#hetalia prussia imagines

[royaltea000]

he could not control the class 😔

[renonv]

okay but like the way you draw him and write him, roma has kind of perfect dad energy so now I'm picturing an au where he adopts a broke college student or smth lmao

ANONNN YOU DOG YOU POSSESSED ME and for the past few days I’ve been thinking and rotating this in my head… Romano adopting a broke college student au…. WORD VOMIT AHEAD HELP:

An 18 year old Elise who just lost everything as soon as she arrived in Rome, is about to give up and somehow go home, only to have her life change as a 30 something year old Romano tripped over her while taking out trash from the family restaurant he co-runs with his brother (who lately has been too busy w his personal life to truly help him!!).

After, Romano offers Elise to stay in Feliciano’s old room, and a job as a server at the restaurant. She happily agrees to stay until she gets back up on her feet.

The only thing is… Elise is not broke 😭 at this moment of time, yes she is, but she’s actually a recent runaway… she comes from a very wealthy Swiss family that only consists of her loving, yet overly protective brother. She wanted to experience life, and in order to do so, she had to run away because asking Basch didn’t work out 🤼‍♂️ many times

So now Elise’s adventure truly begins as she finally gets to live out a normal life, working her first job, making friends, and learning important life lessons from her new dad Mr. Romano (as he also learns a few new things from her as well 🫵)

Oh, and the entire time she’s in Rome, she unknowingly has to avoid being found by a team of private investigators that her Brother hired to find her (they are doing a shit job) ((having her phone stolen really saved her)).

[yawujin]

bwaaaah hetalia allies with s/o who's a virgin /// or, nsfw for their first time OUUUGGH!! also, what's ur limit for how many characters u write? I'd ask for both allies n axis but don't wanna bombard that many on u !! ^^

don't worry about that, i got youu ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ) enjoy!! 🤍

hetalia allies & axis | first time 💭 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

type | nsfw , smut , they/them pronouns used , established relationship , light hearted , first time trope

allies ♥︎

america/alfred f. jones

he's really excited and is prone to getting carried away.

it will take direct communication from his s/o to get him to calm down and take things slow. he can respect that, so he does.

he's making sure to be careful in everything he does, tracking his pace so he goes slow enough to not overwhelm them but fast enough to not bore them

he really really wants their approval...so he's doing the best he can (he wants that sweet praise after all is said and done)

england/arthur kirkland

he's like really anxious so if they're able to help him through that, that would be really great

he just has this fear that he'll hurt them so he is really gentle, it's an expectation that he's aware of so he just automatically does it

he's very encouraging and accepting towards mostly anything his s/o does during sex. he's the type to urge them to let it all out if they want to moan but are holding back. he also really wants them to grab onto anything of his, really. but only if they want to

he'll want to hurry and get them cleaned up as soon as they both finish, so they don't have to feel uncomfortable...especially after their first time

france/francis bonnefoy

he makes it very sweet, very loving, and makes sure that they feel comfortable before they even begin.

he'll give them words of affirmation, and letting them know they're free to back out at anytime. "if you want a break, just say the word and we'll have a break." france kisses their cheek

he's very vocal, complimenting them on their expressions, sounds and on their figure.

afterwards, he'll want to lie down and hold them. he'll tell them just how much he appreciates them and say what his favorite parts were. he'll ask them what theirs were, too.

canada/matthieu williams

he's shy but not anxious. being gentle is in his dna, so it comes to him automatically

"i never want you to feel uncomfortable..." he says. his voice is soft and sweet.

he's the type to guide them through it, putting his hand on theirs and placing it somewhere on his body. it's especially helpful if they're the type to not know where to touch.

i feel like he'd want to kiss them a lot, but he understands if they don't want to or get overwhelmed.

russia/ivan braginsky

first of all, he puts in effort to not look scary because he knows he can be intimidating

and since sex can be intimidating to some, he really tries to get them to have fun with it

he tries to do the same, and not take himself too seriously

he saves the sweet talk for after they both finish. for now, he wants to savor the moment with them and moan into their ear, watching how they react to all of it, all of him. he likes the fact that it's brand new to them, but he'll like it even more if he can please them...so he focuses on that.

