#another colour hetalia

[coralcatsea]

Canon Universe Compilation:

-Nationverse

-Magical Strike

-Another Colour/2ptalia

-Wondertalia

-Fairy Tales

-Circustalia

-Kiddyland

-Gangsta/Gangstalia/Gangstars

-Cardverse

-Hetalia Fantasia

-Tsunotalia

-Gakuen

-Hotelia

-Nekotalia

-Nyotalia

-Nanja Town/Cat Boy

-Sweetalia

-Mochitalia

Note: By "canon" I simply mean something that has shown up in official art. Also, I'm using "universe" somewhat loosely here.

[smoothie03]

Losers.

2p Spamano as Huskerdust because Huskerdust loosely reminds me of them.

So yeah, here's the flamboyant king and his grumpy cat that's not that grumpy for once.

[eustasskiddsprosthetic]

Don't let looks deceive you: they are definitely killing him.

I didn't think I'd actually do something with this cross over series but here we are. Today, I present to you the Japanese trio! From left to right, we have Kiku (APH Japan), Gentaro Yumeno from Hypnosis Microphone and Roronoa Zoro!

I like to think that these three represent Japan in their respective series. Kiku is the literal embodiment of Japan (lol). Gentaro's shown to be deliberately old-fashioned and Zoro's canonically confirmed to be Japanese among One Piece's multi-racial cast.

Being relatively introverted, these three would get along well on the surface. Gentaro would talk to Kiku about Japanese literature; Zoro and Kiku would spar (yes, Kiku has a single katana in Hetalia). Zoro and Gentaro would drink together.

Frankly, Zoro gets off-putting vibes from Gentaro. Gentaro's thing of being a liar, teasing nature and identity theft wouldn't sit well with Zoro's straight-forward nature but he tries his best to play along.

Kiku's more neutral but he keeps his distance from the both of them. They plan to kill Gentaro one day but the bastard's just really good with his words and they can't get any dirt on him...

I also think that it's funny that these three belong in groups with energetic leaders. Kiku has Feliciano. Gentaro has Ramuda. Zoro as Luffy. The coincidence is brilliant in this trio.

Prev: the serious trio

[rosielefay]

Hetalia Appearance Headcannons ʚɞ

America:

He's your golden boy, golden hair and golden skin; he's got a square jaw and full lips - he's a paragon of humanity. Think the Roman Goddess Nike, he embodies ambition and victory. Born bathed in gold, the sun itself shines its affections on him. Of course, a perfect metaphor for the first born son of the Empire on which the sun never sets.

It's charming at first, the appearance of a moviestar and the smile of one too. No nation can deny his beauty, his proportions, his musculature - all broad shoulders and toned arms and thick thighs.

But cold blue eyes soon betray him; blue eyes which never quite match his all-American smile. He's perfect, ideal, and he's acutely aware of it. He looks like a God and he see's himself as one too. There's an arrogance to him, a dismissal in the tilt of his jaw, mirth in his eyes as they flock to him. It's ugly sometimes, but its knowable, and familiar, and safe in its disgust for the weakness others.

Canada:

The mirror image of America, but a (duller?), (fairer?), (gentler?) version - it depends who's asking. Unlike his brother, he was born without the favour of the Gods; his features, no different from Alfred's, are less remarkable, missing the divine perfection. He's the type to hide his laughs behind his hand, to smile at the earth rather than into the eyes of another. His shyness of mannerism a reflection of his shy features, they don't shine the way Alfred do but rather curl in on themselves. From the cool tones of his hair and its light waves, to the softer blue of his eyes. Pretty in their softness, he holds his brothers beauty but without the harshness of perfection. Easier to look at, easier to talk to - he holds not the favour of the Gods but the favour of man.

Russia:

A striking appearance. He's big; tall and broad, easily 6'4, a thick wall of muscle. His hair is soft, white, or platinum. A prominent nose and big hands but the gentlest eyes, not quite blue but lilac perhaps. There's a sweetness to his eyes but a relentlessness to them, always watching, waiting.

He's angelic in his colouring and his softness. Not quite human, perhaps a God; his sheer size, he stood above mankind, a figure to be looked up at, worshiped, strived towards. But there was something not quite right about him, not a coldness or a cruelty, nor any imperfection. Rather, it was the feeling he inspired in others: when you're walking home alone at night, when you say goodbye to someone you know won't come back, when your hairs raise and your gut feels heavy with something awful.

He felt like sin, yet no sin belonging to any known faith or God. You could see it in the way he averted his eyes, the stoop of his shoulders, and the deep layers of his clothes. The shame, the sickness, the sweetness of his gaze. Unknowable and lovely and terrible, a cold parallel to the burning warmth of America.

A sun, its moon, and the dead white star far away.

[fafayayarhen]

mob bosses dressed in white

ngl i didn't even plan to colour it the way i've done but well,,, and i have two versions, with and without the white borders so as a treat i kept both

who knows if i'm in the mood i might just do aNOTHER gangsta hetalia art cause idk man,,, it's good content good food //slaps this au// this baby can fit so many ideal scenario

bonus: district 359 | bulgaria

also yes,,, the sketch vs the official design reversed the tattoo positions i fOLLOWED HIMARUYA'S SKETCH GDI

[olympeline]

And now for a post about the characters who are giving me the most trouble in my National Animals AU. All of the below come with the tag of “umm, maybe?? I don’t know. Please help me decide.”

Japan: ??? → white tiger → ???

I only have one idea for Kiku and it’s that he would have been a tiger during his imperial years. A white one to match his red and white flag. After WW2 ended, he would change (back?) into something else. Japan in its empire days would need a powerful and aggressive apex predator, but what would Kiku be after giving that up? I have no idea. Japan’s national animal is the green pheasant but would a brightly coloured, flashy bird suit the introverted Kiku? Hmm…

China: ??? → giant panda

Remember when I said France was the problem country of this AU? Remember the days my sweet, Summer child self thought Francis was the worst it could get? I was wrong. Oh, dear God, how wrong was I. 🫠 Francis is nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the shrieking hall of nightmares that Yao is. Take that ??? → and multiply it by like, ten, for a start. China is such an ancient country with a rich, complicated history to rival any other. Plus because of my veto on mythical animals I can’t give him a lung dragon like I really want to. He ends up as a panda but I don’t have a clue when that would happen or what his older forms would be. I’m so far out of my depth I’m not even going to try. I’ll leave it to my bros in the Chinese side of the Hetalia fandom and go with whatever they think Yao would be.

Portugal: ???

Google tells me Portugal has the Iberian wolf as their national animal. Which works fine but ehhh, I’m on the fence about another Western European country getting a wolf. We already have Feli, Lovi, and their Grandpa Rome as an Italian wolf pack. Portugal was so influential in starting the Age of Discovery that I’m almost tempted to make him an otter or an albatross or something. Then there’s the Iberian lynx: a roaming hunter that’s also a strong swimmer. Portugal and England have the longest military alliance in the world that’s still going to this day. So some lynx/lion big cat solidarity? Damn, Portugal, calm down! Too many good choices you have.

[mac-ann-cheese]

Who has a choice like Smarty does?

(tumblr sucks for restrictions with image sizings. the quality is fucked up)

July, 2024

Another addition to my portraits of Alfred.

