King of Delar, but he did not expect to fall in love with him. Now, he has to choose between his Kingdom and his love. Emil Steilsson- As he is not the firstborn, he is often overlooked and left out of important events. He decided to leave public life when he turns 18, but his brother could change his plans. Might add more characters later.

I used random name generators for kingdom names, it took me an hour 😥

#gonna make it a comic #I chose Pufliaria because it reminds me of puffin #aph denmark #hws denmark #aph america #hws america #aph england #hws england #aph norway #hws norway #aph iceland #hws iceland #dennor #usuk #prince's diary au #hetalia #my art

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rae-does-stuff · 4 years ago

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Day 1: Creatures

Hey! So this just kinda happened. I didn't really expect to join this week/contest but I did. Yay! Luckily, this won't overlap with anything else I plan to do.

So here’s Day 1 for @dennorweek

Prompt: Creatures

AU: Nationverse but takes place during the Viking Age

Human Names:

Nyo!Norway: Eisa Thomassen

Denmark: Magnus Densen

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Eisa knew that she was different. Not just in the way that she was the immortal personification of Norway, but she also noticed that she was an oddity among nations too.

For starters she could see things people couldn't. She could see trolls and fae and nøkken but she soon realized others couldn't.

It was an annoyance, but an annoyance that Eisa could deal with.

Maybe.

On the topic of annoyances, Eisa knew an annoyance who sadly (not really, but she would never admit it) was her best friend.

Magnus Densen, personification of Denmark and self-proclaimed King of Scandinavia.

Eisa snorted whenever he would say that. Who died and made him king?

But let’s focus on the present and not on the stupid Dane.

Eisa watched the trolls as they went about their business.

Even if she rarely talked to the trolls, she interacted with them. And the trolls didn’t seem to care that she didn’t begin conversation, so she assumed it didn’t matter.

“Eisa! Nor! Where are you?” She heard a voice call out.

Eisa muttered a curse under her breath. Did Magnus really need her help?

“Found ya!”

Eisa turned around and sighed, “What do you want?”

Magnus sat down next to her, “Nothing, I just wanted to talk to my buddy.”

Eisa raised an eyebrow, “But you always want something.”

Magnus ignored her comment, “What were you looking at before I came?”

“Trolls. You can’t see them.” She said simply. Part of her wanted him to ask about the trolls and the other part didn’t.

But mostly she didn’t want him to ask.

It seemed like it took a few minutes for Magnus to process it but he understood, “Huh, cool!”

Eisa shrugged, ““Cool” isn’t really the response I usually get when I tell people that.”

“But it is cool! You can see stuff that others can’t! That means your special right?”

“Or insane…”

Magnus shook his head, “You’re a special person Eisa. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Eisa smiled a little at the compliment.

Perhaps being different wasn’t too bad.

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Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

- Rae

#hetalia #nyotalia #dennor week 2021 #dennor #hws denmark #nyo!norway

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urmomsstuntdouble · 5 years ago

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so a while ago i made a post with the signatures i made for the characters in 1836, and i was kinda having a lot of fun with it, so i decided to make signatures for all the hetalia characters (im totally not procrastinating with the intensity of the sun rn wym). so here they are, with the names closest to canon that i could find. my commentary is also interspersed. anywho here’s the signatures!

so this first page is of the characters whose names are in latin and cyrillic, the scripts i feel comfortable writing in. this is 99% europeans, plus the us, canada, and cuba. this is alphabetized by the name of the country the character repesents but not their actual human name because im a dumbass, except for the last three, which are russia, belarus, and ukraine. belgium doesn’t have a canon last name, so i deferred to netherlands’ surname for her. denmark’s name here is magnus densen, which is the only full name given in canon. there are other potential first names and last names given for him (none of which are mathias kholer btw) but seeing as magnus densen is the only actual full name, that’s the one i decided to go with. i also used erzebet as hungary’s name, and beilshmidt for germany (who doesn’t have a canon last name but you know. siblings with prussia), tolys for lithuania, timo for finland, antoño for spain (more old fashioned than antonio), vash for switzerland, and irinya chernenko for ukraine.