china/yao wang

he's very well versed in helping people feel relaxed, especially during a moment that can be so overwhelming for some.

of course , it helps that he's experienced, too. that way he can reassure them and promise that he's going to make his s/o feel great

he's already prepared the essentials (i'll leave it up to the readers to guess what those are winkk)

he knows already that he's going to need to take things easy at first. it's really fortunate that he's good at tracking his pacing, and reading expressions. he keeps asking them if they feel alright, and if it's okay for him to continue. if they consent, he'll give them a quick kiss on the forehead before going back to what he was doing.

axis ♥︎

north italy/feliciano vargas

he's all smiles. he's just happy that he gets to be their first.

he's excited!! but he respects them completely, so he asks what exactly they want to happen.

italy is here to fufill their wishes. and that he does.

he can't help but hold them tightly in the heat of the moment, going in for a quick collection of kisses before pulling away for some air. he's getting desperate but he asks for permission before doing anything else.

germany/ludwig beilschmidt

he's nervous ngl but he knows what to do so he approaches this *situation* practically

he prolongs the foreplay just so he can give them a taste of what's to come also so he can get an idea of what they might like or dislike

he overthinks a lot of what people say and what their body language is so he takes that into account before they begin

he's the one to ask: "can i do this?" "is this okay with you?" before going any further. if they didn't know any better they'd think it's his first time with the hesistant way he goes about this (it's kind of sweet, since he's usually so direct)

japan/kiku honda

he's very sweet towards them, now more than ever

he says it's okay if they're nervous, but he really wants to know how they want to go about this

he urges them to talk about exactly what they want, so he can give it to them just as they prefer

he delivers; making them feel cared for from the very moment they start making out to the final moments where he's looking at them, even if they're too shy to maintain eye contact

prussia/gilbert beilschmidt

similar to his brother germany, prussia is direct and he uses this as a guide for them

he gently asks them if they can do a certain thing, letting them ease into it and letting them take the lead without so much pressure. he reminds them they can say no if he unknowingly asks too much of them

he does this because he'd rather not risk coming on too strong (he doesn't want to let his eccentricity get the better of him and overwhelm or scare his s/o ☹️)

he's happy with whatever they want to do and gives them a little bit of praise to encourage them further

south italy/lovino vargas

he tones down his usual blunt and outspoken demeanor just for them, reminding them that it's okay not to take themselves so seriously

he uses touch as a way to soothe their nerves, constantly holding any, and every part of them in one way or another

he goes ahead with touching them in the typical ways most people like, but tells them that they should let him know if they don't like something right away

as he gets accquainted with everything they do like though, he'll tell his s/o how amazing they feel, on almost every part of their body.

[crimson-kisses]

Hi hello good evening!! I have been lurking about for quite some time and i honestly love your writing!!

If it's not too much, could you give us a crumb of yandere romano?? 👀 some general headcanons or whatever you're in the mood for??

Have a lovely day!!

Piccolo regalo

Characters/Fandoms/Pairings: Yandere! Lovino Vargas || Romano [Hetalia] x Fem!reader

Warning: This story will contain xplicit yandere themes, proceed with caution [includes non consensual acts, toxic relationship, the like]

Author's notes: Lovino has definitely been in my mind lately, so have this little snippet I wrote up in a hurry. This was inspired by this piece by @yanderehetaliadrabbles 🌻🐝~~~♡

Also, remember that lot has been going around the world lately, try to educate yourself and contribute as much as you can.

The kitchen was infused with the enticing aroma of sizzling eggplant as you carefully fried the golden slices in a pan, observing as they reached the perfect balance of tenderness and crispiness.

On any other day, you would have joyfully taken a few bites, turned on the radio to sway to some tunes, and effortlessly navigated the kitchen to gather ingredients and clean up. However, today, sombre thoughts preoccupied your mind, leaving you focused solely on the task at hand.

A slight frown took on your lips as you adjusted the ribbon, holding back your hair. Yeah, you weren't really in the mood for swaying around and being carefree.

