#hetalia headcanons

[forsoobado137]

Will France tuck me in at night?

Yes he will 🥹 He'll give you a glass of warm milk and a big fat smooch. His kindness knows no bounds.

[forsoobado137]

Is France thicker than a stack of pancakes?

I double checked it's perky but not too fat. His tiny waist emphasizes it more. It's classified as a walking WMD, and a global security threat by his own government.

[ludwigbeilschmidttt]

just some random headcanons okay?

• turkiye only lets japan, iceland, egypt and (very occasionally) greece see him without his mask (france will sometimes try to take it off of him, to which he either fails or succeeds and faces the consequences)

• greece falls asleep during meetings (narcoleptic king) and germany’s yelling is the only thing that wakes him up

• (this one came from oomf) egypt and cyprus love cats just as much as greece does. they have a bunch that are all unnamed because they suck at naminf things

• ^ turkiye also really likes cats but prefers dogs just like germany. he likes golden retrievers the most and this is something him and greece clash over

[neapolitanadonna]

I’ve got an ask if you don’t mind! Have you seen that one episode where France runs into a girl and she looks just like Joan of Arc? And he starts to ponder reincarnation and stuff like that so he decides to show her around France just so he can be close to her again one last time. Can you do something like that but with America? Such sweet melancholy~. It’s one of my fave episodes. Thank you for your time! ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

What a fun idea! Since America’s history as the United States is much shorter than France’s, I don’t think his story would carry quite the same ancient weight as France encountering the face of a patron saint he last saw five hundred years ago. Still, America’s comparatively short history has given him plenty of iconic women to remember—and plenty of complicated feelings about the ways his country has celebrated, mistreated, and mythologized them.

I had three main contenders for this:

Betsy Ross: Culturally significant, present near the beginning of the United States as a nation, and the oldest of my options. She would make the most sense if I wanted America's reaction to carry that same centuries-old shock as France seeing Joan again.

Alice Paul: An incredibly important figure, but perhaps too modern for the encounter to possess the distant, almost supernatural ache of the original episode with France and Joan.

Amelia Earhart: An American icon whose courage, ambition, and mysterious disappearance feels uniquely suited to Alfred.

Out of the three, who could I most easily imagine Alfred forming the strongest, most sentimental attachment to? Amelia Earhart.

Amelia Earhart feels uniquely suited to America because she embodied so much of what America loves—and fears—about his country. She was ambitious, charismatic, technologically minded, fiercely independent, and perpetually reaching toward the next horizon. More importantly, her disappearance denied him the one thing every self-proclaimed hero believes he can provide: an answer. Alfred could never rescue her, recover her, or properly say goodbye. Seeing her face again wouldn’t only remind him of someone he lost—it would awaken the stubborn little part of him that never stopped waiting for her to come home.

Alfred was kicking a pebble down Atlantic Avenue when he saw her.

She was tall and rangy, with a strong, angular face and short blond hair that refused to lie flat. She wasn’t beautiful in the polished, motionless way of magazine covers—hers was a face made vivid by the animated way she recounted a story to her friend.

Alfred knew her before he understood how he possibly could.

She was just another human girl, maybe, but the quick lift of one eyebrow, the flash of her uneven teeth, and the way her pale eyes sharpened whenever her expression turned serious were all pieces of somebody he knew in motion. He knew her looking toward the sky.

That was his Amelia. He could have sworn it.

He rarely found himself choked up, but the sight of her sitting so casually on a café patio sent his heartbeat rushing through his ears. He had waited years for her to come home—a lifetime to see her face again—and here she was, sipping a matcha latte at a corner café in Bed-Stuy, telling a story about something that had happened between two friends, lovers, or some relationship in between.

Alfred didn’t realize how intently he had been staring until those sharp, gray-green eyes met his. When they did, the rushing blood in his ears came to a halt, and he felt his heart stop with it. It was impossible for him to die, but in that moment, he swore he could have dropped dead.