this second one is mostly asian countries with scripts that i dont know how to write in/am not comfortable writing in. for most of the asian countries, and egypt, it’s common to use signet rings as a form of signature. im not confident in my ability to create unique signets for all of them and in five different languages that i niether speak nor know the script for, so i left that out. egypt’s official name is gupta mohammad hassan, but since the p sound doesn’t exist in modern egyptian arabic, i decided it wouldn’t make sense for him to have gupta as one of his names. while he would probably speak coptic, i doubt that many members of the government or even your average egyptian who’d be seeing his name on official papers (cops if he gets pulled over for speeding, personal credit card, etc) would be able to pronounce it. coptic is sort of in the same boat as latin with its status as a dead language that some people speak as a second language, and i don’t think there have been any native speakers for a few hundred years. for greece, i gave him both a roman and greek signature, because im a bit more familiar with the greek script than any of the asian ones. seychelles is included here rather than on the latin only sheet because she doesn’t have a canon surname. making it bonnefoy is a bit weird imo and not logically consistent with how former colonies names work in canon (look no further than any character from the americas), so i gave her my own. her name here is michelle vinot. hong kong also has his english name, leon, next to his cantonese name, but i wasn’t sure if he had an english surname, so i just left it as a first name (he’s already got a cantonese surname so i didn’t think an english one was necessary). anyway uh final note is that i hope taiwan and hong kong’s signatures are different enough from china’s bc i wanted them to be somewhat similar, but with varying degrees of divergence from china.

anyway that’s all i have for now, i hope these were cool! ta ta for now

edit: i tried tagging them in the order they appear (in case you cant read one of them) but apparently theres a limit to how many tags you can put on a post, so they’re under the cut now

america/alfred f jones

austria/roderich edelstein

belgium/emma morgens

canada/matthew williams

cuba/máximo machado

denmark/magnus densen

england/arthur kirkland

estonia/eduard von bock

finland/timo väinämöinen

france/francis bonnefoy

germany/ludwig beilshmidt

hungary/erzebet héderváry (forgot the accent marks on the actual signatue)

iceland/emil steilsson

lithuania/tolys laurinaitis

liechtenstein/lily zwingli

latvia/raivis galante (end of 1st sheet left column)

monaco/lucille bonnefoy

norway/lukas bondevik

poland/feliks łukasiewicz

prussia/gilbert beilshmidt

romano/lovino vargas

spain/antoño fernandez carriedo

sweden/berwald oxtenstierna

switzerland/vash zwingli

veneziano/feliciano vargas

russia/ivan braginsky/Иван Брагинскы

belarus/natalya arlovskaya/Наталыа Арловскаыа

ukraine/irinya chernenko/ириныа черненко (end of 1st sheet right column)

china/wang yao/王瑤 (i used google translate for this. i apologise. also used the traditional option)

egypt/muhammad hassan/محمد حسن (arabic from google translate)

greece/herakles karpusi/Ηρακλής καρπούζι (greek from google translate)

hong kong/wang ka lung | leon/王家龙 (simplified chinese from google translate)

japan/honda kiku/本田菊 (from google translate)

south korea/im yong soo/ 임수용 (hangul from google translate)

seychelles/michelle vinot

tawian/lin xiao mei/林小梅 (simplified chinese from google translate)

turkey/sadik adnan/صادق عدنان (arabic from google translate. the turkish alphabet is very similar to the latin one and not all turks use arabic to sign their names, however, it was common for sultans and other members of the upper class to have very elaborate signets called tughras which used arabic calligraphy. i feel like a country would have something about as fancy, and that turkey is the sort of guy who would want one, so here’s his name in arabic. idk that he’d use it all that much these days, but woo! history!)

#wowie that took a while #can you tell i like horizontal lines #also i am a bit sad about the signet stuff bc i really do want to learn some more alphabets #i think hangul arabic and the thai alphabet would be particularly snazzy to learn #also btw i dont know russian and greek i just learned the alphabets to flex on the other kids at my school #anyway uh if you have any thoughts pls talk to me about this bc shit is so fucking interesting #hetalia #aph #hws #ceros posting

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heta-fics · 5 years ago

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Passport To Murder

by thecattydddy

When Magnus Densen holds a massive party, you can be sure it's going to be quite an event. What no one expected, however, was for Alfred Jones to find his body in the cellar - Dead

Hetalia Clue!AU. Human names used.