Um... I don't really know. This time for real. Something hit me on the head, and I got the idea to create whatever this pink abomination is.

I have a habit of making things that make my eyes sore, though.

Confession: I love Alfred's Cold War era uniform (well, it's actually a variation of the WWII uniform). I depicted him wearing an Airborne one 'cause of the eagle patch on official artwork—the trademark of division. I've seen the other creators playing a guessing game with uniforms, so there really isn't a "canon" tradition to follow.

And also it's cunty-- I mean, the Ike jacket, the boots, the silly cap. Giving fierce.

I'm sorry... (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠)

Personally, I always try to make clothing historically accurate. Then I should explain a few details. The long shoulder thingies—fourragères, left one—Belgian (it correlates with the red ropes that most artists drew on Alfred's uniform. It's the closest I could find that would be time-appropriate, and I saw that it could also have arm loops. More strings. So, a tricky fact: it should be worn on the left, but I read that it could be worn and was usually worn by soldiers on the right if there is a French Croix de Guerre 39/45 on the left, which is... the same-looking fourragère as Belgian. No braided strings staking!), the right one—Dutch lanyard (it's orange, close call to red! But, one big but, don't take my words seriously, 'cause I read too many different opinions on some 2007 forum discussion that I became confused with placement. I don't really know what is actually right, please don't come for me, I tried my best and it's only a drawing) and the French one, I've mentioned earlier.

Other accessories: on the left pocket—the presidential unit citation award; on the right, above the ribbon bar set (um, I won't specify what ribbons I could've depicted, as this post will become twice as long)—jump wings; and also the M1916 holster (colt is included!) on the leg. Did you know that little strap was used to secure the holster on the thigh? I didn't before diving into the hunt for references. The strap also could be tied in some peculiar knots, but Alfred is a messy bitch/j, and it means messy wrapping on the muzzle.

The autism in me powers the fuel of a research engine for a Hetalia fanart. Yikes.

One thing that I didn't want to change was the neck scarf. Sadly, there isn't one for real uniform, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it. It's just too iconic, even for my historical accuracy quirk. And the hat should be larger, however, I wasn't bothered about the right size. It's a mini-cap.

Okay, I need to address the elephant in the room. Yes, mouths. Different emotions (or I tried to make them different). Am I insane for this? Absolutely. They're reminding me of the first colour TV or ibm computers with Warhol's style.

The second ver is just text, which I thought suited him (tbh, Alfred would make great friends with Maxine, iykyk). I had great fun with distortion filters.

Last thing, the expression is supposed to be somewhat confused laughing like someone accused of something very controversial ("me kissing men??? oh nonono, haha... ',:D") and Alfred just laughs it off, like he usually does. At the same time, looking down on us, the viewer. Though you can freely interpret the expression however you want, it's up to you! (⁠~⁠￣▽￣⁠)⁠~

[unhonestlymirror]

On my way to work, there is a mini memorial to the victims of Lukashenko's regime - and recently, I've noticed there a new frame. It was my mom's old friend.

Thousands of hundreds of people like me have to watch their friends dying because of russia - but of course, people in hetalia fandom couldn't care less about that. To them, we are just characters. To them, our families, our parents, kids and siblings, our best friends and loved ones, our acquaintances whom we barely know but who, nevertheless, make our lives a little less grey - all these people are just characters, and our pain is just another excuse to make fun of.

I just want to add a couple of photos of other "just characters" - Belaruthians who recently were repressed by lukashists for different excuses, from wearing something with red&white colours to supporting Ukraine:

This is the photo of a family of a Kalinoŭski regiment fighter who died fighting for Ukraine under Lysychansk. His wife has been volunteering since 2014.

"[...], таму я ўхваліла гэтае цяжкае рашэнне, бо вельмі люблю дзяцей, але ў нас ні ў каго не будзе жыцця, калі мы не пераможам. Ані мяне, ані дзяцей не будзе ўвогуле. [...] — адзначыла Алена Гергель."

The belief that Belarus loves russia is like the belief that Jews love hitler.

May anyone who draws Belarus and russia together as siblings or lovers be cursed 7000 times forever and ever, and let such people have bad food on their table.

[dolceminerva97]

Do you have any tips for recreating the Hetalia art style?

I'm not sure whether you mean the hetalia anime art style, or Himaruya's style, but I'll assume it's the latter.

I think Himaruya's style has changed quite a lot since the years I used to try to emulate him.

This Antonio from the early 2010s

definitely doesn't look like this Antonio (I ASSUME it's Antonio...? Maybe it's another character? 💀

I suggest you to choose the kind of works you want to recreate (since the style fluctuates and varies a lot) and make a reference folder to observe actively. Pay attention to the way the lines are drawn, the different character faces (their most recognizable features are always their eye shapes) and the way he draws anatomy and hair.

I used to copy and redraw to "understand" the style, and I always observed his coloring and tried to figure out how I could emulate his colour effects (shadows and highlights) with my drawing program. I notice that his shadows tend to be quite soft and he uses a lot of gradients when colouring, and the colours are bright and saturated. Colour picking the colours directly from his art also helped me emulate it better. The lineart tends to be squiggly and sketchy, and the lines slightly textured. Play around with your brush settings until you find the tools that give you the results you want! Overlay layers with different colours will help you achieve the colorful sparkly look his art has. Blurred photos with bookeh effects and sparkles always do the trick for hetalia backgrounds lol

[balladofthewhitehorse]

hope you aren't sick of me requesting things but how about "dinner is served" for eng, Scot, and Wales!

I would never be sick of your requests <3 Thank you so, so much - You inspire me to keep writing Hetalia Fics, not gonna lie. Your bear Eng has fuelled me. 

Wales scrutinised her brothers quietly, leaned back in her chair as England and Scotland stood on the shores of the lake; It was painted in idyllic colours, faint hues of pink and washed out orange unfurling across the sky. A thread of anxiety coiled tightly around her lungs, her heart, her ribs as England muttered something to Scotland - and then a bark of laughter let Wales breathe. ‘’Having fun-?’’ She called out, smiling thinly as England turned around to regard her - with an expression painfully reminiscent of younger days amongst the dandelions and the trees (Children’s wishes and sunlight - freckling the dark undergrowth). It struck at her heartstrings like fingers at a harp, Wales’ smile thinning. ‘’-Caught anything?’’ 

‘’Not yet.’’ England grunted softly, shaking his head dolefully; Fish had been furtive and England hovered on the grassy lakeside, almost tempted to dive in head-first into the brackish water. They would have more success that way, England was sure - impatience thrumming through every nerve. ‘’I don’t know how you can stand this - just a load of sitting around…waiting for something to happen.’’ (Once he had complained during a siege, staring up at those insurmountable walls - and now it echoed by the lakeshore, on a cold, grey day).

‘’Maybe if you stopped whingeing, the fish would come.’’ Scotland muttered under his breath.

England’s eyes flashed as he shot Scotland a glare; The surface of the lake rippled as a fish came up for air, a darting brown shape in the dusky light (England pouted, irritation bearing teeth - a thorny thing he was, as he elbowed Scotland in the ribs for good measure). ‘’You’re hardly the epitome of cheeriness.’’ He glanced at Wales, seeking her approval with an impish grin that lit up his eyes - and one that vanished as quick as a wink when Wales shook her head. ‘’Oh come on-’’ England groused, petulant while his half-sister simply crossed her arms in disapproval; A tension crackling in the air as England reluctantly stood down. 

