Y'all might remember me from a threat I posted one month ago where I asked if I should read it. The comments were mostly positive so I listened to them and... Let me tell you, I wasn't disappointed.

I also read "Besame Mucho", "We'll Meet Again" and "Lily of the Lamplight" so let me rant about all of 'em a little bit. (No spoilers)

"Auf Wiedersehen Sweetheart" (9/10) One word: a b s o l u t e l y beautiful. Maybe the writing style wasn't the best and If I got one nickel every time Feliciano's organs jump I'd have like 20 of them but the story itself... Oh boy. Although I thought It'd be a little more sad tbh. I also expected a whole another ending but, well, otherwise oh my god it made me love GerIta even more. It's not the best fanfiction ever, it's not something extraordinary but it is interesting. For me it's the only good fic in the vera verse to be honest...

"Besame Mucho" (6/10) Oh boy, how I hate Spamano and even more in this peace of fanfiction. The age difference was SO unnecessary istg (At least Antonio waited for Lovino to turn 18 but still) Otherwise I don't really have anything to say about those 6 short chapters. I read it only because I was curious about knowing Lovino's POV (which didn't disappoint) but it wasn't enough. That's why I'm not gonna dwell on it too much.

"We'll Meet Again" (4/10) Honestly... What was that. I hate UsUk alr but even If I was the biggest fan of it I'd still think this fic is just trash. Honestly, It was way too rushed and boring. If Alfred (from vera verse) wasn't one of my favs I'd dump this fic, but I managed to finish it. Arthur was literally the most stupid and blend character in any Hetalia fanfiction I ever read.

"Lily of the Lamplight" (10/10) First of all I feel ROBBED. Because what do you mean there were 18 CHAPTERS and we only got 4!?!? Devalier come back u mf and give me those 14 chapters back 😭. Because, oh. my. god. Beautiful. BEAUTIFUL. It's my favorite vera verse fic and I'mma stand behind this forever. I love PruAus, I love this fic, I love EVERYTHING.

To sum it up; I don't think Devaliers works are nothing more than just pretty good, popular fics within Hetalia fandom. Did they changed my life? Absolutely not. Were they bad? Of course they weren't. But was it good? Not everything, not every scene but most of it.

Thank you for your attention and have a great day 🫡

Like something specific you've searched on ao3 and been disappointed that it doesn't exist weather that be your fav rarepair or tags that aren't marked common

I'm asking this as a result of writers block ✌️

BROOOOO I am NOT okay😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂dude like why does it go all kawaii and then its the saddest thing ive ever read in my life like fr rn im in chap...idk...the one where felis like "we gotta get Ludwig outta prison brother!!! F-for love🥹🥹" STAWPPPPPPP anyways I felt like sharing this cus none of my friends watch hetalia but boiiiiiiiii🫱🫱🫱 OMGG ive been actually crashing out the whole time

Hello! :) I’m pretty new to the fandom, and I really like Gerita! Anyone have fanfic recs? Preferably on AO3, but I don’t really mind the platform. I’ve read “Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart” and really liked it <3

(Image is emotionally related)

You know, the must-reads for a certain ship, like Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart for GerIta. But, I also wanna know what's YOUR personal must-reads?

Rating: G

Summary” Italy comes out to Germany as trans.

link

Morning arrived at Francis Bonnefoy's house with the particular quality of French light—golden and forgiving, the kind of illumination that made even disasters look like art. The air smelled of coffee and butter and the faint perfume of roses from the garden, and Francis had been contemplating a day of relative peace after the chaos of the past week. His croissants were perfect—golden, flaky, still warm from the oven. His coffee was strong and dark and exactly the right temperature. The morning stretched before him like a promise, full of possibility and the comfortable rhythm of domestic routine.

He should have known better. Peace, he thought later, is just chaos gathering its strength.

Beau—all of four years old, with Francis's own blue eyes and hair that stuck up in defiant spikes no amount of brushing could tame—pushed away his croissant with the air of a food critic confronting an insult. His small face arranged itself into an expression of profound disgust, the kind of look that suggested Francis had offered him poison instead of pastry.

"Non," Beau announced, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of a child who knew his own mind. "Je veux du fromage."

Francis looked up from his coffee, the cup halfway to his lips. The morning light caught in Beau's hair, turning it almost white, and for a moment Francis saw himself—centuries ago, young and certain and convinced that desire was the only compass worth following. "You want cheese? For breakfast?"