Words: 6,301 Chapters: 3/? Kudos: 11 Bookmarks: 1 Hits: 222

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archived-miraculous-nyogre · 6 years ago

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[MAGNUS DENSEN HAS ENTERED THE PARTY]

#ask-miraculous-nyogre #aph miraculous au #miraculous nyo greece #miraculous denmark #aph nyo greece #aph denmark #hetalia nyo greece #hetalia denmark

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pom-hello · 4 years ago

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Dennor Week 2021, Day 3 // Here, Nonetheless, and Together

Written for @dennorweek 2021, Day 3: Retro or Autumn/Fall.

Summary (excerpt included below):

It lingers on Lukas' skin, the chill of autumn and the memories it brings.

It is alright, though, when he looks at Magnus, because that is how he knows that summer will come again.

Link: AO3

Pairing: Denmark/Norway

Word count: 650, 1/1 chapter

Genre and rating: fluff, romance, angst, hurt/comfort; teen and up

Excerpt:

Lukas shivers once more. He pulls the drapes shut again, then goes to make the bed, pulling up first the comforter on his side and tucking it neatly around the pillow. On the other side, his hands linger briefly on the rumpled sheets, although any warmth has long dissipated from them.

Suddenly, the room feels very empty, and the memory of the morning air lingers on his skin.

He remembers—

—fresh-fallen snow, and the northern lights, and Magnus, very nearly felled in battle before him. The feeling of a blade in his chest, of life leaving his own body—

“There you are, min elskede.”

Lukas startles. He had not heard Magnus’ footsteps coming up the stairs.

As soon as he sees the look in Lukas’ eyes, he closes the distance between them and pulls him close. Magnus does not say anything; his touch is enough—his arms wrapped securely around his shoulders, his careful hand so gentle on Lukas’ hair, his warmth.

A note: This work references one of my earlier stories, “Beneath the Northern Lights,” but it can be read on its own! I hope you enjoy :)

#dennor week #dennor week 2021 #hetalia #hetalia fanfiction #historical hetalia #dennor #aph denmark #aph norway #magnus densen #lukas bondevik

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cryomaniac · 6 years ago

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RP!

Magnus Densen always had a spring in his step, ever the jovial Dane. His face plasters on a smile as he strolled around the streets and canals of Amsterdam. The warm and gentle light of the slowly setting sun illuminates Denmark’s face with a shade of sunset orange. Merry as he is, he greeted people with mellow cheer, sometimes making small talk with them before parting ways.

An hour into his walking, he saw someone staring at him keenly, as if trying to discern something about his face. The Dane had his curiosity piqued slightly. It was rare for people to stare openly, much so with intensity. To his surprise, the person approached him, asking about his identity carefully.

“Are you the Kingdom of the Netherlands?”

Never a stranger to such a question, more so being in the land of said country, he was not slighted. Instead, his smile widened from ear to ear. A soft chuckle erupted from Magnus, then he shook his head.

“No, I am not. I am the Kingdom of Denmark. Why do you ask?”

With his response, the person quickly apologized, adding a response in the lines of ‘You look like him.’. The Dane chuckled once more, forgiving them before going onto his merry way. Then, in his mind, an idea came to life. Adding more spring to his step, Magnus made his way to a certain person’s house.

#neerlandstrots rp

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pizzaapplecheese · 2 years ago

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To be fair Hima didn’t even suggested Mathias, even though the fandom run with it.

He did suggest however: Andersen, Christensen, Arnesen, Simon Densen, Abel, Mikkel, Magnus, Bertram as theoretical names for and Densen as a possible lastname.

Personally I am for Magnus Densen

one reason that i simply do not care about hima's name suggestions for the countries (aside from the fact that they are all suggestions, technically, and arguably not at all canon) is that i have seen so many stupid takes from people claiming to know better than him over the years

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scandi-rose · 3 years ago

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Nordics Names NorDenIce trio

Norway: Sindre Varangr

Sindre is a Variation of the Name Sindri a mythological figure in Norse Mythology, it means Mythical Dwarf whilst Varangr means Sailor. and given his contraction to Mythical creatures in canon and historical backing for Norwegian being fore the best Sailors out of all the Vikings I think this Name fits Norway the best.

