saltcove

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@doomspiral love the shenanigans, let's go! 🍊 seven lines from espresso, double: a busking spamano au in the works.

He’d never heard Spanish behave like that.  Sung like that.  Miserable and furious, words did not match their delivery; lyrics harmonising midsummer love, ripe peaches, picked weeds, all punctuated by a gruff, violent use of voice. The man was perched sideways on the fountain, backlit water casting nets of reflection onto his face, cuts of white and undecided blue. Antonio couldn’t quite understand what he was looking at.  Street musicians weren’t uncommon.  But you’re—Rome.

no tag besties in the space (yet), but it's all yours if you want to follow up!

Tagged for heads up seven up by @breitzbachbea (who ofc is always serving with their writing). Thank you!

Seven lines from the chapter of Nerium Oleander that is going to give me gray hairs as I edit because what kind of detective story can be lacking a chase scene? Certainly, not this one (or maybe yes, we'll see when the edition is over)

The chase is thrilling but the surroundings are blurry, the sweet smell of cotton candy overwhelms him, it's nauseous, sickly sweet as he pushes away the onlookers that stay on his path. With heavy breaths, he stretches out his hand trying to grasp onto the man, but he's faster than him, a sleazy snake that eludes from his reach.

I'm tagging @darcymariaphoster @spinyfruit @the-heaminator @fizzycherrycola @mimizuku9 and @fluffywhump if you want to ~

#writing #mine #tag game!

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if neither of you want it, give me the coat 🍊

#spamano #aph spamano #aph south italy #aph spain #hws south italy #hws spain #antonio fernandez carriedo #lovino vargas #hetalia #spain x south italy #art #mine

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pairing: antonio/lovino theme: vespas & modern temples

roma is a temple. lovino decides this on the back of a vespa, hands perched behind him, antonio’s presence a strong force in front of him, weaving in and out of traffic, swaying too close to tourists who hoot and holler. the night is sticky, and rome is a cut open fruit, spilling light and sound, a modern worship. 

wine loosens his voice and his smile, antonio’s soft cologne pushed back by the wind. hair whipping, knuckles white, and fingers hooked under leather. sweet madonna, it’s a moment. 

“you alright, back there?” it’s spanish and soft, and because it’s spanish and soft in an italian temple—loud, lit, lively—lovino knows to respond. antonio’s head is angled back slightly, no helmet to press down the curls. 

“better than that, bastard!” he laughs, deep, sated. “i feel like god!”

antonio laughs, too. “how blasphemous, mi vida.”

lovino pushes forward and hovers over the seat, throwing arms over antonio's shoulders and speaking into his cheek on a turn. “as he thinks in his heart, so he is.”

“using god’s words against him? you’re getting bold,” antonio sounds breathless, and lovino’s hand dips into antonio’s collar to find a gold cross, pushes a thumb against his clavicle. antonio swallows. “and distracting.”

“keep driving.” it’s mumbled, gentle. “keep driving, antonio.”

“i will.”

“how far?”

“as far as you’d like.”

the vespa drones under them, and the conversation has nothing to do with it. lovino rests his forehead into antonio’s bare throat, where his shirt rippled open, unbuttoned, in summer heat. he drops into his seat and folds over antonio’s back. “the furthest you can go.”

for as long as you’ll have me. 

temples outlive their gods. but with you—

“the night’s not long enough, for how far I’d like to take you.”

#spamano #aph spamano #aph south italy #aph spain #hws south italy #hws spain #antonio fernandez carriedo #lovino vargas #hetalia #spain x south italy #writing

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pairing: denmark/norway theme: fishermen & drowning sailors 

dawn scrapes the horizon, floods it with cold sun. lukas drags the net over the side of the rowboat, grunts and breaks his nails on the wooden edge. emil sits across from him, knotting rope and pressing fish down into the barrel. svaneke is colder than most port cities, births raw winter in his throat. 

“fokus, emil,” he snaps. lukas is swept with impatience. “the fish will not catch itself.”