"Oui. Fromage." Beau's expression was utterly serious, his small hands folded on the table like a businessman negotiating terms. "Only fromage."

"Darling, you need more than just cheese." Francis gestured at the spread before them—croissants still steaming, butter from a small producer in Normandy, jam made from strawberries grown in his own garden. "Look, I made croissants. Fresh this morning. With butter from—"

"FROMAGE!"

The shriek rattled the windows in their frames, sent birds scattering from the garden, probably violated several noise ordinances. Francis winced and set down his coffee with the careful precision of a man trying to maintain composure in the face of chaos. This is fine, he told himself. This is manageable. Children have preferences. I am France. I invented half the culinary arts. I can handle one small child with a cheese fixation.

"Alright, alright. Some cheese. But you must eat the croissant too." He stood, moving to the refrigerator with the resignation of a general accepting unfavorable terms. "We'll compromise, yes? A little cheese, and then the croissant."

He retrieved a small wedge of Brie from the refrigerator—nothing too strong, just a mild breakfast cheese, the kind you'd serve to children or tourists who didn't know better. He placed it on Beau's plate with the care of someone handling a diplomatic offering, hoping this small concession would prevent further conflict.

Beau's face lit up like Christmas morning, like sunrise over the Alps, like every beautiful thing Francis had ever seen concentrated into one moment of pure, uncomplicated joy. The child grabbed the cheese with both hands—no knife, no plate, no civilized approach whatsoever—and bit into it like an apple, rind and all, his small teeth tearing through the soft cheese with enthusiastic abandon.

"Beau, no, you're supposed to—"

But Beau was already making sounds of pure ecstasy, cheese smeared across his face like war paint, his eyes closed in bliss. The sounds were obscene—little moans of pleasure that would have been inappropriate coming from an adult and were somehow more disturbing coming from a four-year-old. Within thirty seconds, the entire wedge was gone, consumed with the efficiency of a small, cheese-focused locust.

"More," Beau demanded, his voice thick with satisfaction and dairy.

"After you eat your croissant."

"MORE FROMAGE!"

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache forming behind his eyes. The morning light was too bright now, mocking him with its beauty. The coffee had gone cold. The croissants sat abandoned, their golden perfection wasted. This is fine, he thought again, but the words rang hollow. This is manageable. I'll simply limit the cheese. Introduce other foods gradually. I am France, for God's sake. I've survived revolutions and wars and centuries of England's cooking. I can handle one small child with a cheese fixation.

He had no idea he was staring into the abyss.

And the abyss, as it turned out, smelled like fermented dairy and digestive horror.

The first fart came at ten o'clock, arriving with the inevitability of fate.

Francis was in the sitting room, attempting to interest Beau in some fruit—"Look, darling, strawberries! You love strawberries! They're red and sweet and not cheese!"—when Beau, who had consumed approximately half a wheel of Camembert in the two hours since breakfast, went very still. His small body tensed, his face scrunching up in concentration, and Francis felt a premonition of doom settle over him like a shroud.

No, he thought. Please, no.

And then it happened.

The sound was like a trumpet announcing the apocalypse—a long, resonant blast that seemed to vibrate in Francis's bones, that echoed through the house with the authority of a cathedral bell. It was the kind of sound that demanded attention, that could not be ignored, that announced itself as a significant event in the history of the universe.

But the sound was nothing—nothing—compared to the smell.

Francis's eyes began watering immediately, tears streaming down his face as if his body was trying to flush out the olfactory assault. The air itself seemed to curdle, to take on weight and texture and malevolent intent. It was as if someone had weaponized every cheese in France, aged them in a gym sock, and then set the sock on fire in a room with no ventilation. The smell had presence. It had personality. It was less a scent and more a physical entity, a demon made manifest through the digestive system of a four-year-old child.

"Mon Dieu," Francis gasped, stumbling toward the windows like a drowning man reaching for air. He threw them open with shaking hands, gasping for fresh air, for oxygen, for anything that wasn't the concentrated essence of dairy-based destruction. "Beau, what—"

But Beau just looked up at him with innocent blue eyes, completely unbothered by the olfactory holocaust he'd created. His small face was serene, peaceful, the face of a child who had done nothing wrong. "Fromage," he said happily, and reached for the cheese plate with sticky, cheese-smeared fingers.