Denmark: Magnus Densen Basically out of the offered first names from Hima Magnus honestly for me least just fits the best. Densen is only offered named Hima for him and it's simple as Dane's Son. Basically, Denmark's name is mixture of me liking the first name with no deeper meaning than "I think it fits" and a very "What it says on the tin" Surname

but his Viking age name was Jarl, witch means Chieftain given that the eldest of for a long time had the most power out of all the Nordics.

Iceland: Muninn Arnarson

Muninn is the old Norse word for memory but also the name of one of Odin's Raven that assisted him in the Poetic Edda. I thought given how close modern Icelandic is to Norse that him being named for word and raven that represented the past and memory would be fitting, he's not the eldest in a way his language is the closest to the history of him and his elder brother Norway.

And Arnarson is the name of the man who founded Iceland

So yeah

Sindre, Magnus and Muninn

#hws norway #hws denmark #hws iceland #hetalia norway #hetalia dnmark #hetalia iceland #names #name headcanons

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capricorn-writes1 · 4 years ago

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Denmark, America, Iceland and germany with a scenekid s/o 😮

Alfred F. Jones, Ludwig Beilschmidt, Magnus Densen and Emil Steilsson with a Scenekid S/O

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Hello there, hun! This is quite an interesting headcanon because I never see a headcanon with an S/O who is a scenekid. However, I would love to make this one and I will try my best to make this one and I am very sorry if you don't like the result. Anyway, have a nice day, Anon!

Warning: None

P.S: This is for gender-neutral readers.

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Alfred F.Jones

Alfred loves your scene fashion and calls you his "little neon gremlin" in the most affectionate tone imaginable. He 100% believes you're a cryptid summoned from a Hot Topic clearance rack and he is HERE FOR IT. You walk into the room in checkered skinny jeans and a Monster Energy hoodie? He swoons.

He tries to copy your eyeliner wings and ends up looking like a raccoon who lost a fight in a dumpster. You offer to do it for him next time, and he sits down obediently while blaring Black Veil Brides in the background. When he looks in the mirror and sees the results? He dramatically declares, “I look like I’m about to drop the hottest pop-punk album of 2007.”

Alfred LOVES the way you style your hair with bright extensions, clips, bows, and all that backcombed volume. He even helps you tease it, though he occasionally gets the comb stuck and panics like he’s disarming a bomb.

He doesn’t understand half the bands you listen to, but he insists on going to every show with you anyway. You’ll catch him moshing harder than anyone else, even though he only knows the chorus because you screamed it at him 80 times. He buys you overpriced band merch with the cheesiest slogans like “RAWR XD” or “LOVE ME LIKE A SCENE QUEEN.”

You introduced him to MySpace-era slang, and now he won’t stop calling you his "rawrsome boo." He’s got a bad habit of saying “XD” out loud in conversations like it’s normal. The other nations are confused and a little horrified, especially when he ends a UN speech with “Scene kids rise up!”

He tries to surprise you by dressing up like a scene kid: skinny jeans, studded belt, band tee, eyeliner, and all. The problem? He picked all neon colors and wore two different shoes because "that’s what chaotic icons do" You laugh until your ribs hurt but still snap a hundred photos because honestly? Iconic.

When you're feeling self-conscious about being "too much" or “too loud,” he wraps you in his arms and says, “Are you kidding? You’re the human equivalent of a firework that listens to Panic! at the Disco. That’s HOT.” He reminds you daily that your loud, expressive style is something he adores about you.

He takes you to state fairs and carnivals and insists on matching outfits with lots of clashing neon. You win him a giant stuffed bat plush and name it “Screamo Steve.” He tries to win you another plush but breaks the claw machine and gets banned. You both sulk with slushies and feed each other funnel cake while blasting Bring Me the Horizon.

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You didn’t mean to turn Alfred F. Jones into a scenekid, not really. It started with you showing up at his place wearing your usual: a black-and-white checkered mini skirt, fishnets, and a neon green band tee that screamed “RAWR XD” in pixelated font. He looked up from his couch, where he was mid-chug of a Monster Energy, and nearly dropped the can. “Babe,” he said, eyes wide, “you look like the inside of a Hot Topic and I mean that as the highest compliment.”

The next time he showed up to see you, he was wearing a pair of neon blue skinny jeans he’d clearly wrestled with for an hour, a Panic! At the Disco shirt two sizes too tight, and a studded belt worn over the wrong belt loops. His hair was gelled in spikes that looked like they'd been attacked by static electricity. “How’d I do?” he grinned, striking a pose in your doorway. You stared for a moment, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or salute. “You look like a backup dancer for Cobra Starship,” you said, dragging him inside. “It’s perfect.”

