#hetalia comfort

[jaynuu]

'I know it's over still I cling

I don't know where else I can go'

[renonv]

I haven’t been doing too hot lately my badddd but here’s a little doodle of the fag brothers from a while ago

[ifindus]

[fafayayarhen]

spaus spaus spaus spaus

this just in the divorcees are pathetically unable to keep their hands off of each other

no first comic is not a vampire au i subscribe to the hc tonio has fangs so he can bite roddi bark bark bark

[the-king-of-butterflies]

[statementofjoespookie]

so many thoughts

[novuit]

Been watching Brideshead Revisited alot, recently

[sunflowerpieivan]

And again I draw another strange sketch for my little fanfiction story I never finish writing

I will draw something beautiful soon (at least I hope)

[madizenmadi]

its not practical at all but i like to imagine that Gilbert, at one point, lent his voice to be used for the announcements for the public transit in Berlin, but then into the 2000s it was replaced by the electronic voice today.

Anyways, after Gilbert died, Ludwig asked to reinstate Gilbert's voice to be heard over the intercoms so that he can hear his late Father's voice everyday as he takes the S-bahn or the U-bahn. It took him a while to get accustomed to the grief, but it then became a comfort.

Sometimes, he takes the U-bahn on sleepless nights so that he can close his eyes and listen to Gilbert's voice, imagining he's still here with him, just like he promised he always would be.

[renonv]

Was thinking about that one fucking gay ass episode where Germany proposed and shit and how feli chickens out which made me think… what if he’s just bad at receiving attention from ppl he likes when they actually give it back

[arschbiene]

Hi! I really like your Germania and Gilbert comics, they're so cute! I was wondering if you can explain the timeline in your headcanon? What year do you canonically believe Gilbert was born?

Anon this is a great question and I am so happy you asked it but I have no answer to it. I had a hard day, can I hold your hand in my hand and beg you to just enjoy it on a surface level because for the last fifteen years i've been smudging it and have little real developed headcanon beyond "i love babies"

You are welcome to come up with your own lore and takes tho too! I appreciate the passion and hope to someday match it, I have a pile of books i plan to read when life is kinder to me

[bone-evidence]

Here's the second of my PruCan Minifics, based off sentences (or prompts) given to me by you lovely folks! This one was from @disneyprincessdxminatrix, and it was: "No one's ever going to hurt you again. Not as long as I'm around." I took that and ran to perhaps unexpected places lmao! Enjoy!

Quiet murmurs of anticipation all stopped the second the large wooden doors opened. The High Priest, dressed in fine white robes and the visage of a horrific horned Demon, led the sacrifice like a dog on a leash to the circular stone altar. 

Matthew was almost relieved. Almost. 

Though they'd bound his wrists in front of him with rough rope, they hadn't bothered to cover his eyes at all. No, they dragged him out of the animal pen in which they'd kept him for the last two months and paraded him around like a prized beast ripe for the slaughter. He supposed that a blindfold wasn't necessary. The dozens of people around him, all dressed in black robes, wore the same mask their leader did. There was no mercy to be found among the sea of cold eyes on him. 

The room was lit only by candles placed in the alcoves that lined the stone walls. These seemed to be shrines in the Demon's honour. Each one held a candle and a sculpture of the fiend carved out of deep red wood, decorated with the leaves of poisonous plants and various bones. Matthew tried very hard to push the question of where they'd gotten those bones out of his mind. If this was where he would die, he'd rather not think about those he was about to join.

The circular stone altar at the end of the room was his final destination. If he had any strength, he might have tried to wriggle out of the ropes and run. His captors were, unfortunately, smarter than to let that happen. He was only ever given enough food and water to keep him alive. At first, when they came into his pen bearing a knife, it took four of them to hold him down long enough to pierce his flesh and carve in the beginning of their profane symbols. It only took one to hold him down and finish the unholy scripture three days ago. 

Tears he didn't know he had left slipped down his cheek as he was finally forced to kneel on the stone altar. The carvings that were forever scarred in his flesh, up his freckled arms and down his back, were mirrored on the obsidian rim that surrounded him now. There was no need to tie him down to anything. Once he was on the ground, he knew there was no strength in him to get back up. All he could do was sob as the High Priest's hands raised to the sky, silencing the ghoulish crowd before them.  

The profane sermon had begun. 

Much to Matthew's horror, each praise that fell out of the Priest's mouth ignited a symbol on the altar. Each word in an infernal language he didn't understand , each dark promise, each retelling of horrible deeds inflicted upon humanity, all of these in turn ignited more of the circle around Matthew until it was almost completely lit. The sacrifice trembled and wailed for someone, anyone to save him, though he knew it was hopeless. 

If the Gods wanted to rescue him, they would have done it alrea- 

Ker-rack!

Halfway through what was surely the last words Matthew would ever hear, something dark and horrible crashed through the roof and landed in a heap on the stone floor.