“i am focused,” emil counters, muttering. lukas isn’t fond of his brother when he’s petulant and bored, disinterested. emil is on the cusp of sixteen, face sharper than most boys his age. lukas knows he would rather read than trawl, but there is no life for them but this. 

“more, then,” lukas stands, throws the net further. “i cannot be doing this on my own. this is not why i bring you.”

“why bring me at all?” emil knots with more fury. “you have it all figured out, storebror.”

lukas bites back a remark. it is always like this, but today is worse. today is worse because it is emil’s birthday. lukas sighs, drops down with a gust from his chest. “sorry. i know you’re tired.”

“i am,” emil looks up, icy. he directs his eyes elsewhere when lukas glares. “i suppose you are too.”

“i will survive this,” lukas sets a hand on emil’s knee, squeezes. “you will be more than a fisherman someday.” but not today, little brother.

emil makes to say something. it is caught in his throat, much like the thick knot his fingers loosen around. his eyes hinge over lukas’ shoulder at the shoreline, and lukas sighs. “we will get off the boat in an hour. be patient.”

emil’s mouth gapes. snaps closed. “brother.”

lukas wets his mouth, gets up again to tend the net. “what is it, emil?”

“i—” emil stops himself. 

lukas rolls his eyes. “has the seawitch stolen your voice?”

“brother,” emil’s paling face has lukas’ focus. dials him in. “look.”

lukas frowns, turns to glance over his own shoulder. he isn’t sure where he’s being directed, scans the shoreline with vacancy. they’re not too far from land, hardly at all. lukas’ eyes pull apart the dark sand and the short pier and then he sees it. 

a man.

a body, pressed into the sand, sea casting over it. 

his words lose power. “row, emil.”

emil scrambles for the oars, composure lost. lukas hisses and heaves and brings the net into the boat before helping him. cold water hits his abdomen, but lukas’ pulse is hot, furious; that is a deadman. he is dead. he must have been. 

he must have been—

without a word, lukas drops the net and flies over the edge of the rowboat in a dive. emil’s voice is replaced by water—arctic and stinging, lung-cramping. lukas swims under, pushes with his feet, pulled back by his own clothes. he swims like he can save something. he’s dead. 

breaking for air, his boots hit the seafloor and lukas treads with clumsy, rushed indignance. closer, the body is lulling in the shallow water. bigger than his, stronger. lukas grabs the man by his lapel and drags, forces them both out onto the beach. 

dropping to his knees, he crosses palms over the man’s chest. pushes, pushes. his hair has come loose from its clip, dripping down onto a pale cheek. the man is drained of colour, his nose too white and his mouth parched with salt. lukas pushes down on his chest, frustration coiling his expression. he’s desperate. faen. 

pinching the man’s nose closed, he brings their cold, open mouths together and breathes. full breaths that hurt his freezing lungs. again. again. 

he’s met with salt water against the chin and a furious fit of coughing.  

lukas’ relief drops him back onto the sand. the adrenaline has singed his nerves to the point of numbness. lukas closes his eyes, prays. 

the man makes no move to get up, groans and turns on his side against the sand. he’s facing lukas, eyes pinched, starting to open. he’s a sailor—maybe. something more, by his rings and his wool. lukas stares, terrified, until the man finally opens his eyes. 

he is staring right at lukas. lukas is staring back. 

“where,” he croaks. it’s danish. 

“here,” lukas answers dumbly. “i—svaneke.”

the man hisses and tries to sit up, falling back on his elbows. “sød guder.”

“stay still, dane,” lukas urges. emil has somehow made it to the coast as well, and lukas hisses at him to seek help. the boy scrambles off. 

“you saved me,” the man rasps, failing once more to sit up, words broken over with fits of coughing. he lays back and stares at the sky. “your name, siren?”

“lukas,” he supplies. “i am a man.”

“you are no man,” it’s scoffed, like he cannot believe it. “you are divine to have found me.”

lukas swallows. he is a fisherman. “i am not.”

the man turns his head, cheek pressed into the wet sand. “you are more than man—to have countered the sea.”