‘’Sorry.’’ 

Scotland shrugged, smirking as he reeled in a struggling trout - its speckles shiny in the early light. ‘’Naw, it’s alright-’’ He held up the fish to England’s face, pride blooming a fire in his heart as he slowly unhooked it from the line. ‘’-Caught something. Shown you how it’s done.’’

‘’Get it away from me.’’ Scotland snorted, amused as England’s nose wrinkled with disgust (freckles dusted the bridge of his nose - and Wales’ too, and Scotland was struck at once with the heady, heavy realisation that they were his siblings). The trout was carefully placed into an ice box, still kicking as Scotland laid it out reverently - a bruise coiled tight in his chest as the chatter of his family continued to murmur in the background like mayflies. ‘’...Hey, you know what we should do?’’ He sat down, wincing something in his back twinged - bad memories dragged to the surface, like a cat with a mouse - and pulled out a small pocket-knife, blood spooling out of the fish as he began to cut it open. ‘’-Have dinner here? There’s plenty of wood for a fire and…England, you remember how to set a fire? Like I taught you? Remember?’’ Scotland asked hopefully as he looked up at his younger brother (hands folded around a pair of dry sticks, knees bent into a thick bed of pine-needles - finger outstretched in patient instruction). 

‘’Or I could use a lighter?’’ England replied, his voice curt (the snapping of twigs beneath his feet as they stalked one another like wolves; Circling in bitter enmity, kin’s blood on their palms). He fumbled with his pockets as Wales slowly stood up - wandering along the lakeshore, in search of dry wood for the fire. ‘’It’s not-’’ A lump rose in his throat, England choking on sentimentality as he scoffed, a defensive sneer on his face; Prickly and warring with thorns, swarthy red flowers as a flush rose up his neck, cowed by the purse of Wales’ lips and the raise of Scotland’s thick eyebrows, questioning his little brother’s stubbornness.

‘’Are you saying that because you’ve forgotten?’’ Wales hummed quietly, striding towards her brothers - armful of twigs and sticks of varying sizes, carefully chosen and carefully arranged in a small pyramid-ish shape. ‘’...I thought you didn’t carry lighters, Eng?’’ Wales replied softly, watching England grasp it between his thumb and index finger. ‘’You don’t like the fi-’’ A short, curt look - a flash of sparks in England’s eyes, and Wales bit her tongue ruefully. ‘’It’s not the olden days anymore.’’ He replied, fumbling the lighter out of his pocket; A shudder as he pressed the pad of his thumb down on the cool metal, taking a deep breath as something fearful inside England filled out the space in his lungs - a stone in his throat, smooth and icy and heavy. ‘’We’re not-’’ A spark, and England wavered (a deep chill set into his bones, a field turned barren - there would be no more crops, all the men and women and children were leaving; Seeking more fruitful land, somewhere where there wasn’t ash, smoke and cinders). ‘’We’re not like that anymore-!’’ He cried out, half-between laughter and frustration, crinkling the corners of his eyes as the lighter trembled in his fingers. ‘’Old fuck-’’ 

‘’Hey-’’ Scotland’s brows furrowed, heavy and thoughtful; Scales clung to his fingers, silvery in the little grey sunlight. ‘’-You forgot. What about it?’’ (Wreaths of smoke hung in the air, trepidation at the base of Scotland’s spine; Convoys of mumbling strangers, yet no England). 

‘’I didn’t forget.’’ 

‘’Aye, you did.’’ ‘’Would you piss off, you-’’ 

Wales couldn’t help, but snort with amusement - head jerking up towards the treeline, now gone plum-dark. Streaks of gold filtered against a pale pink sky, a blue haze steadily encroaching with the usual impatience of twilight. She had taught Scotland how to build a fire, and then he had passed those lessons onto England while she was away; Cinders at his fingertips, England had a faceful of smoke and coughing lungs by the time Wales had come back to find the aftermath of an argument - tempers had frayed, red-eyed and hissing curses as Scotland tightly bound the puckered, pale seam of a blister under his palm, England’s face drawn into a defiant glare - shot up from the summer grass like a startled rabbit, raw knees. Hot coals on freckled skin, thrown in an argument over what leaves to burn. It was the typical kind of argument that would soon become familiar, and in time - even endearing, before spats were traded for conflict, balled fists and hair-grabbing for swords and war-hammers. The air crackled with tension - a storm brewing between England and Scotland, frowns drawn like blades, and she was stuck between them again. ‘’Would you knock it off, you two?’’ Wales hissed between her teeth, scolding her young brothers - pulling them apart, sit in the corner and think about what you’ve just done - and when she looked at them, eyes flitting between England and Scotland, Wales felt a pang of heartache. Some things would never change. 

‘’England, you can prepare the fish; Scotland, deal with the fire.’’ Wales huffed quietly. ‘’I’m hungry.’’ A sidelong glance down towards the copse of woods, and she nodded resolutely. ‘’I’ll get some thyme, sage and rosemary. Please try not to kill each other, you hear?’’ She offered a lop-sided smile - anxiety thrumming beneath her skin as she slowly walked away, slipping into the cool shade of the woods; Twigs cracked beneath her footsteps, a tight coil of nerves sitting heavy in her chest as she drew in a deep breath. She just hoped they would listen to her - just one day of peace and quiet, just one day of the year with her brothers that didn’t make Wales want to scream (it would well up inside of her; Dragonsfire buried deep in mud). 

Lingering in the wake of Wales’ silence, England blinked slowly - and staggered to his feet with a grunt, muttering under his breath as he slowly deboned the fish with a practised ease of a man who’s been doing this for centuries. A sailor had taught him, sat on a pier with a grey sea churning beneath their feet - stone and timber and a sense of hope that England longed for. Scotland might have taught him to fish, but England remembered with a rueful smile the lessons passed on to him through mortal hands. ‘’I’ve heard birch bark is good for starting fires.’’ He piped up, glancing towards Scotland with a thoughtful smile. ‘’Don’t remember where I heard it from.’’ A steady plume of smoke had already started, trawling through the air in a lofty and lazy trail from the pile of dead leaves and sticks. ‘’I think you-’’ ‘’-I told you about that.’’ Scotland cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘’Nice that you remember.’’ A silence - filled in by the odd birdsong - crept in, uncomfortable and yet familiar (the woolly burr of an old blanket, drawn tight around their shoulders as they lay side by side - the crooked lean-to of their shelter and one another all that they needed). When Wales returned with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, they set about cooking the fish in a small frying pan from the boot of Scotland’s car. (‘’Why do you have that?’’ England had asked, incredulous and confused. ‘’Why not?’’ Scotland had responded - his tone manner of fact, offering no further explanation and certainly not wishing to admit that it had been France’s idea, hastily sequestered on him in case of a car breaking down on the side of the road; Leaving them both to subsist on poor quality petrol-station lunch). 

Once dinner was served, they sat in the cool glow of the dusky light - and for the first time in a long while, things were amicable between them.

[coralcatsea]

Another Colour/2ptalia Compilation

[paikothecateater]

Alright, Danish Slaughterhouse rant.