The cultists around it backed away, whispering amongst themselves as they did so. This… thing, whatever it was, wasn't what they were expecting. The Demon was taller, right? Had horns? Wasn't it supposed to burst out of the sacrifice's body and be reborn in blood, not punch a hole into their sacred meeting place?

An unnatural wind, cold as the moonlight now cascading through the broken roof, whipped furiously around the thing as it stood. From thin air it conjured a sword made of no metal Matthew had ever seen. After all, what metal shimmered gold under lunar glow?

 At the thing's unspoken command, the wind rushed towards the alcoves on the walls. It stole the fire from each candle and knocked every small shrine down, sending bones and wood clattering to the ground. It carried the small flames, one by one, to the thing's outstretched blade until one couldn't see the metal through flame. 

It leveled the blade at the cultists, and Matthew wasn't sure whether he should be terrified or grateful. 

The men and women around it surely thought, since they were several dozen and it was only one, that they could take it. That mistake proved fatal. 

The being was obviously some kind of divine. No other force could cut through those bearing a Demon's protective amulets as though they were butter. Nothing else could splash stone walls with red and ignite the robes of the very recently deceased in one blow. Nothing else's wrath could be so swift and terrible! Matthew wasn't sure whether his screams joined the many cut off by horrific gurgling. All he knew was that once every last cultist was dead, after every soul in the room had been severed save for his own, it was alarmingly quiet. 

The thing stepped into the pool of moonlight made by it's entrance and paused to catch it's breath. Finally, Matthew got a good look at it. 

At him, rather. His feathered wings were cloth ripped from the fabric of night itself. His eyes, still wild from battle, were swirling red nebulas set into the bloodsplattered face of the moon. His steps were even and measured as he walked towards the sacrifice, blade held at his side. 

Matthew flinched and squeezed his eyes shut on instinct. The angel before him was fallen, after all; beholden to no God and no code, if he decided Matthew's life was forfeit too, his blade would find no resistance from demon-marked flesh.

Matthew expected the next (and last) thing he felt to be the bite of that sword. For his abused body to burn, for the fallen one to complete his task and leave no one alive to tell the tale of what happened here. What he didn't expect was a gentle hand under his chin, lifting it slightly and bidding him to open his eyes. 

He did so slowly, expecting to be greeted with the same battle craze and bloodlust. Instead, the clouds of the divine's eyes had cleared, leaving only dolorous pools of crimson to stare back at him. 

"What is your name?" The angel asked. Though it was clear he was trying to be gentle, there was still a commanding edge to his voice.  

"M-Matthew. Matthew, my name is Matthew, Mr. Angel. A-are you going to, um… I-I mean, am I going… to…?"

A breath resembling a chuckle left the divine's lips at the implication. His deft fingers began to work the knots that bound Matthew's wrists together loose, until the bloodstained rope finally fell to the cold stone altar. "You will not die tonight, Matthew. Can you stand?"

Truth be told, Matthew couldn't even find it in himself to try. His strength was gone. Starvation, dehydration, and countless tortures would have been enough of a reason, but something in his very soul had been drained and fed to the ritual. Perhaps something small in him had died along with everyone else in the room after all. All he could do was shake his head. 

This was, apparently, not going to be a problem for the angel. He scooped Matthew up easily, as if he were merely a child and not a man of twenty-three. A soft half-smile illuminated the fallen one's face as he walked towards the moonlight. 

"I can promise you this, Matthew." He began, as he stretched out his mighty wings. One flap, two flaps, and the room that was supposed to spell death was nothing more than a memory. 

"No one's ever going to hurt you again. Not as long as I'm around."

[floralcrematorium]

Arthur allows himself to catastrophize over his insecurities, but Francis is there to bring him back down to Earth.

Words: 3,426

Relationship: FrUK

Characters: England, France

Additional Tags: Comfort, Self Doubt, Established Relationship, The French dialogue may be a bit botched but it's FIIIIIIINE

[tejennnn]

Thank you 2023! Hope everyone got enough end of year rest to prepare for 2024 🫶

[jikimo-world]

TW NSFW: PRUFRA/FRAPRU

Kisses on the neck - Motorboating - Bottom Prussia

Going from Hell to Heaven or vice versa

[ellavei]

We all know how France is a connoisseur of relationships. He likes beautiful people and Spain is clearly a handsome man (France has confirmed that).

But I think what makes France constantly seek Spain out while their personal relationship is full of ups and downs is that in private Spain is an understanding person.

For example, aside from being a really funny guy, I think France loves to joke with Spain because he is usually calm no matter how sensitive the joke is. He listens to France, he cooks for France and he laughs at the strangest things France says. Even France's most sly prank, Spain finds it normal and sometimes joins in. This gives both of them comfort and ease that is not always available out there.

And the irony is that, in his relationship with France, Spain also finds himself understood because… France is not a nice person either. There are things that would be completely wrong to joke about, but with France, Spain can completely reveal it. They know too much about each other, inside and out.

So even if they hate each other, turn away from each other, come back, hate each other, turn away from each other, they both know that they will see each other again outside of work. This is very frustrating but they can hardly do anything else, so at this point they just secretly accept it.