#dennor #aph norway #aph denmark #aph denor #hws norway #hws denmark #lukas bondevik #mathias kohler #hetalia #writing #denmark x norway

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somewhere in Spain i believe

#stunning #spamano

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Now make them KISS

i did it!! hehe

#op this robbed me out of house & home & sanity #holy shit #spamano

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battle-worn men & midsummer reunions 🍇

antonio x lovino | full piece  twitter: @saltcove 

#testing out gifs! let me know what you guys think #my need for aesthetically pleasing things is a nightmare #spamano #antonio x lovino #antonio fernandez carriedo #lovino vargas #spain x south italy #aph south italy #hws south italy #hws spain #aph spain #hetalia #writing

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gift to myself of my own fic wip

#user doomspiral does it again #ruspru

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𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓭.

#this inspired me & ruined my life #hetalia

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pairing: antonio/lovino theme: battle-worn men & midsummer reunions

lovino’s breath is thin, bare feet beating into the villa stone. his body is a mess of long, youthful limbs and dionysian fury; he’s quicker than the maids, faster than the dogs. he’s back, he’s back, he’s back—the mantra hurtles him forward. 

you’re back. 

his eyes sting against the wind and adrenaline that seek to overwhelm him. it’s a pale, humid summer in granada, clouds pulling together and summer rain threatening spill. lovino’s nightshirt clings to his outer clavicle, where shoulders had begun to broaden, and the ribbon around his waist loosens the further he runs. 

turning a corner, he pushes out onto the veranda and flies past pillars of stone. the heat is sticky, thick with the smell of freshly cut grass and orange trees. the gardens are a splay of chirping birds and insects, but he’s deaf with focus. 

it’s been a century, a century and seven years. 

lovino’s hips stutter and his joints hesitate, and it’s all he can do to catch himself on a pillar. he hides his body behind it. 

eyes cut past stone, eager and terrified.

there he is. 

spain. antonio stands several meters away, a hand hung on the espada at his hip. he’s mythic, oxblood jerkin indulged with goldwork, profile stern and sun-burnt. a scar splits the cartilage of his nose, feeble pink against brown. he’s stronger, neck thicker and jaw locked, veins mapping the back of his palm. 

a manuscript of hardship, illustrated. 

he nods at his advisor, neat and calculated, brows level over his eyes. 

a vision of god. 

spit pools in lovino’s mouth; he swallows, hand flying to the cross around his neck. when antonio had taken him in, he’d been little older than a boy himself—ate berries by the fistful and laughed through stained teeth, sat lovino on his shoulders and taught him how to fold spanish on his tongue. 

he’s—no, this is a man. a conquistador, who’d razed and rioted, blood-hungry, gold-seeking. 

lovino’s skin burns and flushes. he wants antonio to notice him, but his cowardice keeps him from stepping forward. he doesn’t need to; as though heaven-guided, antonio’s gaze sweeps the gardens and settles on him. he dismisses the advisor. 

suspicion, distrust. there’s a violent look to him that makes lovino want to run. but he’s pinned in place by what feels like god himself. recognition comes after a moment, and a gloved hand summons lovino. 

lovino’s pulse is hot, quick. he finds himself in front of antonio before he can gather what to say to him; hey, bastard! maybe. you took too long! but he can’t—he’s doubting himself. he wonders if this antonio would let him be so crass, or so familiar. 

“romano,” there it is, deep and rumbling. a slow, sated smile accompanies it. “you’ve grown into a fine man.”

“damn straight,” lovino mumbles, bites his tongue. “i—that’s what happens. you’ve been gone forever.”

antonio lands a hand on his shoulder, heavy, and squeezes. “i have. you’re a welcome sight to come home to.” 

lovino’s gut cramps with heat. antonio is wonderful to look at, and lovino’s at the age where he can’t help but pay attention to the fingers feeding into his shoulder, skimming the wide neck of his shirt. a calloused thumb against his skin. 

“sure,” he says, begging himself to return to sense. “you look different.”

“do i?” antonio smiles. it’s empty. “i haven’t had time to look at myself recently. do i look terrible, querido?”