Alfred had zero chill once he committed. He asked you to teach him scenekid slang and nearly broke your phone by trying to text “rawrsome bae” with too many emojis. One time, in the middle of Starbucks, he yelled “(Y/N) is my glitter queen and I would start a MySpace war for them!” at full volume. You spilled your Frappuccino laughing. The barista gave him a pity sticker and asked him to please lower his voice.

He was obsessed with doing your eyeliner for matching concert looks, though his attempts often made him look more raccoon than rocker. You eventually had to sit him down and patiently teach him how to do wings that didn’t resemble chicken bones. The first time he nailed it, he practically kicked open your bathroom door and shouted, “LOOK AT ME, I’M A GOTHIC GOD.” You had to take fifteen selfies just to calm him down.

You took him to his first screamo concert at a grimy little venue downtown. Alfred showed up with his “EMO 4 U” DIY tank top and sunglasses that had skulls glued to the lenses. He lost his mind in the pit, screaming lyrics he didn’t know and dragging you into a headbang circle he called “The Hero Zone.” Afterward, you both collapsed on the curb with ringing ears, matching bruises, and a bag of neon cotton candy. “That was spiritual,” he whispered. “I think my soul moshed out of my body.”

At home, your shared playlist became a war zone of your favorite scene hits and Alfred’s sudden obsession with adding remixed anime intros. He made a fake band account for you both called GlitterDeath69 and uploaded chaotic voice memos of you screaming into his Guitar Hero mic while he banged on a cereal box. It gained followers. You weren’t even surprised. “We’re icons,” he declared. “You’re the queen of angst, and I’m your golden retriever with an emotional breakdown.”

When he caught you looking a little down one night, your teased hair flat, your eyeliner wiped away. He flopped dramatically next to you with a pout. “Babe,” he said softly, “you don’t have to be neon every second to be my favorite person. But I do miss the raccoon eyes and bat clips. Just saying.” You laughed, resting your head on his shoulder. “You love me even when I’m not scene?” “Of course,” he whispered. “But also, yes, I’m obsessed with your scene self. You sparkle like emotional trauma in human form.”

Later, he wrapped you in his arms, eyeliner smudged from too much laughing, and whispered into your hair, “You’re not just the highlight of my day, you’re the entire MySpace layout.” And even though you rolled your eyes, you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. Because Alfred F. Jones, in all his loud, chaotic, ride-or-die energy, meant every word, and you loved him for it.

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Ludwig Beilschmidt - Germany

Ludwig didn’t quite understand your fashion at first—why your hair had raccoon stripes or why your jeans looked like they survived a punk apocalypse. But he never commented negatively. He’d glance up from his book, take in your neon hoodie with safety pins, and say, “Hm. You are… bold today.”

When you first dragged him to Hot Topic, Ludwig stood there like a dad in a teenage jungle, rigid, frowning, suspicious of the music blaring overhead. But he followed you anyway, holding your hand, carrying your graphic tees and studded accessories like a loyal knight on a sparkly mission.

You begged him to let you do his eyeliner once—and he resisted like you were threatening national security. Eventually, with much bribery (bratwurst and back rubs), he sat still while you drew perfect smoky liner on him.

He attends every concert and emo night with you, even if he doesn’t understand why everyone is screaming about heartbreak in a warehouse. He brings earplugs but never uses them. Instead, he watches you headbang and scream lyrics with shining eyes and this tiny, private smile.

You once crowd-surfed and he sprinted after you like he was protecting a state secret. When you landed, he caught you. “This is not safe,” he scolded, while holding you like you were made of diamonds.

You once gifted him a black hoodie with cat ears. He looked at it like it was radioactive. The next day, he wore it while walking the dogs. A child screamed, “KITTY MAN!” and he nearly combusted. You found him behind a tree, blushing furiously, muttering, “This is… non-regulation attire.”

He doesn’t understand your “rawr XD” lingo, but he studies your texts like codebreaking. He starts adopting your language in the most deadpan way. You once sent “RAWR means I love you in dinosau." He replied with, “Ich liebe dich in prehistoric format.”