So I first read this fic a while back. It was recommended to me by a friend. Now, they'd recommended me pretty weird stuff before (Iceland X fridge crack ship stuff) so I was a little bit skeptical when I started reading it. I wasn't super into the hetalia fandom at the time, so I had never seen anyone talking about this fic before.

Now I could rant about how fucking disgusting this story is, but that's already been done. This writer has managed to write a story so bad that people looked over some pretty major stuff.

Like how the writing is a fucking crime against humanity.

First I'd just like to say that I mean no hate towards the person who wrote this fic. It was a long time ago and I doubt they still stand by it. I'm sure they cringe at the thought of having been the one to write it. I will not be mentioning their name as 1) I don't even know it and 2) I don't want anyone harassing them.

It's pretty rare to become infamous in your fandom. Especially writing fan fics. The creator of Gutters, Glassmilk (I believe that's their name) made a fic that was so genuinely good and heartbreaking that they became famous among the fandom. The creator of the Danish slaughterhouse however, because famous in the fandom for making a fic that was genuinely so appalling people couldn't help talking about it.

I'll be using the names they gave the characters to make things easier.

I'll go ahead and bring up what is in my opinion a huge literary crime.

The lack of descriptivism.

I'd like to mention that I've written novels before. I've just been unable to publish them due to the lack of resources. It's hard publishing an English novel in an Arabic nation. Regardless, I think I know a thing or two about this whole process.

Descriptivism is something that I personally think is very important for a good story. This story left so much to be desired. All I could imagine for Mathias' house? Flat, solid colours, generic furniture, unclear structure. It had absolutely no character. You could have given it a design that would have reflected his personality and made it easier to understand the layout with just a few sentences. I know describing a layout is tough because it's a little tricky to stay consistent and it gets a bit repetitive in writing, but an attempt could have at least been made.

When we reach the second half of the fic, it becomes very hard to get invested in the suspense of what's happening because the layout is so confusing. Whenever a hiding place is mentioned, it's crucial that the layout is clear because if it isn't then the following questions will always distract from the anxiety: where is this hiding place in the house? Where is it in reference to the place Mathias is at? How escapable is it?

It genuinely gets too distracting.

Next there is character development.

I don't even have to be the one to say that the portrayal of Mathias' character is extremely butchered. Let's not even mention the weak ass motive for all this, but it is so genuinely weird how shit seems to go from zero to one hundred with this shit. More on that in a second.

The characters are genuinely some of the most one dimensional characters I think I've ever seen. Like seriously? How am I as a reader supposed to route for a wooden plank?

Emil is just 'emo teenager with headphones'

Lukas? 'barely mentioned overprotective brother'

Berwald is pretty much the same with 'overprotective father'

Tino 'every single mom in a survival movie'

And of course Mr. Mathias 'kill kill stab stab because pain and misery is fun?'

See? Incredibly one dimensional. At this point, you might as well route for Mathias to get this bullshit done quicker. None of them have genuinely lovable moments.

Peter is a whole other issue, because if you're a decent human being, you're going to be concerned for the child, but it doesn't change the fact that for the first half, he's also incredibly one dimensional.

Then is another huge issue, the red flags.

We all know what eventually happens between Mathias and Peter. The way this is portrayed is so fucking awful.

You're telling me Peter was found injured in a locked office and no one questioned it? Either Tino and Berwald are awful fucking parents or they're incredibly stupid. Lock picking? The absolute fuck? That doesn't even make a little sense. If it was my child I'd be freaking out. I'd immediately nope the fuck out of there because clearly this is not a safe place for my child. All they do is lightly chastise this poor child and move on?

I've never personally been a fan of Nordic ships because I see their relationship as platonic. I also have other reasons for genuinely disliking these ships, but I won't get into that.

That being said, The Peter situation was not the only or first red flag. Mathias is shown very early on to be very disrespectful of Lukas' boundaries and actually assaulted him. It was just brushed over as relationship drama. What even the fuck?

Then there's the situation with Emil. Arguably the worst one ever.

I hate to say it, but the portrayal of both Peter and Emil post the traumatic situation was actually pretty consistent with someone who has actually been through something like this. With Peter, the mannerisms of a victimised child are all present. Which further reinforces the fact that Tino and Berwald are absolutely brainless and I'll get into that in a second.

With Emil there's the conflicting feelings that come with being victimised by someone you genuinely trusted. The initial panic followed by the Internal conflict. When someone is attacked by someone they trust, there's a very common sense of confusion that follows. I'll try my best to explain it as well as I can.

Realistically, he'll have panicked, screamed, cursed, etcetera during the attack, however, afterwards, in a non-adrenalin induced state, his brain would begin to flood with so many things. There's the anger, hurt, sadness about being attacked. There's the devastating fear that this person who he'd trusted his entire life and relied on is now completely severed from his life. The fear that it'll happen again. And the overwhelming anxiety about having to deal with the situation.

I'll try to make a light comparison here.

Imagine you're in school and have to give a speech for whatever reason. You're in the middle of it, when someone suddenly walks up to you, slaps you across the face and insults you in front of the whole audience. Obviously, everyone saw, no one is blaming you, realistically, no matter what you say, everyone is on your side.

However, the pressure to respond to the situation is overwhelming. You have to address it because it happened and everyone knows it happened. You may still be very emotional about it and it may be too sensitive to talk about immediately, or you're just so confused about how to properly respond. Do you get angry? Do you play the saint and pretend it didn't affect you? Do you pretend it never happened? Regardless, you have to respond because everyone wants to know how it affected you, what happened? Why it happened?, etcetera.

This is exactly the situation Emil is in. So what does Lukas do as a good big brother?

He gently and patiently waits for Emil to open up to him while letting him know that he's safe and that he will be believed no matter what-

I'm just kidding, he violently pushes Emil for a response in a way that could only further traumatise him. He makes him feel like his emotional response isn't valid and that he somehow did something wrong instead of waiting until he's ready to talk or even take matters into his own hands and confront Mathias.

It is fucking horrible.

Then when their fight gets louder and the other three get involved (Berwald, Tino and Peter) and Peter finally confesses to having been hurt Tino puts on this whole caring act like 'oh remember how we taught you about this stuff?'

Bitch, what?

So this is a conversation that has happened before. And you still couldn't recognise the signs that something changed in Peter's behaviour? You teach the child about how to recognise when he's being victimised without teaching yourself how to recognise when your child is being victimised?

What the actual fuck?

I'd like to say that during this scene, Lukas feels guilty for the way he approached the situation which, yes, it was bad, you should be guilty, but it's not like he fucking does anything to rectify it.

Emil listens to Peter talking and has to come to the realisation that he was hurt. That his world was crumbling down. Still, Lukas makes no effort to make him feel supported.

Suddenly, this infuriating scene is interrupted by an even more infuriating one.

Berwald is understandably beating the absolute shit out of Mathias. The others run in and watch until Tino screams for Berwald to stop. Why? Because he's scaring Peter.

Hello? Then get Peter the fuck out. Surely this can't be the priority. Peter will survive watching his attacker get absolutely fucked up. I promise you. He will.

I'd also love to point out the sheer lack of fucks given about Emil and how this is affecting him. I'd like to give Tino the benefit of the doubt and say he was also concerned for Emil, but it doesn't even matter.