An almost alarming smell caught your attention as you instinctively set the fried eggplant slices aside on a plate lined with paper towels to drain. Slightly burnt but not too much to be concerned about.

Mistakes happen, and nothing is too perfect. It was the bitter truth, and one you accepted as you continued with the preparation of the dish.

Nothing is too perfect. Mistakes were human. You almost vividly recalled the countless times you'd watched your nonna prepare this beloved dish. She seemed to be so perfectly superior in her skills, but you remember her laughing about her own mistakes in her childhood when it was your time to take on the kitchen.

People weren't perfect, and no matter how superior or skilled they seemed, they were bound to slip up. That was being human. Humans weren't perfect, and neither were relationships.

Wiping your hands on your apron, you turned your attention to the tomato sauce, a crucial component that would add depth and richness to the dish. You tried not to think, think, and think. But you were always such a feisty smart ass for your own good.

Perhaps that extended to everything else as well. Ah, were you so blindsided by love that you couldn't see the signs any sooner? The cracks in your lover until it was too late? Maybe it was because he seemed so perfect. Someone who could love you despite the edges you had and cherish all your faults. He was too perfect to be human.

Trying to suppress the shaking of your hand, you sautéed onions and garlic in a seperate pot until translucent, then added canned tomatoes, letting the mixture simmer and thicken to perfection.

But he wasn't even human, and neither was he perfect. Nothing can be too perfect for everyone.

You tightened the apron around your waist, opening the curtains wider, allowing a strong beam of sunlight to flood the kitchen. The golden rays illuminated the room, casting a warm glow on the countertops and appliances. Outside, the gentle rustling of olive trees could be heard and seen, their branches heavy with ripe olives ready for harvest.

To Romano though, you were perfect. Too perfect maybe, your confident suave nature resonated well with him, balancing his fiery intense attitude. Mostly what pulled you both together though was pure passion for things you both loved. Both of you were so supportive and protective of each other, even embracing the faults.

With the eggplant fried and the tomato sauce ready, it was time to assemble the layers. You reached for a baking dish and spooned a layer of the tomato sauce onto the bottom, spreading it evenly to coat the surface.

You still loved him, despite all his issues, insecurities, and stubbornness. Your sly antics countered his flirty attempts, coolly challenging him and keeping him on his toes. The tango you initiated with him was a dance of passion and tension, French kisses after deep arguments were common, a way to your love amidst the conflicts. To you, he was perfect, but maybe that love still wasn't enough for him.

Next came a layer of the fried eggplant slices, their golden-brown hue a testament to their perfect crispiness. You sprinkled a generous amount of grated Parmesan cheese over the eggplant, the sharpness of the cheese promising to balance the sweetness of the tomatoes.

Your thoughts raced as you continued with the cooking. Memories of family gatherings, moments with your nonna, and times with friends seemed distant, almost as if they belonged to another lifetime. Ever since you were told, forced to stay in this secluded house in the Southern countryside, those memories felt even more remote.

The layering process continued, each addition of eggplant, tomato sauce, and cheese building upon the last, creating a beautiful and delicious mosaic of flavors and textures. You added the final layer of tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese to your favorite traditional dish.

The setting was undeniably idyllic, the kind that would make your mamma gush over its charm, and your zie would nod approvingly, pleased that you had finally settled down. Despite its beauty, you couldn't shake off the feeling of complete isolation, the sense of being disconnected from the world you once knew.

With the assembled dish in the oven, the kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of baked cheese and tomatoes. As you waited, your thoughts drifted once again to Lovino. He was the kind of man who would eat anything if you made it. Not that you would not threaten to poison his food if he didn't learn to appreciate what you cooked.

Nonetheless, you prepared some Caponata as a side dish knowing that's what Lovino preferred. Perhaps the sweet and sour taste resonated well with his personality.

You snorted in amusement. Asshole.

Setting the dining table, you poured some homemade Limoncello into a chilled glass. Placing it on a tray, you carefully set it on the dining table, beside the plated Caponata. Moments later, you retrieved the fragrant Melanzane alla Parmigiana from the oven, its baked cheese and tomato aroma filling the kitchen.

With oven mitts protecting your hands, you placed the hot dish on a trivet and proudly set it on the table, completing the meal for you and Lovino.