When you’re sad, Ludwig doesn’t try to cheer you up with jokes—he listens. He brings tea and he lets you scream-cry into a stuffed bat plush while he strokes your back with calm, calloused fingers. He’s not dramatic like you, but he respects your emotions deeply and never judges your 'scene mood swings.'

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Ludwig had never dated anyone like you before. You were neon chaos and eyeliner wings, a glitter storm with a loud voice and even louder playlists. The first time he saw you, you were wearing rainbow leopard print leggings, a black hoodie with cat ears, and a choker that said 'BITE ME' in rhinestones. He blinked at you, frozen in place like a man confronted with a creature from another world. “You must be (Y/N),” he said stiffly, then cleared his throat and added, “…Nice to meet you.”

You, naturally, had no chill. “Hi! I like your hair, it looks like if discipline were a haircut,” you beamed, then linked your arm through his without hesitation. He turned a faint shade of red. From that moment on, he never quite knew what to expect, he once came home to find you attempting to sew pink faux fur trim onto his uniform coat “for flavor”. Another time, you tried to convince him to dye his hair black and add chunky highlights. He refused, but still let you put a skull clip on his lapel.

At first, he didn’t understand the scene aesthetic. The bright colors, the screaming music, the excessive number of plushies in your room that seemed to silently judge him from every corner. But Ludwig wasn’t one to criticize what he didn’t understand, so he studied it. Quietly, thoroughly. He started asking questions like “What is the difference between screamo and post-hardcore?” or “Why are raccoon tails a fashion accessory?” You answered with wild hand gestures and niche memes. He wrote it all down in a little notebook labeled (Y/N)’s Chaos Index.

The turning point came when you offered to do his eyeliner. “Only if you’re brave,” you teased. Ludwig raised one brow. “I’ve faced live fire drills. I can survive eyeliner.” Fifteen minutes later, he stared at himself in the mirror, blinking carefully as not to smudge. “I look… aggressive.” You practically swooned. “You look like a warlock who listens to Bring Me The Horizon,” you whispered. That night, he wore it to dinner without a single comment, even when Prussia cackled and called him “Emo Daddy.”

Ludwig’s love language wasn’t loud or flashy, it was small things. Holding your bag at concerts. Standing behind you like a bodyguard when you went crowd-surfing. Bringing you water after screaming through an entire setlist. You once caught him reading the lyrics to your favorite song in German, murmuring the translation to himself like a prayer. When you asked why, he said simply, “So I can understand what moves you.”

Sometimes, when you were tired of being a walking rave and your sparkle dimmed a little, he noticed instantly. He’d find you curled in a hoodie on your bed, eyeliner smudged, music playing quietly. Ludwig never tried to fix it. He’d just sit beside you, brush your hair back gently, and say something like, “You do not have to be neon to be loved.” That always made your chest hurt in the best way.

One evening, you found him waiting for you in a hoodie you didn’t recognize, black with pink writing across the front: SCENE KING. You gasped. “Where did you get that?” He looked awkward, scratching the back of his neck. “I… had it made. I thought if I am to be yours, I should commit to the role properly.” You threw yourself at him so fast he nearly lost balance. He caught you, arms wrapping tightly around your waist, and added, “But the eyeliner is still your job.”

Ludwig Beilschmidt might not have been born for the scene life, but for you? He would stand under the blacklight and let himself glow.

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Magnus Densen - Denmark

Magnus was instantly obsessed with your look—bright colors, teased hair, black eyeliner thick enough to count as armor. He greeted you on your first date with a dramatic “WHOA!” and nearly tripped over his own boots staring at your fishnets. “You look like a battle siren from the neon underworld!” he shouted, starstruck.

Denmark loves matching outfits, so he insists on couple-core scene fashion whether it’s a concert or a grocery run. You gave him a striped hoodie, a chunky chain, and black skinny jeans. He added viking runes and a foam sword. Now you look like the final boss of a Hot Topic RPG together.

Denmark doesn't just support your aesthetic, he dives headfirst into it. He once let you bleach a streak into his hair and dye it electric blue, screaming, “THIS IS MY FINAL FORM!” He also wore eyeliner for three days straight and insisted on calling himself 'Scene-viking'.

Denmark hypes you up every chance he gets: loudly, publicly, proudly. Even in line at the bakery, he treats you like a celebrity. “LOOK AT MY PARTNER, THEY’RE A GLOWSTICK GOD!”