So like a fucking idiot, Berwald gets off of Mathias and they all start heading towards the door.

I'd like to mention that Mathias having already shot Emil in the leg was even more incentive for them to leave because even if it was an accident, clearly something is not quite right here. Surely Emil would prefer to heal at home and if Lukas was such a good brother he'd insist on taking Emil home.

Anyway, so, Mathias reveals his true intentions and the hunt begins.

Do I have to mention how stupid this is? A hunt? If he did actually have a motive he'd prefer to go for the easy kill, use those weird shock things and just murder them. If he's too sadistic for that he could also just casually immobilise them and torture them, but no, it has to be a hunt. Sure whatever.

As I said, the layout gets super complicated, but that's not the only issue.

He allegedly shot Emil to even out the playing field, but uh... What about Peter? Oh he gets to team up with the others? That's stupid and also doesn't solve the problem. Now you have to run for your life and lug a child around? It's just so damn weird because he was so committed to things being fair and as such shot him in the fucking leg, but Peter can go to hell?

Berwald and Tino are killed off pretty instantly, so I'll immediately skip onto the other two.

Why was Emil's situation so fucking weird? Also, I'm sorry for the weird topic, but how the fuck does the author think piss works? It's such a weird element to include in the story. It served no purpose to the story as Mathias already knew Emil was in the room. It just made it all grosser.

Also, again with the one dimensional characters. You're telling me Mathias never once felt pity?

It would have improved the story if maybe during the scene where he tries to drown Emil and presumes him dead for him to have a moment of remorse. Tear up about the fact that he murdered someone he cared about. It could've made Emil feel like there was hope for him. Just because your character is a monster that doesn't necessarily make them a psycho. It would've enhanced the story, but no.

And you're telling me after this whole situation everyone is just... Fine? Emil and Peter are just playing together? Emil had to abandon Peter to save himself, surely there will be a bit of tension about that.

Also, Mathias' motive is just bad. It's inconsistent with his character and doesn't make any sense.

This is a hetalia fic, no? There is a rule according to the canon that a nations decisions are secondary to their bosses. That being said, I've never met the Danish royal family, but I doubt the words 'go fuck your entire family' has ever left their mouths.

Another motive could've been that he was just fed up with how he was generally treated by the others. It's a weak motive, but it's better than that bullshit.

Also, the populations of the countries immigrating to Denmark because the Nordics are trapped at Mathias'?

Emil has been on long trips to visit south East Asia. His population stayed put then. So how does this work?

Overall, this fic is just badly written. It needs some serious work. It's inconsistent, dull, confusing, appalling and just downright criminal.

[sunny-mercya]

The Cruel King

03. Attempted Death

Nordic 5 x Male Reader

Fandom -> Hetalia

Masterlist || Previous / Next

-> Warning; Mention of abuse, neglect, attempted suicide and sexual assault

10th of May. 1885 - Berlin, Prussia

A whimper escaped your lips, staring with fearful eyes at Matthias blue ones—whose face was stoic and cold gazed, void of emotion to read.

»Pleasure to see you too min skat.«

Matthias had loosen his grip on your arm, only to let his hands wander to your wrist—grabbing them tightly together—and his other clutching the sides of your face—strong hold, adding pressure to your jaw.

»Why are you here?« it was hard to speak, but you managed.

»To take you back home of course.« the corner of his lips moved up a bit, creating a tiny smile. His hold on your face lessened.

»No.«

»Excuse me dear, but what do you mean with no?«

»Nein. I werd ned mi dir mitgeh Matthias. I werd hier mi Gilbert bleiben. I will me scheden vo dir, will mei freiheit.«

There you have said it, in your native language even. Even with the fear you felt, you felt so proud of yourself to muster up such a defiance against Matthias.

Matthias face morphed into a furious expression. Eyes losing all sense of life, dulling in colour and narrowing down, with his lips, into a snarl. Clenched his jaw, the grip he had around you started to get stronger. Crushing painful even.

The boiling anger in him, which had been on a slow rise since had been informed of your disobedience and informal visits to the Prussian, turned into a spark of fireworks

»How dare you to speak to your husband, your sole King, in such a shameful language. How dare you to demand something without manners of begging and how dare you to go against me in such defiance.«

Matthias spoke with such venom in his voice, feeling the spewing hatred in his husked whisper. Matthias wasn't someone who would shout, he will say it in such calm demeanour so they knew how serious he was.

Because how, in the name of god, dare you to speak up against him like this? In a language he had forbid you to ever speak again.

How dare you, going so shamefully behind his back, betraying his trust and kindness. Tarnishing his reputation and discarding the vows you had given one another.

Disobeying him like a mere foolish child of mortality and lowlife.

You whimpering got louder, his grip on your jaw hadn't lessened only tightens and you felt a small pinch of pain already. A minimal crack, cutting through the air of a silence, was heard.

He scoffed, slammed you with a force against the mirror—letting it crack in shatters, shards piercing into your skin—and with his calloused strengths—only the Vikings had—he hauled you onto the floor. The shards now digging into your skin, leaving a leak of blood underneath you.

Matthias pinned your wrist above your head. He moved your legs into a birth giving pose. Unbuckling buttons, pulling his pants and underwear down.

With predatory eyes he glanced down at you, licking over his lips. Leaning forward to your neck, his tongue danced alongside your neck all the way down to your collarbone. Kissing and sucking wet your skin—tainted and scarred but also pure as porcelain.

You are too deep into a stupor, to have the will of mind—going into a state of blank stasis—to fight against him.

A forceful kiss on your lips and when you gasped—after he gripped you hard down there—his tongue slipped into your mouth.

»You belong to me and only me min skat.«

Matthias had whispered this single sole sentence, that one specific word, on repeat into your ear. Branding your mind with it, setting a trigger.

And when Matthias had entered you—with brutal force rammed into—your stupor broke, ripping a scream so shrill from your throat.

Fear filled your face as you begun to become a sobbing mess underneath him. In your tear filled vision, all you could see was Matthias wicked grin.

Haunting you forevermore.

Christmas Eve. 1917 - Border of Sweden and Finland

You stumbled through the heavy snow, barely moving inches forward as the snow is thick and knee high.

Disoriented dizzy you felt, having lost all sense of direction—though somehow you seemed to know where to go or so you believed.

The map with the directions of where to find your friends and letter, which Tino had send you last—after a long secret exchange of written letters—had been long gone, swept away from the howling wind.

The falling snow from the sky—reminding you much of the Fairy Tale; Frau Holle—with the up picking hollering wind, starting a new episode of blizzards storm and the sinking sun—dipping the sky and world into a following pitch darkness—hindering your already impaired eyesight.

When Tino had open the door after a series of rapid knocking, he did have expected you but didn't expected you to be like this.

You had fallen to your knees, with praying hands you gazed upon at your friend. Body trembling from the frosty hollowed cold and the slow rising pain—which started to creep back in a winding whiplash.

»I beg–I bete um–premission–um er-erlaubnis zur zuflucht–sanctuary–sanctuary I pray for mei freund–bitte hilf mi–sanct–zuflucht–sanctuary is all I möch«

You spoke in a fumbling mess of words, switching between Schurlisch and Danish, mixing them together even. Lips trembling, blue like ice and bloody red at the same time.