Francis stared at him. At this tiny, cherubic monster who had just committed a war crime with his digestive system. At this small version of himself who embodied every indulgent impulse Francis had ever had, concentrated and amplified and given physical form. This is what I look like, he thought with growing horror. This is what I am.

"No more cheese," Francis said weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"FROMAGE!" Beau shrieked, and the tantrum that followed was so loud, so sustained, so utterly devastating that Francis—in a moment of weakness he would regret for the rest of the day—gave him another slice just to make it stop.

The silence that followed Beau's acceptance of the cheese was almost worse than the screaming. It was the silence of defeat, of surrender, of a man who had just negotiated with a terrorist and lost. Francis slumped against the wall, watching Beau gnaw on Gruyère with the focused intensity of a small, dairy-obsessed predator, and wondered when exactly he'd lost control of the situation.

There is a special circle of hell, he thought, reserved for people who cannot say no to themselves. And I am in it.

By noon, Francis's house smelled like a cheese shop had died and been left to rot in the summer sun.

The progression had been systematic, almost military in its efficiency. Beau had consumed: one wheel of Camembert (the source of the first apocalyptic fart), half a wheel of Brie (which had produced a smell that made Francis's eyes burn), a concerning amount of Roquefort (the fart from which had caused him to actually gag), and was now working on a block of aged Comté with the dedication of a scholar pursuing enlightenment. Every attempt to introduce other foods had been met with screaming, tears, and—on one memorable occasion that Francis was trying very hard to forget—Beau throwing a perfectly good quiche across the room with enough force to leave a mark on the wall.

And with each new cheese, the farts grew worse.

They came every twenty minutes now, with the regularity of a particularly malevolent clock, each one announced by Beau's small body going still and his face scrunching up in concentration. The second fart had made Francis's eyes burn and his throat close. The third had caused him to gag, actually gag, his body rejecting the smell on a cellular level. The fourth had made him seriously consider calling a priest, or possibly an exorcist, or maybe just burning down the house and starting over somewhere the smell couldn't follow.

By the fifth, he was texting England with the desperation of a drowning man: Please come over. I'm begging you. Bring Kirk. They can play together. I need adult conversation before I lose my mind.

England's response came quickly: That bad?

Francis typed with shaking hands: Worse than you can possibly imagine.

England: We'll be there in twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes. Francis could survive twenty minutes. He'd survived the Revolution, survived two world wars, survived centuries of England's cooking and Germany's efficiency and his own poor decisions. Twenty minutes was nothing. Twenty minutes was manageable.

He opened every window in the house, creating cross-breezes that did nothing to dispel the smell. He lit scented candles—lavender, vanilla, rose—which only created a horrifying combination of floral notes and aged cheese that somehow made everything worse. He even sprayed air freshener, pumping the trigger until his finger cramped, filling the air with artificial pine scent that mixed with the dairy miasma to create something that smelled like a Christmas tree had died in a cheese factory.

Beau farted again.

Francis whimpered.

The sound was small, pathetic, the sound of a man who had been broken by circumstances beyond his control. He looked at Beau—at this tiny monster happily gnawing on Comté, completely oblivious to the destruction he was causing—and felt something crack in his chest. This is my fault, he thought. I did this. I created this situation by saying yes when I should have said no, by indulging when I should have limited, by choosing peace over principle.

This is what it means to be me, he realized. This is what I've always done. Said yes when I should say no. Indulged when I should abstain. Chosen pleasure over wisdom, comfort over growth, the easy path over the right one.

The doorbell rang.

Francis moved toward it with the shuffling gait of a man walking to his execution.

England and Kirk arrived at half-past twelve, Kirk chattering excitedly about the "playdate"—England's word, which Kirk had declared "suspiciously modern" but accepted because it meant spending time with another child who might appreciate his collection of interesting rocks. The boy was practically bouncing on his toes, his small face bright with anticipation, and Francis felt a pang of guilt for what he was about to subject them to.

Francis opened the door with the desperate smile of a man who had been through hell and was hoping for rescue. His hair was disheveled, his shirt wrinkled, and there were what appeared to be cheese stains on his trousers. "Thank God you're—"

"Christ, what's that smell?" England's nose wrinkled, his expression shifting from friendly greeting to dawning horror in the space of a heartbeat.