Just as Amelia would have, the woman held Alfred’s gaze, made a face, and turned back to her friend—most likely to say something about the creepy man across the street who had been staring at her for anywhere between a minute and an hour.

Alfred realized he had to say something—selfishly. He could have walked away, and that would have been that, but he had waited years for this moment. He just couldn’t help himself.

He jogged up to the table where the two women sat and cleared his throat. She looked up at him with the same no-bullshit expression Amelia would have given him.

“Hey. Sorry for staring at you from over there. I wasn’t trying to be a creep or anything.”

“You’re too cute to be creepy.”

Her no-bullshit expression shifted into one of amusement, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Hey, I’ll take it.” Alfred laughed politely. “I just came over to ask—”

The thought of asking whether she knew who he was floated through his mind, but that felt too forward. Maybe he could just ask whether or not she was Amelia. She had a scar running through one eyebrow—maybe from the plane crash?

Before he could respond, he realized that he was staring again, saying nothing, suddenly as shy as a schoolboy.

“What’s your name, I’m sorry?” she asked, her eyes darting between him and her friend, her smile now undeniable.

“Alfred. You?”

“Kate.”

A rush of disappointment—and another feeling Alfred couldn’t quite place—washed over him. He felt a prickle at the bridge of his nose, but he sniffed it away before it could turn into tears.

“Nice to meet you, Kate. Can I take you out sometime?”

“Ahem. Well, you know what?” her friend piped up, grabbing her tote bag and taking a long, dramatic sip of her coffee. “I was actually just about to head out, so this chair is all yours.”

Alfred heard Kate hiss her friend’s name under her breath, the apples of her sun-kissed cheeks flushing pink. He couldn’t help but smile.

Still, just like his Amelia.

“Oh, no, I hate to intrude on homie time. Please don’t feel like—”

“Nope, I’m out. See you later, Kate.”

And off her friend went.

Laughing, Alfred politely nodded toward the vacant chair. Kate nodded in return, so he took it.

“Sorry to interrupt your little friend date.”

“Hey, no worries. We were just beating a dead horse, anyway. If anything, you saved us from abusing a poor old animal.”

“Hey, it’s what I do best.” Alfred shrugged, smiling again, but softer this time. “What brings you to the city, Kate? You live here?”

“Yeah, I moved here after college about three years ago. What about you?”

This was the part Alfred always struggled with when encountering humans: telling the truth and explaining his circumstances or inventing a lie and putting distance between them. It was never in his best interest to build relationships with them. Ever since he was a child, he had felt that pull toward humanity, and ever since then, he had endured loss after loss, each carrying the same unbearable weight of grief. He still stopped in his tracks when he saw blue daisies, the memory as sharp now as it has ever been.

So he chose to lie.

“I’ve lived here longer than I can remember at this point. I go between here and D.C. for work.”

A half-truth.

“Oh, so you’re from here? I hope you can forgive me for being a transplant.”

“Yeah, something like that. Hey, transplants keep the city alive.”

“You would be the first native New Yorker to ever compliment transplants.”

“Hey, the city changes with its people. It’s good to get new perspectives. And this is the greatest city in the world, after all. Of course people want to move here.”

“You say that like you’re an old man.” Kate laughed, quirking an eyebrow.

Alfred bit the inside of his cheek and nodded.

“Feels that way sometimes.”

Eventually, Alfred went inside and bought them a platter of small pastries. They spent the next few hours chatting. Kate explained that she was an aerospace engineer and described how she had always been fascinated by flying. Laughing, she told him about a flight she’d once taken through horrific turbulence. The bouncing had lulled her to sleep while everyone else clutched their armrests in terror.

The connection was not lost on Alfred. Coincidence or not, the similarities were striking. He went back and forth over whether to tell her who he really was—whether to explain why he had really sat down, but he didn’t.

“I had a friend like that once.”

“What, a freak who was comforted by turbulence?”

“Nah. Brave,” Alfred said sincerely. “It takes a certain kind of bravery to take to the sky. It’s really admirable.”

