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#hws america
sinunamor · a day ago
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olympian meetings never go anywhere without these two being fuckin gROSS af
Arthur - Ares - war, exploitation, honor, conduct
Francis - Aphrodite - beauty, passion, philosophy, love
And with them begot 2 trash childrens
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2 cupids of strong idealism - fave pastime: starting twitter arguments
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justahetaliafan · 17 hours ago
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Because America’s name is Alfred Jones I am thoroughly convinced that he had the nickname AJ at some point of his life
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Seychelles: In your opinion, what is the height of stupidity?
Canada: Hm, good question.
Canada, turning to America: How tall are you?
America:
America: We are the same height.
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bookworm555 · 9 hours ago
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I saw the meme that @kyuhu​ posted, and it looked so fun, so I did it, too!
...It felt weird not giving Raivis a red sweater XD. 
What even is lighting; hopefully the Aladdin scene looks like it’s at night, haha.
I’ve been in this fandom for over a decade; I cannot believe this is the first time I’ve drawn Basch, especially since he’s one of my faves X’D.
I want Elizabeta’s pajamas; they look so comfy!
For the Halloween one, they are dressed as members of the Ouran High School Host Club (it was Feliks’ idea XDD).
RIP Feliks, I cannot draw him; he looks so weird compared to the others X’D (Actually, the whole last panel looks sort of weird, minus Liet, but my hand was cramping so badly by the time I got to that one X’D)
...I also forgot that Liet’s hair doesn’t necessarily show his ears, so under the cut is the Ouran panel with his hair drawn properly X’D
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betty-bourgeoisie · a day ago
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I could not belive the absolutely visceral reaction I had to hearing Americas stupid (affectionate) dub voice again. You really are just stuck with the neural pathways you developed as a 12 year old, huh?
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captkirkland · 9 hours ago
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happy halloweeeeeen
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myapathyhaspeaked · 23 hours ago
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england: america, you really should watch how much candy you eat.
america: why, what are you gonna do old man, impose another sugar tax? oh wait, you can’t, i’m independent and you can’t tell me what to do, ha!
america: *chugs several pixie sticks and starts choking on the sugar*
england: ah. you really showed me, lad. i feel so “rekt”.
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modernday-jay · a day ago
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“i’m just doing me! if your boy love me, let him love me, ya feel me?”
vb college au where alfred’s a frat boy who wears baseball caps backwards and uses his trust fund money to impress hot guys
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hwsroyaltyweek · a day ago
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Interest Survey
Hello all! My name is Silver and I’ve created this survey to see if anyone would be up for participating in a royalty themed week for Hetalia! If so, I would appreciate it if you filled out the survey above so I can judge whether or not there would be enough interest. Just a disclaimer that, while I know cardverse/royalty AUs are popular with USUK, the event itself will not necessarily be geared towards that ship. If the week goes forwards any ship (or lack thereof) will be welcome. The survey will close on October 31st, 2021. Thanks so much! ~Silver
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crumpled--notes · 2 days ago
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1: Remember
Prompt List Based on ironicorange’s stalker AU, inspired particularly by this art piece (tw for blood in linked image)
Characters: Russia, America Warnings: Kidnapping, drugging mention, death mention, mild violence Words: 1492 Also posted on AO3
***
The dry, bitter taste was the first thing Russia noticed. He tried moving his lips, his tongue. Everything was too heavy; even his eyelids would not cooperate.
He was so tired.
Had he died again?
Russia wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he woke up next. He blinked slowly, the careful movement the only hint that his eyes were opening and closing. Wherever he was, it was dark. The bitter taste was like a film over his tongue, and his mouth felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton. The cottony feeling continued through his brain, but as Russia closed his eyes again and slowed his breathing, the fog began to lift.
What was the last thing he remembered?
Teeth chattering, Russia’s brow wrinkled as he realized he was cold. More precisely, his neck was cold. The thick scar tissue that wound around him like a collar was especially sensitive when temperatures dropped, but Russia was getting distracted.
What was the last thing he remembered?
Once he became aware of the cold, Russia became aware of rope biting into his wrists and the pull of his shoulders, like they were in danger of being pulled out of their sockets. He became aware of the bloated tingling in his hands, the rope having cut off circulation for… how long?
What was the last thing he remembered?
He remembered warmth, noise… some annoying song with nonsensical lyrics set to an overly-peppy tune.
An American café.
He’d been getting coffee after a meeting, hosted in New York City. Russia hadn’t wanted to go back to his hotel right away. America staring at him had left him unnerved. Russia had hoped to read—forget about work and other Nations—for an hour or so before finally dragging himself back to his hotel, jet lag still pulling at his bones, leaving his limbs heavy.
He remembered the subject of his unease happening to end up at the same café.
Or maybe it was planned. Russia was sure now that it had been.
He remembered feeling overheated, taking off his overcoat and scarf. He remembered the jet lag feeling worse and spilling his coffee.
He remembered America helping him into the back of his car.
After that, darkness, the bitter taste, rope biting into Russia’s porcelain skin, painting lines of red over it.
Alfred
. Russia tried to say his name, but his lips still didn’t want to move. He could barely push the air needed up through his throat.
He’d been mute for several months upon waking up after that time. After he died.