At his first screamo concert, he dives headlong into the pit shouting “SKÅL!” Emerges with a bruised shin, three new friends, and wild hair. He declares, “I was born for this!”

He wears your kandi bracelets like they’re royal medals of honor. One says “VIKING BABYGIRL” and he flexes it at Sweden during meetings. He even keeps a few in his coat pocket for 'fashion emergencies'.

He’s way too good at teasing your hair. Like… suspiciously good. You taught him once, and now he quotes you while styling: “Lift with rage!” He gets serious about symmetry and volume like it’s a science. Sometimes you just let him do your hair for the thrill of it.

You’re full gremlin, he’s full Viking but it works like magic. You drag him into weird memes and emo playlists, and he brings you to bonfires and festivals. He doesn’t always understand scene culture, but he understands you. And that’s more than enough for both of you.

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Magnus spotted you across the plaza, standing by the fountain in combat boots, a candy-colored hoodie with way too many zippers, and hair teased like you were going to battle the universe. He lit up immediately. “RAWR means I love you, right?” he shouted across the square, startling a flock of pigeons. You turned with a grin and threw a peace sign in the air, unbothered, used to his volume and his Viking-level enthusiasm.

You weren’t sure how it worked with him, all thunder-laughs and blaring confidence, and you, decked out like a living Myspace layout from 2008, but it just clicked. On your first date, he insisted on teasing your hair for you, saying, “You need maximum fluff to intimidate weak souls.” He somehow did a better job than you ever had. And then he wore a matching skull hoodie 'for power synchronization' which got him kicked out of a coffee shop for scaring the manager.

You dragged him to a screamo concert once, expecting mild panic or confusion. Instead, he headbanged so hard his sunglasses flew off, screamed all the lyrics (badly), and started a mosh pit with three goth teens and a guy named Finn. “THIS IS MY ELEMENT!” he howled, nearly falling into the speaker stack. Later, when you were covered in glitter and bruises, he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Let’s do that forever.”

At home, he built what he called the “Vikingcore Shrine of Scene”- a shared bedroom filled with neon bats, fake swords, string lights, and about 34 Monster cans. You let him label his side with duct tape that read 'Glitter Barbarian HQ'. Yours had a stuffed bat with a kandi crown. In that chaos, you both existed loud and sincere, like love was a screaming song and eyeliner was war paint.

He adored your weird phrases. You’d yell “YEETUS DELETUS” at a spider, and he'd respond with a sword and a serious nod. Once, you screamed “BEGONE TH*T!” at a seagull trying to steal your sandwich. Denmark stared in awe, then clapped like he’d just watched a live sacrifice. “You’re my feral queen,” he said with absolute pride.

Your favorite moments were the quiet ones, though when you came home from school completely burnt out, and he didn’t ask questions. He’d just hand you a fizzy drink, wrap you in one of his oversized hoodies, and play your comfort playlist in the background. He knew all the sad emo lyrics by heart, even if he pretended to mess them up. He never laughed at your tears. He only held them.

He once threw you a surprise “Scene Ball” in his backyard with blacklights, fog machines, and a playlist titled “SCENECORE 2: VIKING HEARTBREAK”. He wore a cardboard crown and asked you to slow-dance to Owl City under a chandelier made of Monster cans. You tripped over his boots, and he laughed until he cried. “This is the most romantic garbage fire I’ve ever made,” he said. You told him it was perfect.

With Denmark, it wasn’t about understanding the scene culture, it was about understanding you. Every neon bangle, every screeched lyric, every chaotic outburst was met with love, not judgment. He didn’t just put up with your weirdness. He celebrated it. And that made you feel like the most powerful emo goblin in the world.

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Emil Steilsson

At first, Emil doesn’t really get the whole scene aesthetic. The colors are bright, the accessories are excessive, and the teasing combs confuse him. But when you beam at him with your giant bows and glitter bracelets, he quietly mutters, “…Cool.”

You once clipped a neon bow into his hair without asking. He left it in for the entire day without saying anything, even when Denmark teased him. Later that night, he asked if you had any in black. You nearly combusted from joy.

He doesn’t understand your music at first, "Why are they yelling so much?" But he notices how the songs calm you down, so he adds some to his playlist. You catch him mumbling the lyrics to "The Black Parade" under his breath one day. He denies it. Fiercely.