Kate looked at him with wide, gray-green eyes and genuine gratitude. Her mouth hung open for a moment before she managed a quiet, “Thank you.”

“I’ve always felt like I was meant to conquer something bigger than myself, you know? I just feel so drawn to the sky—and to outer space. Thank you for saying it’s brave. Sometimes people tell me I get lost in my own head.”

“Never that.” Alfred shook his head. “But please, don’t fly too close to the sun.”

“Too close to the sun?” Kate laughed, looking down to pluck a chocolate macaron from the plate. “Listen, man, I’m bold, but I’m no Icarus.”

By the time she looked up from the pastries, the chair across from her was empty.

Alfred had vanished into thin air.

“What the hell? He was just here a second ago,” Kate muttered around a mouthful of macaron. “He didn’t even give me his number. Weirdo.”

Somewhere across the city, Alfred touched the frayed edges of a photograph he kept in a book filled with all his favorite mortals. He let out a heavy sigh and allowed the prickle at the bridge of his nose to finally bloom into tears.

He wiped a tear from his cheek. As it fell, he realized that a part of him was still stranded in July of 1937, even as humanity pushed onward without her. He was still that boy who was waiting with his hands under his thighs, stubborn and frustrated, waiting for the wire telling him she was coming home. Foolishly, mortality was a concept he found too hard to get a grasp on, even now. Especially now. She had called him an old man, sometimes he felt that way, but in the grand scheme of things, he was so young. He was perpetually in the early June of the springtime of his life, watching the fleeting beauty of petals whip away with the wind while he still held his longing in his chest like late March.

He sincerely wished Kate the best, really. She could never know what seeing her face across Atlantic Avenue had done to him.

[makwandis]

19th century. Gilbert is on so much cocaine. when he gets custody of Ludwig everyone on the continent is CONCERNED. Roderich tries to start a coalition of nation child welfare, no one takes him seriously because he used to bring Ludwig to meetings and when the baby cried he’d give him a lot of wine to silence him

[asknordicsisterluka]

Once Luka hit age 19 she started going to Iceland every early August with her Uncle Iceland to gently toss lost and light disoriented pufflings aka baby puffins off cliffs. This helps the pufflings get the wind in their wings and find their way back to the sea. This is a puffling rescue mission during puffling season

[forkbirtuna]

I headcanon that most of the hetalia cast has somewhat yellowed teeth

[gunzinside0slo]

✧ Express Yourself, Don’t Repress Yourself

... ᴏᴜᴛʟɪɴᴇ: NSFW, Norway x afab!reader.

... ᴄʜᴀʀs: Lukas Bondevik (Norway).

... ᴡ/ᴄ: NSFW; dumbfication, really messy sexual actions, heavy description of sexual actions.

... ɴᴏᴛᴇs: I decided to try something new with the layout. I really love Norway so I decided to test this out with him and i personally think he’d love it because that’s my man right there. This was a lot more exploratory than i thought it would be but it’s Norway so we ok. Sorry if it’s OoC, I try my hardest to make sure it’s in character. Also I plan on writing fluff and angst for the next few days so nsfw asks will be put on hold. (Yes the title is from the song human nature.)

“Don’t tell me you’re tapping out now?”

You wanted to—you really wanted to; each contact of your cunt met with his waist sent pain and arousal rushing to your core. By this time, your straddling had slowed down heavily and the brazen claims you had made to Norway were finally crumbling down to a pathetic excuse to have sex with him.

You were doing so good with pacing and control as you sat on top of him, but Norway—having been through so much rigor throughout his entire span of his history—outnumbered you by forcing you to go faster, lowering your stamina without even realize it. Now, he saw your feeble, rude attitude set to something docile and passive. Everything felt like it was spinning and as your eyes trail from your legs covering his waist, to his chest then all the way up to his face.

His face, the expression on his face was blank. His cheeks were filled with redness but, he looked so unamused, not entertained by your suffering. He was breathing heavy and a whine or two was on the verge of eruption but there was nothing in those eyes as he stared at you, nothing that you could identify at least.