Placing your hands on your waist, you apprehensively glanced at the clock. He had said he would be coming home early today during the phone call, and judging by his tone, you assumed his mood was sour. Lately, this had become quite common, and it always made you tense when he seemed to be brimming with anger. The anticipation of his arrival weighed on you, adding an underlying tension to the otherwise peaceful atmosphere in the house.

There was a reason, you were trapped in the house he had bought for the both of you. Could you escape? Quite easily, but only physically for a short amount of time. Being a family woman, with close ties with other people, it put everything and everyone you loved at a dangerous risk.

You loved too deep, too passionately, too traditionally, and that love of yours kept you in shackles. That love which Lovino was possessive of. Lovino would easily find you, and he had already proved that your family and friends would pay the price if you stepped out of line. Heavily, and you couldn't bear that.

After all, how could you escape the grasps of a man who had been here for centuries? He knew every nook and corner, had legal and illegal ties which would be fatal.

The door opens with a thud, causing you to rise on your toes in startlement. You see your lover stumble in, clearly heavily intoxicated. His unsteady gait and slurred speech confirm your suspicions. Soon after, the sound of a car starting up can be heard, gradually fading as it drives away from the house, leaving behind an uneasy silence.

You wished you were in that car, far away from this isolated place. Perhaps, you could ask Lovino to take you out, once he is stable enough of course.

Nonetheless, pulling up your dress slightly to hasten your steps, you briskly walk towards him in concern. Your hands instinctively reach out to steady the stumbling man as he gives you a lopsided smirk, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

Lovino places his hands on your waist, pulling you closer to his intoxicated form. His shirt is disheveled, and you tug on it to help balance him properly, feeling the warmth of his breath and the weight of his body leaning against you.

Both of you stumble awkwardly after hastily closing the door. Before you can react further, Lovino pushes you up against the counter, causing your breath to hitch in surprise. You give him a level-headed stare, trying to convey your concern and irritation. However, he places a finger on your lips as you attempt to speak, effectively silencing you and adding to the tension between you two.

"Lovi, this—" your tone biting, you gesture sharply with your hands, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt, "is enough. Dinner is ready, and you are beyond drunk." Your eyes dart around, searching his face for answers.

All you find is overflowing love and a sense of lust swimming around his eyes. "Where have you been? Didn't you have some work today?" You finish with a sigh, placing a hand on his arm, furrowing your brows in concern.

God, you cared for this man so deeply. How could you not? You doubted you could ever stop caring for him, but sometimes you just didn't know what to do with him.

A flinch escapes you when you feel his fingers trace your jawline, skimming through the strands of your hair. His touch lingers for a moment, a slight frown forming on his lips. You wondered what was he thinking of.

"What's the matter, darling? Didn't you miss me, huh?" he mumbles incoherently, the furrows between his brows deepening along with his frown.

His eyes narrow as he bends closer to your neck, taking in your scent slowly. His hands, initially tentative, find their place around your shoulders, gripping slightly as he breathes deeply for a moment. He seems to be seeking comfort, trying to find solace in your presence.

But you can't seem to give him that, something in you doesn't know where to even start. Your fingers start to grip his shoulders as you let out a shudder, your lips almost ghost over his, hesitant and unsure.

"Mio amore, you have no idea how much I wanted to be with you today," Lovino starts, his voice carrying a hint of weariness. He grimaces disdainfully as he recalls his day, "After such a long day with a room full of idiotic bastards."

You couldn't help but grow more concerned, but chose to remain silent about it. As Lovino, had never liked you defending them, even if it was fair enough, given his attitude. There was always some drama at his workplace, especially regarding his personal relationships.

Pausing for a moment, he takes a deep breath, his eyes softening as they meet yours. "All the time, I was thinking of you," he confesses, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from your face.

His hands, with an urgency you haven't felt in a while, snake around your waist with firm grip, drawing you irresistibly close to him. "Tesoro," he murmurs softly, the term of endearment rolling off his tongue, filled with affection. The weight of his desire is palpable, and you find yourself pressed tightly against his chest.