Tino paled at your sight, chest heaving with a rising panic of anxiety. He could barely catch your frozen, lifeless form as your eyes begun to drop—a whispering help echoing over your lips one last time—before your body gave up.

»Berwald! Berwald come quickly I need help, [Name] needs help! BERWALD!«

Weeks passed and your condition of unconsciousness had neither gotten bad nor better. A countries body—might heal differently, faster even, from that of an Human—though it could only endure so much, mental and physical wise

Tino had taken it upon himself to take care of you, after the Doctor looked you over and noted everything down Tino needed to know about your wounds. Wounds so severe, it had made him vomit the first night when he inspected the injuries on you.

Patient : [Name] [Surname] - Schurland

The Patient has ;

Swollen eyes — a possible blindness or loss of vision, glasses might be needed in future.

Server broken bones

— [Dominant hand]completely shattered in bones, bones will heal over time, although not able to move anymore.

— All rips damage, caging the lungs and causing a defect in breathing, possibility of Asthma

- Right leg deformed, noticeable limp when healed — might need crutches

- Spine bend

- Jaw improper healed once and newly dislocated again — might cause difficulty of speech and a delay in it.

Heavy bleeding in one ear, perhaps even both, will cause a deafness.

A possibility of nerves damage.

Compressed Stomach.

Private parts out of use — peeing will cause pain.

Prone to get sick more often, fever waves are to happen.

Concussion — brain damage might be caused.

Further information will be added.

And this was only a list of the physical state, how you would be mentally doing afterwards was another report of its own.

»Tino, it's not your fault. We couldn't have known that it would end like this. That Matthias would act so abusing.« had Berwald once told Tino when he sat down in the kitchen to take a short break of breather.

Berwald had said it in solemn monotony, that Tino couldn't help stop himself to get angry at his husband as well.

»We couldn't know but we should have! We all knew all along how Matthias has treated [Name] over the years and all we did was watch! We're not better than him then.«

»Tino–«

»No! You listen to me! Matthias has broken [Name] and we never had attempted to help, so of course I blame myself, because if we did help and decided back then to just take him away when we vowed to leave, then it wouldn't have ended like this!«

Tino crumbled into himself, sobbing at the immense weight of regret he felt in his heart—the pressure of uncertainty of what is now happening to you in the future.

Anxiety plagued his mind, scratching at his conscience and injecting him with a burden of guilt.

It wouldn't have ended like this, in a gruesome way of pending death and uncertainty, if they just had decided to simply whisk you away—away from the person you are chained to.

1919 - Border of Sweden and Finland

When World War One had ended, Berwald could managed with pesky stubbornness of diplomacy determination and with Lukas help too—to bring Matthias to sign over the rights he had over you to Berwald.

Matthias, at this time back then, didn't seemed too concerned—upset—over his loss of you. Laughing even, his overconfidently boastful loud crackling, grinning with spark of daring excitement in his eyes.

»If you want to have him so badly, this dissertation deserter of disappointment worthlessness and of lower intelligence, you can take him for free.« Matthias had said, talking about you as if you had been nothing more than a priced possession of him—a toy he had grown tired of.

So now, hopefully for the rest of the upcoming decades and centuries which are about to come, you officially belonged to Sweden.

1950 - Border of Sweden and Finland

What Matthias had done to you, back in 1885—the breaking point of all the added up things of what has been done to you—and the years after, plus the two world wars—in which you were barely conscious to take notice of it, but your body—jerking and spasming in every way—had taken more damage from it—causing a drop in you.

Apathetic you were during the days and hysterical in the nights. Lethargic even, laying most of the time on your bedroom floor—not trusting your bed in the slightest, fearing of something unknown to happen when you sleep on it.

All you would do is staring into the nothingness of the ceiling above. Blinking and starring, nothing more.

Tino, despite being rather busy at the moment with his own country and duties towards it, took time off to keep you company—sitting down next to you, taking your hand in his—to show you that he is there for you—reading books to you.

Your favourite story you come to love to hear, had been Alice in Wonderland and the Tale of Sleeping beauty.

Berwald just as busy as Tino, did everything possible to bring you back on your feet, even when it would be just a hour of you standing and taking two steps.

It happen during the early hours, when the sun was about to rose from her slumber and enlightened the world with a new start of warm rays of light.

The feeling, slowly it crawled through your body, itched you—bringing a twitching of tingling sensation into your hollowed out form of anatomy.

You couldn't say what sort of feeling it was, only that it started a carving of something longing and unsatisfying to not wish for.

Getting from the floor, you walked downstairs and out of the house—into the open variety of landscape with its suffocating of freedom.

Freedom. You scoffed at the word itself.

What exactly is even freedom? Nothing but a mere lie, illusion of false hope and reality towards the endless cycle of cruelty living. Freedom didn't exist, never had. A fraud it was from the start—leaving more bloodshed behind than any war alone.

If they, the humans, wanted their precious freedom so desperately—they simply should have chosen death willingly.

Freedom doesn't exist—not in the form and sense they believed it to be—but in death it does.

Stopping at the lake, you gazed at its calm surface of tranquility and life giving gift. Suns rays reflecting from it, creating a glimmer of twinkling.

Water granted life but it also takes it from you.

Never had you been a good swimmer. You only knew the basic form. It wasn't a requirement for you to learn, why should you though? When all you did was to live in a bubble of solitude

Embrace life first before you step into death.

Berwald felt a immense pressure of flooding panic breaking through his stoic demeanour. Paled at the wide open front door. His hands shook tremendously, needing to clench them to get ahold of his emotion again or they might spill over.

Getting into his boots and putting his coat on, He sprinted outside without any further thought except the one; to find you quickly as possible.

There was only one option of where you had could go to, if you wanted to do what he fears.

Berwald had always been a man of few words—spoken bluntly, no need to sugarcoat the obvious and with a monotonously as if he presented a lecture—and stoic like a statue he was. He wasn't big on affection too—simple showcase; like holding hands or a short peck to the cheek, yes—otherwise he kept to himself, emotions in a locked state of constant nothing but calmness.

But once he had meet you, all those years ago—during the rough times of barbaric fear spiking conquering against other nations—his once stored feelings—jokey gotten told he was like a frozen pot, Ice prince, when it comes to such things as mere emotional feelings—which in such times could've been crucial to his life, begun to taw ever so slightly with the passing time.

So it crushed him when seeing you in this constant state of pain. Feeling just as guilty as Tino feels, because he too knows—they should have freed you sooner.

Once at the lake, Berwald didn't hesitate to take off boots and coat and dive right into the water. Swimming to the middle, the deepest part, taking a deep long breath and dived under.

Berwald grabbed your arm—floating or more like a sinking, a mix of both, so lifeless through the depths of water—pulling you closer to him and taken ahold around your waist. Swimming upwards till he breached the surface with you.

Back at the lakeshore, Berwald hived you out. Laying you down he begun with the revival measurements.

Don't crack, don't crack—a fleeting thought, reminder to keep himself together—in check—and break under the upcoming weight of emotions.

The pressure inside him rises, bubbling up and clogging his throat with a burning of choking sobs. Panic, like a flood, crashed over him—drowning him with urges of roaring screams. Don't give up, don't up—a mantra to continue with bringing you back to life.