You introduced him to kandi bracelets, and he got mildly overwhelmed. Too many colors, too many words, but he still lets you stack them up his arm. One says “ICE PRINCE” in glow-in-the-dark letters. He won’t admit it, but it’s his favorite.

He’s very still when you tease your hair near him, afraid of interfering. Eventually, he asks if he can try. Carefully. Turns out, he’s scarily good at it: perfect angles, even volume. You start calling him your “scene stylist in training.”

Emil starts picking out accessories he thinks would “suit your chaotic vibe.” He’s awkward about it, shoves them at you and looks away. Once, it was a hair clip shaped like a screaming bat. You screamed too, in love.

You catch him scrolling through old scene-era internet slang. When you ask why, he mutters, “Just trying to understand you better.” You tell him he doesn’t have to try so hard. But you still find it incredibly sweet.

He once let you paint his nails black “for science”. Now he’s weirdly obsessed with keeping them neat and shiny. He says it’s “efficient for aesthetics”. You say he’s your little emo ice cube.

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The first time Emil saw you, he blinked twice. You were sitting on the park bench with your boots up on the edge, fingers covered in kandi bracelets, hair a teased rainbow storm, and eyeliner thick enough to block out the sun. You were sipping from a glittery Monster Energy can and scrolling your phone like a bored scene royalty. He hadn’t planned to talk to anyone that day, let alone fall in love with a walking glow stick, but here he was, rooted to the ground like his brain had blue-screened.

You looked up at him and smirked. “Like what you see, Mr. Arctic Silence?” you teased. Emil blinked again, cheeks flushing, and muttered something that sounded like, “It’s a strong look.” It wasn’t the best first line, but you beamed like he’d handed you a crown. That was the day he realized he’d be following this neon whirlwind to the ends of the earth, or at least to Hot Topic and back.

Your personalities couldn’t have been more different. You were loud, messy, dramatic, and constantly quoting ancient internet slang with zero shame. Emil was quiet, sarcastic, and had a talent for disappearing from group conversations like a puff of smoke. But for some reason, you fit together, like glitter on black sleeves. You'd sneak tiny bows into his hair, and he’d never remove them. Not even when Denmark laughed so hard he choked on his soda.

Once, you dragged him to a screamo concert, promising him earplugs and backup plans. He didn’t complain once, just held your hand the whole time as you screamed lyrics and nearly lost a shoe in the mosh pit. At the end of the night, you were sweat-soaked and glowing, and Emil simply handed you water and said, “You looked happy.” You melted. He didn’t need to shout his love. He showed it in the quietest ways.

Your bedroom was a chaos shrine: neon posters, plush bats, old CDs stacked beside your bed, and blacklight bulbs flickering like magic. When Emil visited, he always looked slightly stunned by the sensory overload, but he never said anything. Instead, he’d lie beside you on your pile of blankets, hand gently brushing against yours, and listen as you rambled about music, outfits, and memes you found funny. Sometimes, he’d laugh softly under his breath. You lived for those rare little moments.

One cold afternoon, you came home from school exhausted and moody. Without a word, Emil pulled his hoodie off and tossed it to you, then sat beside you on the floor and handed you his earbuds. The playlist was all your favorite scene bands, even the ones he didn’t like. You looked at him, startled. “You made this for me?” He shrugged, gaze averted, but you saw the ghost of a smile.

It wasn’t dramatic, not with Emil. Love came in gestures: quiet loyalty, matching chokers he wore under his jacket, and black nail polish he let you apply even though it smudged every time. He didn’t parade you around like a prize, he stood beside you in silence, holding your chaos in his steady hands. And that, in its own way, was louder than any scream.

When he kissed you for the first time, it was under your bedroom’s purple string lights, in the glow of your old Owl City poster. His hands trembled slightly, but his eyes didn’t waver. You smiled into it, tasting mint gum and quiet affection. And in that moment, you knew your ice prince didn’t need to understand your world. He just needed to choose it. And he had. Completely.

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#hetalia headcanons #hetalia imagines #hetalia fluff #hetalia scenarios #aph america #aph germany #aph denmark #aph iceland #america x reader #germany x reader #denmark x reader #iceland x reader #1p america #1p germany #1p denmark #1p iceland #hetalia x reader

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