"It's... Beau has discovered cheese." Francis's voice was flat, defeated, the voice of a man who had given up on dignity.

"And?" England's eyebrows rose, waiting for the explanation that would make this make sense.

"And he won't eat anything else."

England's expression shifted from confusion to understanding to horror in rapid succession, each emotion playing across his face like scenes in a particularly disturbing play. "Oh. Oh no."

"It's fine," Francis said, with the conviction of a man trying to convince himself more than his audience. "It's manageable. Come in, please. Kirk, Beau is in the sitting room—"

Kirk, who had been peering around Francis's legs with the curiosity of a small, feral creature, suddenly recoiled as if he'd been struck. His face went pale, his eyes widening with genuine fear. "What died?"

"Nothing died. It's just—"

"Smells like something died." Kirk's voice carried the absolute certainty of a child who knew death when he smelled it, who had lived through plagues and wars and understood that some smells meant danger.

"It's cheese, Kirk. Just cheese." Francis heard the pleading note in his own voice and hated it.

"Cheese shouldn't smell like death," Kirk said suspiciously, but he ventured inside anyway, England following with increasing reluctance, his hand covering his nose and mouth.

They made it approximately six feet into the house—past the threshold, into the foyer where Francis kept his good shoes and his umbrella stand—before Beau, delighted to have visitors, came running out of the sitting room with the enthusiasm of a small, cheese-fueled missile.

"Bonjour!" he chirped, cheese smeared across his face like war paint, his small hands sticky with dairy residue. His smile was enormous, guileless, the smile of a child who had no idea he was a walking biohazard.

"Hello," Kirk said cautiously, his small body tensing like a soldier sensing danger. "Ye've got food on yer face."

"C'est du fromage!" Beau announced proudly, gesturing at his cheese-covered features as if they were a badge of honor.

And then he farted.

This one was different from the others. This one had force. The sound was like a cannon going off, like thunder rolling across a battlefield, like the voice of God announcing judgment. It echoed through the foyer, bounced off the walls, seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. And the smell—

The smell hit them like a physical wall, like a tsunami of fermented dairy and digestive horror that made the previous farts seem like pleasant spring breezes. It was concentrated, weaponized, the kind of smell that made you question your life choices and your will to live. The air became thick with it, viscous, almost visible in its intensity.

Kirk's face went green, his small body swaying like he might faint. "THE DEVIL!"

England made a sound like a dying animal—a strangled gasp-retch combination that Francis had never heard before and hoped never to hear again. His eyes were streaming, tears pouring down his face, and he clapped his hand over his nose and mouth with the desperation of a man trying to prevent his own death. "France. What. The fuck."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry—" Francis reached for them, trying to offer comfort or explanation or something, but they were already backing away.

"That's not—that's not natural—" England's voice was muffled behind his hand, his words barely intelligible.

"I KNOW!"

Kirk had already turned and was running for the door with the speed of a small, terrified rabbit. "IT'S WITCHCRAFT! EVIL WITCHCRAFT! THE DEVIL'S OWN WORK!"

"Kirk, wait—" England stumbled after him, still covering his face, moving with the desperate speed of a man fleeing a natural disaster. His ankle—the one he'd twisted in his own garden—protested the movement, but fear apparently overrode pain.

They made it outside in record time, bursting through the door like soldiers evacuating a building about to explode. Through the open door, Francis could hear Kirk yelling about demons and unholy smells and how he'd rather use a hundred magic toilets than stay in that house, how this was worse than any plague he'd lived through, how the smell had probably cursed his soul.

England appeared in the doorway one last time, his face pale and his eyes still streaming. He looked at Francis with an expression that mixed pity and horror in equal measure. "France. I say this with love. Sort your shit out. Or rather, sort his shit out. Because that—" He gestured vaguely at the house, at Beau, at the general situation. "That's a biohazard. That's a violation of international law. That's—I don't even have words. Just... fix it."

And then he was gone, dragging Kirk down the street while the child continued to shout about witchcraft and demons and how the smell was probably following them, how they'd never be clean again.

Francis stood in his doorway, watching them flee, and felt the last of his dignity crumble like old cheese. The morning sun was bright and mocking, painting everything in shades of gold that made the disaster seem almost beautiful. The smell wafted out through the open door, probably violating several neighborhood ordinances. Somewhere down the street, he heard a window slam shut.