“yes,” lovino lies. he won’t let antonio see into him. but in a way, he isn’t lying entirely; antonio looks exhausted. his eyes are pressed with indigo, like spilled ink, and his face is tired. his smile is tired, too. “but you’ll be fine, stronzo, you always are.”

antonio looks at him, prying and curious. there’s a light behind his eyes. it’s dangerous. “you think so?”

lovino isn’t sure how to respond, so he doesn’t. he scoffs and looks away. antonio’s hand leaves his shoulder, slides the length of his arm and settles on his elbow. he guides them forward towards the entrance, possessive when he tucks lovino into his side. “will you run me a bath, roma?”

“don’t say i don’t do things for you,” lovino huffs, face warm and happy. he isn’t stupid—he half-knows this is a risk. that antonio has yet to fall from the high of war, has magma still cooling inside him. but lovino allows himself to be led by the elbow, anyway. runs the bath, sends away the help. 

sits on his knees by antonio’s tub and washes dried blood from his back. 

“i’ve missed you,” antonio drones in italian, head tipped forward onto his knees. lovino keeps his smile private. 

“good,” he hums, flattening a hand against antonio’s wingspan. he measures it between knobs of spine. “as you should’ve, you bastard.” i’ve missed you, too. 

#spamano #aph spamano #aph south italy #aph spain #hws south italy #hws spain #antonio fernandez carriedo #lovino vargas #hetalia #writing #spain x south italy

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spamano 

based on this

#spamano

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Gabriel Zaid, from "Circe" as featured in Gods and Mortals: Modern Poems on Classical Myths

#spamano #no one can convince me otherwise #not hetalia

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beilschmidts

#italy agrees #beilschmidts

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pairing: prussia/hungary | @doomspiral theme: politica & lust 

julia isn’t sure why they invited her; the summit is a sanitised version of war, an illusionary jerk-off circle for those with influence to flaunt their celebrity. she doesn’t qualify anymore—east germany has no designated spot at the table, ludwig made sure of that. he’s sat by her, hands pressed, mouth thinned as arthur goes through meeting points.

the hague is cold, saddled with sleet and mismatched cobble. julia is designed for fits of snow, torrential winter that renders life inhospitable. not this, this is child’s play. she spins a pen along her knuckles, chin tucked and disinterest weighing down her lids. 

she scans the room. alfred’s bitter pout—wanted to lead this, did you?—the marble of basch’s face. the swiss has an uncanny way of being unpresent and present. focused and unfocused. the summit drags its feet; arthur clearly missed being the world’s most insufferable three-piece. 

when they adjourn, julia shoots from her seat. 

she grabs a pint of beer off the drink stand without slowing down. with a heineken in hand and a pack waiting to be smoked in the other, she makes her way out onto the terrace. 

bouncing the camels close to her mouth, she snags one with her lips. 

a lighter clicks open next to her face.

“a lady shouldn’t light her own, don’t you think?” textured baritone, thick and scraping. julia’s eyes flick to gaz, cigarette hissing. he’s in a suit and tie, like the rest of them, blazer folded over his arm, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbow. 

julia takes her first drag, exhaling smoke into his face.

gaz’s smile doesn’t wane.

her own leer takes form. “a cock doesn’t make a man, gaz.”

“not unless you know how to use it,” gaz moves closer, brushes his nose into loose hair. “and you would know, yeah?”

“would i?” julia hums. she brings the beer to her mouth. it was piss-tasting; the dutch were too proud of their watered down alcohol. “you give yourself too much credit, bitch boy.”

“bitch boy? you’re in a mood today.” gaz chuckles, clipping closed the lighter before bringing his hand to her throat. he wraps his fingers around the highs and lows, speaks into her cheek. julia lets him. “i thought you’d be happy to sit at the big boy’s table.”

“i thought you’d be happy to join in,” julia counters. “you were a meek little thing back there. afraid the british bulldog might piss on your leg?”