With a gaps you jerked back into life, coughing out the water in your exhausted lungs.

Tired, eyes glazed over with rimming tears and a dizziness, you looked into blue eyes—and for a split second you thought it were Matthias, that you are back in his grasp.

Those blue eyes were a lot softer, still a glaze of ice in them, in colour compared to Matthias—which are more vibrant—and you know who it was, Berwald.

Shaky breaths are the only sounds with surrounds you in the solitude of nature. Berwald had warped you into his coat, holding you into his arms. Leaning his head down, forehead touching yours—he couldn't stop his own ragged breathings.

One, two, three and more tears started to drop, flowing like a river from his eyes as he begun to sob. The anxiety, the fear he felt when he knew you tried to end your life for final, exploded in him—bringing his emotions into a whirlwind of messiness.

Dear god. He was glad, so fucking thankfully glad—relieved—to have you back—alive. Berwald didn't wanted to thought about the possibility of what if's—if he couldn't have saved you, bringing you back to life and another new wave of anxiety pooled into his stomach.m

But you are alive and that's what matters.

/ - Stockholm, Sweden

You had attempted three more tries of suicide. All of them successfully prevented from either Berwald, Tino or Lukas. They counted the days till you tried to attempted a fourth one—a ticking bomb.

Aren't you just as cruel? Paining your loved ones, the people who care about you, with suicide—simply because you couldn't........couldn't what?

When Berwald had brought a freshly born baby home and Lukas came with Emily for another visit stay—you had a change of mood and personality.

You instantly felt attached to the baby, which you had named Erland. Taking care of him mostly all by yourself—a parental instinct taking over you.

To Lukas amusement, Emil too had gotten your attention and care treatment—which he had received from you when he once was a child—again. Emil was after all still very precious to you and he would always be your younger brother—by blood vow.

You didn't ventured back into your old, meek and submissive self from the past. You changed, growing up, into a independent strong man