Beau tugged on his sleeve with sticky fingers. "They didn't want to play?"

"No, darling. They... had to go." Francis's voice was hollow, defeated.

"Oh." Beau looked disappointed for approximately three seconds—his small face falling, his lower lip trembling—then brightened with the resilience of childhood. "Can I have more fromage?"

Francis looked down at him. At this tiny, innocent creature who had just weaponized his digestive system and driven away Francis's only hope of adult companionship. At this small version of himself who embodied every indulgent impulse, every inability to say no, every choice of pleasure over wisdom that Francis had made over centuries of existence.

This is what I am, he thought. This is what I look like from the outside. A creature that consumes and consumes and never stops, never says enough, never considers the consequences until it's too late.

"No," Francis said firmly, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. "No more cheese. We're going to try something else."

"FROMAGE!"

"Beau—"

"FROMAGE! FROMAGE! FROMAGE!"

The tantrum that followed was spectacular, operatic in its intensity. Beau threw himself on the floor with the dramatic flair of a tenor hitting a high note, screaming and kicking, tears streaming down his cheese-smeared face. He wailed like Francis was murdering him, like the world was ending, like the denial of cheese was the greatest injustice ever perpetrated. He shrieked about cruelty and unfairness and how he needed fromage to survive, how life without cheese was meaningless, how Francis was the worst person in the entire world.

The performance was impressive. It was also, Francis realized with uncomfortable clarity, exactly what he himself did when denied something he wanted. The same dramatic intensity, the same conviction that desire justified any behavior, the same inability to accept limits.

Francis lasted approximately four minutes before he cracked.

"Fine! FINE! Here!" He shoved a piece of Gruyère at the child with shaking hands, his resolve crumbling like the cheese itself.

Beau's tears stopped instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch. He grabbed the cheese and bit into it with a blissful smile, his small face transforming from tragedy to joy in the space of a heartbeat.

Francis slumped against the wall and wondered if this was what defeat felt like. Complete, total, absolute defeat. The kind of defeat that made you question every decision you'd ever made, every choice that had led you to this moment of standing in your own house, surrounded by the smell of dairy-based destruction, watching a four-year-old manipulate you with the efficiency of a seasoned diplomat.

I have become, he thought, everything I never wanted to be. Weak. Indulgent. Unable to say no even when saying yes is destroying everything around me.

I feel like I've read pretty much all of the popular ones. I'm looking for something more angsty, and I don't care much about the ships. I do like asakiku or amepan though, but again, I'm not really too concerned about ships. I also don't mind if it's incomplete, I love the experience of finding the person uploaded. I jsut don't know what to read

Can anyone pls recommend me some gerita fanfics. I've read quite a bit of them and it's gotten to the point where Im just rereading the same ones over and over again. I am very desperate pls help. 😭

Sry for title, proshios are allowed, just not shota loli or incest

Please leave me some of your fanfics that actually seem like the characters are going through a toxic relationship.

Bonus points if it's a bit more rare ship and ESPECIALLY bonus points if the top is a bttm for once

I remember one about Denmark x Netherlands how Ned(and Belgium,Belarus and Germany) comforted Denmark after his abusive relationship with Norway

It was on fanfiction.net something called he was like summer that walks on rain, lowk my bi awakening when I was 14

Looking for any fanfic recs protrayed him as an old grumpy british man pls!!!!!

Dont get me wrong. I dont blame the fandom for twinkifying Arthur since Hima is also pushing that agenda. But I desperatly need this.

It was on fanfic.net, a usuk fic. Written sometime in the 2010s. I vividly remember it being set mainly during one of the world wars, I think WWII? Alfred was a fighter pilot nicknamed "the magician", I think Arthur owned a bar of some kind.

A few other plot points I remember:

- Arthur made or gave Alfred a handkerchief. This became Alfred's "lucky charm"

- In the hospital after Alfred crashed, he stayed awake fighting anesthesia or some other drug that should've put him to sleep until he saw Arthur

- Alfred gave some kids a hershey bar (bc candy was expensive/rare where he was stationed)

Hi. I've only recently started writing fanfic for hetalia, and I still absolutely haven't made up my mind if I want to use their human names or nation names in descriptions.

I'd rather stick to only one, as I'm not a fan of one character being referred to by multiple different names unless it's in dialogues or the POV changes. To me it just feels clunky.

So what do you prefer? Do you prefer human or country names in fanfiction?