Whatever
he
had been like, Russia didn’t know, couldn’t know—or so he claimed, wanted and needed to be completely true.
Was that what this was for? Whatever this was?
Russia, being a Nation, knew about
then
, just as many of his people still remembered, still wore scars from. However, it was in an abstract way. Deeper than the knowledge a human gained through reading about it in books or hearing it from scholars but still not as fully-realized as the first-hand knowledge of going through the thick of it. Of having the thorns of that era digging into your skin and drawing blood while your eyes trained on the faraway sunlight teasingly filtering through the suffocating vines and clinging barbs.
Russia hated this disconnect as much as he was thankful for it. A Nation shouldn’t be this separated from their own history, the lives of so many of their people—whether for better or for worse.
Before Russia could allow himself to drown in these thoughts further, blinding light sliced through him. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears gathering along his long, pale lashes as he clenched his jaw.
“...ry, darlin’.”
Russia could barely make out the voice, the sudden light awakening a deep, harsh pounding in his head that left him feeling off-kilter and ill. Bile inched up his throat, and he didn’t notice the cold spots on his tongue and sliding down his throat until he shivered again. He didn’t stop accepting the ice chips, though, the wetness returning to his mouth feeling too much of a relief to refuse.
When the cup was taken away, Russia drew in deep breaths through his mouth, only vaguely aware of a presence leering down at him.
“... ay, darlin’?”
This time, Russia recognized the voice, and his body reacted before his thoughts could line up enough to form a plan.
Pain shattered across his skull from the crown of his head from the force of impact; Russia rolled back and away, realizing too late he’d rolled right over the edge of a bed and letting out a line of curses even before he hit the ground. More pain shot up from his jaw, carpet rubbing his chin and knees raw, and the way he landed, his wrists still bound tightly behind him yanked a shoulder out of socket. It was only after the pain ebbed to a pulse that Russia was able to yell out, but when he opened his eyes and saw blood running down America’s face from his nose, he felt a spark of pride warm the inside of his chest.
The pride shriveled to a cold cube of ice as America sneered and lifted Russia with only one arm to throw him back onto the large bed, the mattress groaning under Russia’s weight.
He glanced around the room, hoping to get some information, anything that may help him.
This kind of treatment towards other Nations outside of wartime was unprecedented. Even someone as cocky and self-absorbed as America wouldn’t dare—or so Russia had thought.
The walls were dark blue, almost black. There were blackout curtains covering the windows, and the bookcases and floating shelves were filled with more nicknacks than books. The figurines of bears and salmon, plus the cold and blackout curtains think they were in the northwest. Alaska? Why? And how? Russia couldn’t have been unconscious on a trip from New York to Alaska, could he?
He thought back to the cottony feeling in his mouth and the dizziness still plaguing him. How long had America been drugging him? Did his boss realize he was missing? The other Nations?
Pulling a handkerchief out of the pocket of his usual bomber jacket, America said, “Guess I can’t blame your reaction, can I?”
His voice was low, robotic. He wiped at the blood, his nose already healed.
“But… desperate times and all that.” America pocketed the handkerchief, but red still stained his tan skin.
His eyes, the shade of a summer sky, looked so empty that staring into them made Russia shiver despite himself. He’d known there was something dark inside the younger Nation. Less and less, he’d been hiding his glances, his leers, his searching gaze.
“Do you remember…?”
He’d always trail off, expression falling when Russia would only crinkle his brow, waiting for him to continue, to ask what exactly it was he wanted Russia to remember.
It was something from
back then
, he knew. Something
he
knew—the him that wasn’t Russia, not this Russia.
“Remember what?” Russia would finally ask.
“Never mind,”
America would whisper, eyes downcast and looking so crestfallen that Russia almost reached out for him.
He’d always stopped himself, understanding that while relations were better, things were awkward, especially when America got like that—wistful and hopeful that Russia would magically remember something that belonged to someone else’s memories.
“I need you to remember.”
Russia shivered. He didn’t remember America saying that, but the voice ringing in his head was the younger man’s voice. The tone wasn’t like his usual one, though. It wasn’t even that wistful and hopeful one.
It was low and desperate.
It was what he’d said in the café, as he put Russia into the back of his car, right before he slammed the door shut.
Ti degheneraat
,” Russia growled, and America’s expression darkened.
“So you still don’t remember.”
America’s voice was a monotone, and Russia wished he could look into his eyes and see madness, see that America was completely unhinged.
Instead, his usually bright eyes were calculating. He was cold, fully aware of what he was doing, and finally, Russia started to feel a thin thread of fear wind down his spine, making him shiver.
“I’d hoped the drug would work,” America continued, either unaware or uncaring about Russia’s discomfort and unease.
Russia’s shoulder, still dislocated, was starting to darken with bruises, but America ignored it, staring into Russia’s violet eyes.
“They were supposed to make you dream,” he explained. “I’d started working on them during the Cold War.”
He bent down and ran his fingertips, covered by leather gloves, over Russia’s injured shoulder.
“I guess we’ll have to try something else. I’m not letting you go until you remember me.” He took hold of Ivan’s bicep and his uninjured shoulder. He shoved his shoulder back into its socket, a loud stream of curses ripped from Russia’s sore throat. “Remember
us
.”
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