“I’m not—I’m…” you tried to respond in hopes of an emotion sparking something new, but all he did was tilt his head to the side.

Was he seriously this uninterested?

Your ego and confidence, it’s never deflated like this before. The man you loved so much, couldn’t care less about sharing such an intimate moment with you and even as he pulsed inside, veins aching softly as your slick muffled any sensation as you sat idly, he didn’t seem impressed.

“Do you want us to…” Your voice cracked. As much as you didn’t want to admit it—you wanted to cry, shed tears, for maybe if you did, then he’d finally show some arousal.

“Do you want to?” His voice came out blank.

“No! I can—“ you huffed out. “I can do this.”

Norway’s brows furrowed as you persisted. Your arms wrapped around his neck, you leaned into him trying to get some leverage before you continue. In response, his hands moved from your hips to your back.

Even though you couldn’t see it, you felt his eyes peering on your head as you buried it into his neck.

“Your sense of entitlement was just a way to get me to be sensual, ja?” His grip tightened on your back and soon you felt his waist buck upwards slowly. A whine exited from your throat as he began to glide upward into you, the soaking of your slick spilling onto his lap as his cock disappeared then reappeared from your heat.

You opened your mouth to say something to him, only to be silenced once more by the sudden snapping pace he exerted—slapping against your cunt and echoing around the room. His groaned were drowned out by your mind but still, you heard them regardless and just like always: they were one of the alluring things about him, his voice. It was soothing to hear when he talked normally like earlier, but so attractive to hear when he was under sexual tension like this.

Your arms embraced him more firmly, your own throat cracking with each snap and plunge. His nut, seeping out and merging with your slick from previous rounds that same session—it only made things messier for both of your lower regions, crawling down your upper leg and slightly splattering onto his own. This was what you wanted from him—it would’ve been a lot more easier if you had just told Norway about how you wanted sex with him to go.

“You like that, don’t you?” he breathed out. “See how easy it is to—to just tell me what you want?”

A shaky exhale escaped your lips, all your previous bravado entirely gone and the moment was taken from control by Norway. His hands slid down to grasp the underside of your thighs, adjusting your angle to take him deeper. He held you completely still—you could feel him pulsing heavily inside your core like before, making you ache for the movement to return.

"Next time, just ask," he muttered. Though his expression still remained entirely blank, his chest was heaving violently against yours.

“Don’t just stop, I want—“ you slurred words mummered from your lips, your mind clearly at a daze and unfocused. Only focusing on the sweet sensation of him.

The sentence that was about to exit your mouth was cut off again as Norway moved his hands from your hips to your head, pushing it off his shoulders so you could meet his eyes again.

As you open your own, your vision was blurry from the tearing up due to the abrupt change in pace and pure arousal from him finally moving. You could read his face now, that once bored and jaded expression was now that of satisfaction and smugness. You wanted to punch him, you wanted to hurt him, but with him having you all weak and docile like this—on the verge of tears, saliva seeping out the corner of your mouth and your pitiful, flushed heavy breathing—you’d look way too stupid if you fought Norway.

Before you could recover and blink the tears away, his fingers tangled firmly in your hair, tilting your head towards him as he pulled your lips against his. His tongue slid past your parted lips immediately, merging saliva with your own for the first time since the session began. You tasted hints of sweetness and peppermint merging with your own blank tastes.

The slow and messy gliding of your lower halves was mirrored by the heavy pooling of saliva between your lips, with spit sliding down the corners of both of your mouthes—he finally pulled back just an inch to look at you. His breath hitched against your wet lips, while his own curled into a faint smile.

“That’s it—look at you. So quiet now, so gorgeous.” he murmured, running gentle circles into your back. His back slouched slightly on the bed board, the posture of his body resulting him to look up at you. “Nå, fortell meg det ordentlig.”

“What do you really want from me?”

★ Do not steal, repost, or adjust my works in anyway, shape or form.

CREDS: dividers — @cafekitsune. ART — @dai_2_peppar on Twitter