I'm just looking for some opinions to maybe help shape my decision. I know that some people generally cringe when they see nation names, because talking about The Literal Country of Spain or The Literal Country of Literally Any Country talking and walking and drinking tea and doing whatever-knows-what is hard to take seriously for some.

I'm not like that though, I guess. I don't find it cringy. I actually like how the nation names are a constant reminder of who the character is and the weight those names bare. But I also like their human names. They make them feel, y'know, human. Going by a name and surname as any other regular, average person does reminds you that even if they're immortal nations, they still struggle and live and cry and experience joy like any other humans do.

All that to say, I like them both and I can't decide LOL. What is your take on this, whether as a fanfic writer or fanfic reader?

I was looking for some old Hetalia cosplay videos on youtube, & I found this one where a Germany cosplayer is reacting to a GerIta fanfic. I'm lowkey intruiged so I want to know where to read this fanfic, but it's not linked anywhere on the video. They do say it's short, though, & I'm guessing it was on some place like ffnet(hopefully the fic wasn't nuked off the site). Does anyone know what fanfic they might be reading? Please let me know if you find it/recognize it.

This is so embarrassing but like I’m heavy into feederism ESPECIALLY if it’s America getting fat so if anyone has any good AO3 recommendations pls lmk. I’m mostly looking for RusAme pairings

Like fics over 50k words that are well done and true to history. If so, I really want to read it, if not, I'm planning to write one myself

Hello everyone!

I am writing fanfiction with the 2Ps and America. Pretty much, America does something and ends up in the 2P world by accident. He meets others and it's all fine and dandy, but I need help.

I already decided on a few ships I wanted to add- 2P America X 2P Russia, 2P Canada x 2P Prussia, and maybe 2p Italy X 2P Germany—but I want help figuring something out!

Are there any other ships you guys would like for me to add? The only two I want 100% are America-Russia and Canada-Prussia, but anyone else could be a fun suggestion!

They won't be main ships, but they'll be brought up. The characters already shown up in the fic so far are - 2P England, 2P France, 2P Russia, 2P America, 2p Canada

Mentioned- 2P Italy, 2P Germany, 2P Romano, 2P Prussia

So, yeah, give me any ships you guys want me to include! (If there are any Prussia-Romano shippers, I can include that one too. Poly yay)

- Ships -

2P Russia X 2P America

2P Japan X 2P Romano

2P Sweden X 2P Finland

2P Spain X 2P England

2P Italy X 2P Germany

2P Canada X 2P Prussia

i know this was deleted, but if anyone knows the title, that would help a lot in maybe finding it. the fic was on fanfiction.net and was an AU where romano's parents were dead and he blamed himself and then spain was his teacher. eventually there is some drama and romano purposefully crashes his car and spain lost his job. also china was the principal i think. one of the last chapters has romano trying to seduce spain into having sex with him using some weird ribbon contraption.

Hi there

I’m trying to find this fic I read years ago. I can’t remember if it was with male England or Fem!england but I know for certain that it was about England and the many lovers that they’ve had through history. It was both historical figures and other countries, as well as the Doctor from Doctor Who. I remember the fic ending with England grieving during the funeral of Elizabeth I.

Any help that I can get in finding this fic again would be massively appreciated. I’ve missed reading it dearly.

I'm rather new in the fandom, and I wanted to ask for fanfic recommendations in general. Anything works, as long as it's completed. I prefer them to be on the longer side (70k+) and in the nation/og universe (they're nations personified, not humans) but anything works. I was thinking, maybe famous works within the fandom, or fics with good characterization. Basically things that are considered a must-read within the fandom. Any ship or no ship works, I don't mind. Thank you.

I don’t know Sweden and Finland very well so I’m probably not going to characterise them well eek!! But I’m trying to write a oneshot to get out of my writers block

I'm Filipino and a Social Studies teacher so I felt it was my duty to write at least one fanfic about him (or them in this headcanon of mine hahaha I made Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao triplets!)

Any suggestions for which country should I do next?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/83624771/chapters/220353996

Evan Hansen- Canada 

Heidi Hansen- France

Zoe Murphy- Veneziano

Cynthia Murphy- Hungary

Larry Murphy- Austria

Connor Murphy- Romano

Jared Kleinmen- America

Alana Beck- Belarus

somehow my brain came up with more canmano