A spark of joy—dimmed to the core, barely burning—life itself had returned in you, burning brightly like the sun or fire.

~~~

You might be Berwalds and Tinos husband, but Lukas had known you longer—a older brother figure to you he had become—so when you had another hysterical fit of revisiting nightmares of memories and the past, it was him who would wake you up and comfort you.

Lukas knows what he has to say to you, how to hold you, to bring you back into the here and now and calming you.

He hushed you, holding you in his arms—rocking you back and forth—while you sobbed, heartbreaking ugly loud, into his shoulder.

»It's all in the past, [Name]. He isn't gonna hurt you, not anymore. It's all okay, all okay,«

Besides how strong you had become now, you're still fragile—easily to shatter, in terms of mind.

»I want—want him gone. He should go. I hate him! Hate hate hate him!«

»I know.«

[smuttyandabsurd]

On the Cusp of Blooming (Netherlands x Indonesia)

Title: On the Cusp of Blooming Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia Character(s) or Pairing(s): Indonesia, Netherlands; Indonesia/Netherlands Rating: Explicit Additional tags: Flowers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Gentle Kissing, Neck Kissing, Rough Kissing, Roughness, Tenderness, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Summary: Netherlands surprises Indonesia with an unannounced visit.

Heartfelt thanks to @eruverse for her support and ceaseless encouragements. I really enjoy our chats together about NedIndo ❤️

Read it on AO3.

“They said you would be here,” said the Netherlands. In his pale hand he held a bouquet of brightly coloured tulips, the buds on the cusp of blooming.

Indonesia closed the distance between them in two, three quick strides. He threw his arms over Netherlands’ (tall, lean, firm) shoulders and dragged him down for a kiss. Lips locked together, hands wrapped around one another, the two staggered in an ungainly tangle of limbs across the width of the garage until they bumped into the workbench set against the wall.

With lithe ease, Indonesia slid up onto the counter on his bum. Netherlands’ hands fumbled at the waistband of Indonesia’s tracksuit bottoms, his white long fingers hooking in and pulling down, cool against Indonesia’s heated flesh. Indonesia lifted his hips and shimmied eagerly out of his pants. His own hands, clad in work gloves, clawed at the collar of Netherlands’ shirt, wanting to tear it off.

“You’re getting motor oil all over me,” Netherlands murmured, his tone genial. Deftly, he caught Indonesia by his wrists and pulled them to one side. Indonesia writhed bodily as his hands snatched futilely at thin air.

“Want you… need you… to touch you…” he keened.

Netherlands’ lips twitched into a near imperceptible smile. Pinning Indonesia’s hands above his head, he leaned over and pressed their lips together in a deep kiss. He could feel Indonesia acquiescing underneath him, appeased, but his body still quivered like a tightly strung cord.

Reaching down with his free hand, Netherlands palmed at the growing erection in between Indonesia’s legs. A sharp gasp escaped Indonesia’s kiss-swollen lips.

“F-fuck!” he hissed. His eyes fluttered shut as he thrust desperately into Netherlands’ hand.

Matching his urgency, Netherlands wrapped his hand around Indonesia’s cock and squeezed, which incited a delicious whimper from the latter. He thumbed at the frenulum and swiped over the head of Indonesia’s glans, thinly spreading the pre-cum that was beading at the tip. Indonesia jerked at the touch and attempted to wrest his hands out of Netherlands’ grasp.

“Unhand me!” he snarled, his eyes black and wild.

Bucking bodily, he kicked out at the Netherlands – a move that was impeded by his pants scrunched around his feet. Netherlands simply held him down by his thigh. The sound Indonesia emitted at being thwarted was downright animalistic.

“Don't fight me,” Netherlands murmured, his tone still light, but there was an echo of the colonial master slipping in, unbidden and commanding.

And, in answer to a resurfacing habit, Indonesia fell limp, pliant.

Obedient.

“Good boy.”

Indonesia swallowed his shame as a stab of lust went straight to his groin.

Netherlands’ hand worked slowly, achingly slowly, to stoke his arousal. From the base to the tip, Netherlands massaged Indonesia’s length until it was practically weeping. A trickle of cum, thick and white and sticky, slid into Netherlands’ palm. He slicked it along Indonesia’s cock and began pumping in earnest.

Indonesia was trembling so hard that his breath came out in short, jerky, hitching gasps. He hung his head and let out a little whimper of want. A tight, coiling sensation was growing in the pit of his stomach… he was close… and it would have been easy, so perfectly wonderfully simple, to give in to Netherlands’ ministrations…

With a burst of determination, Indonesia wrenched his hands free of Netherlands’ grasp and, capitalising on Netherlands’ surprise, hooked his arms around his neck and pulled him down so their faces were mere inches apart.

“I want you too,” he said breathlessly. “Please, you too… you too, sayang…”

Netherlands’ jaw clenched. Suddenly, he pushed Indonesia down onto the counter. His hand paused mid-stroke on Indonesia’s dick, causing the latter to let out an unhappy whimpering protest. With his free hand, he undid the fly of his trousers and brought out his own achingly hard cock.

Indonesia watched with bated breath as Netherlands aligned their cocks together and resumed stroking.

The heat, the hardness, the sheer glorious velvety sensation… It was almost too much. Throwing back his head, Indonesia let out a low moan of uninhibited pleasure. As Netherlands dipped down and nipped at his bared throat, Indonesia’s clawing hands found purchase on the back of his shirt, his fingernails scratching uselessly within the confines of his gloves.

It wasn’t long before Indonesia came with a shuddering groan. His release spurted in small wet ropes that adorned the chest and torso of his grease-stained singlet – as well as the side of his chin. The sight of the stray cum on Indonesia’s face – pearly white on sun-kissed skin – pushed Netherlands to finish, and he came too with a muted grunt.

The two paused to catch their breaths as they climbed down from the giddying heights of their climax. Netherlands rested his forehead on Indonesia’s as they shared the sparse air between them. Then, Indonesia pulled away and flopped uncomfortably back onto the work counter. His chest heaved. He was hot and sticky all over with sweat and spend, and he yearned deeply for a cold bath.

Netherlands’ hand traced along the curve of Indonesia’s cheek and gently cupped the side of his face. Slowly, their lips met in a soft, languid kiss. A different kind of ache was blooming now inside of Indonesia. It almost hurt.

Indonesia held Netherlands’ hand on his cheek with his own and slowly interlocked their fingers together.

“Welcome back,” he whispered.

And tenderly, he kissed the palm of Netherlands’ hand.

[knittedstar]

about me!

Hello there! i'm not really sure how active will i be on here, but a nice little introduction wont hurt anyone :)

My name is niko, i use she/her pronouns, i am 16 years old (so don't be weird) and fairly new to tumblr (i am very lost and with very much no idea what's going on here). My favourite colours are green, red and pink, i am a hufflepuff and i love spring and snowdrops (the flowers). Also, english isn't my first language, so there will probably be lots of mistakes in my posts, unfortunately :(

And here is the list of things i enjoy and would LOVE to talk about it with people:

good omens (i'm quite new to the fandom, so i dont know a lot of things and jokes, but i hope to get into it more with time)

harry potter (golden trio, marauders and a little of the summer of 1899)

taylor swift (going to the concert in august!!)

the office (comfort show

crocheting

journaling

hetalia (my another source of comfort)

Yup, i think that's it! Feel free to text me, if you think we could get along! :D

[ko-fanatic]

Who wants a spoiler for the Wales-centric historical Hetalia fic I've been writing? See below the cut.

Warning: There are some dub-con dynamics and implications in the following excerpt, but no sexual content. This is creepy, but nuanced, I hope. Still, if these things affect you, I'd recommend not reading.

“Have you never seen yourself?”

There was humour in Rome’s voice as Rhydian observed himself in the polished silver he’d been handed, turning his face to and fro as the older man had that day. He ran a critical eye over his nose, his eyes, his jawline and cheekbones. The way his hair had grown out from his tribesmen’s old style had left him blinking pale strands from his lashes, and had gotten yet another compliment from the man.

Rhydian fucking hated him. 

“In still waters, yes,” He answered, tone completely civil, “Not like this, however. You were right, I am quite pretty.”

Rome laughed, then, running a hand through Rhydian’s hair and leaning the boy back to rest on his chest. The younger closed his eyes, swallowing hard, but let Rome do as he wished; he didn’t have much energy to spit and hiss as he’d done when the older man first saw fit to see him settle into the “new home” he’d “so graciously” provided. 

The house was beautiful, he couldn’t fault it for that, but it just felt so… unnecessary. Merely decorative. Rome had laughed before about his “mud huts” and Rhydian hadn’t appreciated it at all, throwing the cup of wine the other had given him in his face - staining the brilliant white of his toga - before the young nation marched out of the dining hall and to bed. 

“It’s a personal quirk,” He continued, shrugging, “We have mirrors, too. Made of bronze rather than silver, though.”

“You can see the truer colours with silver,” Rome hummed, “See how lovely your eyes are. The rosiness of your cheeks. Your pretty hair.”

The last utterance was punctuated by a kiss, right on the crown of Rhydian’s head, and the mirror clattered to the floor. 

At once, he was on his feet, chair falling away as he pushed out of Rome’s admittedly soft hold, eyes wild and heart hammering. He called Caledfwlch to his side in an instant, poised and ready to defend, and Rome only met his aggression with more laughter. 

Rhydian dreamed of cutting his throat, letting the blood bubble up every time the older man tried to snicker in that infuriating manner, but he never did. It was better to settle, live alongside the Romans and share their cultures. To just calmly accept it all and roll with the punches. He wasn’t conquered like Albion apparently was. It wasn’t perfect, but an uneasy truce was a truce nonetheless.

And the figs Rome had bought him were sweet. 

His shoulders slowly lowered, breathing out the tension, but his sword still in hand. Just in case. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you should relax?” The older man asked, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, and Rhydian swallowed against glass shards, “Not every touch is mean spirited, or an attack.”

No, but they could be. 

“You’re right,” He falsely acknowledged, the flesh of his cheek between his molars as Caledfwlch was sent away once more, “I’ve never been good with uncertainty.”

“You really don’t know where you stand with me, do you?”

The words were spoken in the closest thing to sadness that Rhydian had heard from Rome in the past months, nearly year long they’d been going through this back and forth. It made his shoulders slump further, a faint metal taste in his mouth at the kicked-dog expression the other was wearing. 

Am I really the bad guy here?

“I don’t,” He concurred, voice quiet, “Why capture me to release me? Why flounce between Italy and Albion, only to come back here and spend the whole time feeding me strange food and calling me pretty.” 

There was that silence again, but it didn’t stretch as long. Perhaps it was the tentative understanding that starts to build from this sort of time together. Not the same as tribesmen, nothing near, but familiarity. Like how he knows Rome will indulge in red wine until he’s sick several times over, and how Rome knows he likes leek with his rabbit and will nibble on cherries for dessert. 

“You’re more valuable to me as an ally, I think,” Rome admitted, “Your metal work - both weapons-wise and jewellery - is extremely impressive. You make so many small details look so effortless, and craft some truly delicate pieces. You’re also willing to bite and claw and scratch to keep your freedom, no matter how much it costs you. It’s almost inspiring. Besides…”

Rhydian swallowed once again, that sharpness increasing tenfold, blinking back a sting in his eyes at the praise. At the admittance of how talented and tenacious his people were. Feeling proud and yet so, so small all at once, in a way only Rome could accomplish. 

“You have a face that makes me want to dote on you, show you the ways of the world.” 

A step towards him, and another, and another until those big hands encircled his own wrists. Looking up at that soft, guileless smile, he felt his stomach swoop in something dread-adjacent. He wasn’t scared, but was certainly apprehensive of what expectation was held in each gentle touch. Body language exchanged in the silence of the newly built villa and filled the empty space with tension. 

Rome’s face whispered go on without uttering a single word. He let himself be led to the bed - metal and precious and expertly crafted, topped with a soft down mattress - and Rome took a seat first. A guiding hand pulled him onto the man’s lap, and he put up little resistance, but didn’t meet his eyes. 

The older’s hand dipped into the little box on the bedside table, offering its spoils as he was delicately perched. Like he had to be treated gently, like the wind and rain didn’t mould him, like he was soft and sweet. He felt like he was absent from his own body, somewhere to the side of himself, floating in that same space that Caledfwlch disappeared to when he no longer needed it.

Like he no longer needed his mind. Like he could simply float in the ether. 

Rome offered his hand, pressed his fingertips to his lips, and Rhydian took a bite.

The pomegranate was sickly sweet.