“i have no interest in their politics, szerelmem,” he swelters, “do you?”

their politics, because gaz didn’t consider either of them western. as german as julia is, prussia was never just german. prussia was cocaine-kiss and honorary-balkan, was more in russia’s lap than france’s. her heart catches, breath loose with it. a declaration, possessive.

“no,” she grabs onto the wrist hanging off her throat. “i’m more interested in my politics.”

“yours,” his voice is confession and question, both. 

she lines her nose with his. 

“mine.”

#aph prussia #hws hungary #nyo prussia #pruhun #nyo pruhun #aph hungary #hetalia #aph hetalia #nyo hetalia #writing #mine #politics

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PolUkr for my humors. There was a lot more embroidery drawn but i messed up and perma-deleted it uwu I'm not redoing all that.

#CUTE #polukr #hetalia

[saltcove]

do you take requests?

hi there! yes, you're welcome to send in requests :)

#i'm fairly flexi with my tastes #make it interesting & you have a deal #salt replies

[saltcove]

pairing: prussia/hungary | @doomspiral theme: sinners in a monastery  

julia’s hair is caught in her mouth, ears blistering with cold. the winter is sweeter when it’s meaner, sweeter when it breaks into bone and splinters the throat; she’s used to it. she sits on the steps of a monastery in burgundy, her cross nipping into her collarbone, buried under waves and waves of wool. there’s no sound other than idle prayer and soft calamity; god born in the bushes. in the bird song. 

“you’ve been out here for a while.” 

she doesn’t turn to look towards the huntsman, but her lip pokes into her cheek. a sneer she aims forward. 

“tending to the spirits,” she replies. it’s sardonic. “isn’t it terrifying?”

he’s a tall thing, with a vulture’s wingspan and shapeless brown eyes. he comes into view wearing thicker clothes than her, the skin of some animal she doesn’t care enough to name. gaz, is what he was called. son of a butcher, brought them game and mulled wine once every few weeks when the snow cleared enough to make passage. 

“what, you?” he scoffs, and there’s a smile she hears behind it. “you’re terrifying that’s for sure.”

“not the nicest thing to say to a woman of god,” she looks up at him. his mouth is parted and wet, and there’s something obscene about the way he looks at her. something unapologetic. her eyes lid and her smile stretches. “aren’t you afraid i’ll tell him not to forgive you?”

“for what?”

“for the way you dream of me.”

he smiles back at her, like she’s right because she is. his face is red with the frost, a shadow constellates his jaw and the scars that haven’t faded since she’s known him. it’s been years now, since they climbed apple trees and bruised shins, since she helped him through the first heat of youth. 

“and what if i don’t want him to forgive me?” gaz siffs, runs a tongue over his crooked canines. he has a hand on his knife and she wonders how crisp it would feel pushed into her side. she wouldn’t mind it, either; wanted him to push her into a hallway and threaten her with it, so when they ask, she can absolve herself. 

not that she ever cared to. 

god is a fickle creature, a poor lover. 

gaz is flesh and bone, clay that warms against her skin. she appreciates it, adores it; he’s an adam in the winter, and eden never was described as cold. paradise, she thinks, in motion. 

“if you don’t want him to forgive you,” she crosses herself, grins the way knights did when they bedded their war-wives, the wives of other men. “then i urge you to seek god.”

he kneels in front of her, and a hand finds the skin of her ankle. his eyes leave hers in favor of her robe. her hidden cross. “i’ve known god.”

“have you?”

he hums, thumb brushing over a tendon. “he exists between your thighs.”

julia puts a hand over his head, grips the line where fringe meets scalp. it’s the back of the monastery, where no one comes unless they’re tending plants and no plants grow in this weather. no one will see them but god. “you refuse to make an honest woman out of me, gaz.”

“because you’re not an honest woman.”

“because you have a wife.”

“because you have your god,” he pushes a cheek onto her knee, teeth catching on her skirts. “and i have you, as you are.”

#APH Prussia #hws prussia #nyo prussia #PruHun #nyo pruhun #aph hungary #hws hungary #hetalia #aph hetalia #nyo hetalia #writing #mine #blasphemy #for eddy explicitly