He breathes heavily, his warm breath brushing against your skin as he leans down, capturing your lips with an intensity that leaves you breathless. "Amore mio," he whispers against your lips, his voice husky with emotion. The world seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this passionate moment.

A startled noise escapes you, surprised by the suddenness and strength of his grip. As he deepens the kiss, his arms tighten around you, lifting you slightly off your feet. "Bella," he murmurs, pulling you even closer, the intensity of his emotions leaving you breathless. You could taste the alcohol on his lips.

"Wait, dinner is--", you start to say, your voice trailing off as Lovino emits an annoyed grunt. He pulls back slightly, his eyes narrowing as they lock onto yours, covered in a haze.

His hands grip yours, which remain on his chest, bringing them to his lips. He messily pecks every inch of your delicate skin, affectionately raw.

"Dinner can wait, I cannot," he declares firmly, his voice laced with urgency and unmistakable desire. The atmosphere between you two thickens, the dim light casts soft shadows on his face, highlighting the longing in his eyes. His fingers gently trace your jawline, a silent plea for you to stay in this intimate moment just a little longer.

He had always been drawn to your argumentative nature; he liked his women confident, assertive, yet elegant and romantic. The intoxicating affection between you was often mixed with passionate disputes and petty fights. That was just how he liked it. He wanted to see you angry with him, and then to have you care for him, let him take care of you, picking up the pieces both of you had scarred and kiss it right.

But now. He didn't have the patience for that, he had always been selfish, possessive when it came to you. He needed your love, a reminder marked onto his skin.

He needed to feel your unwavering love, even with all his flaws, trusting that you wouldn't forsake him, like everyone else always had, just as he would never dream of leaving you behind. He sought to drown his insecurities in the depths of your love and trust. By loving you, he hoped to discover his worth and find a place of significance in your heart. He wanted to be everything you would ever need. To be enough.

And never be cast aside once again.

Lovino needed you. Right at this moment, dinner left at the table to be eaten later right after both of you have devoured each other and Lovino had forgotten the outside world.

Instead, curses erupted from his lips as a kick was aimed at his shin, causing him to stumble back from the force of your push. He hissed and gripped the place where you had hit him, rubbing it and breathing harshly through gritted teeth. You took the opportunity to slip past him, your steps hurried and uneven as you moved toward the staircase.

For a moment, he stood there, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, the anger in his eyes simmering just below the surface. But it didn’t take him long to regain his momentum. His gaze followed you, and his expression darkened as he saw you with your back pressed against the wall near the staircase, your eyes peering at him through your lashes—a look filled with defiance and a hint of fear.

It made his chest ache, a sharp pang that twisted deep within him. You weren't supposed to look at him like that. You were supposed to be different. His lady. His treasure. His will to live. And yet, here you were, pushing him away when he needed you most. His frustration grew, an unspoken plea in his eyes, silently begging you to come back, to understand.

For a moment, he went blank, his hazy stare fixed on your disheveled form. Your hair was tousled, a wild halo framing your flushed face, a blush creeping across your skin. Even in your attempt at a glare, there was something undeniably alluring about you—the way your chest rose and fell with each breath, the fire in your eyes still burning. He found himself lost in the sight, his thoughts wandering back to the bar he had just left.

The memories were blurred, clouded by the haze of alcohol, but one thing was certain: he had been thinking of you the entire time. He thought of the faces around him, of meaningless conversations and laughter that left him hollow. None of it mattered, not when the only thing he wanted was to be here, with you, where every emotion, every moment felt real and raw.

But there was more to it, always more. The familiar feeling of being lost crept in, like a dark shadow lurking in the corner of his mind. He felt empty, hollow, as if his own sense of self was slipping away. Insecurity crawled under his skin, a sickly sensation, and tension coiled around his veins like barbed wire, cutting deeper with every thought. Fear gripped him—a fear that seemed to grow stronger every day. Fear of losing himself, of losing you.

He was terrified, the idea of being abandoned haunting him like a specter. Today, Antonio had managed to piss him off more than usual. The bastard had somehow found out about your existence. His former mentor, acting as if he had the right to give advice. But all Lovino felt was cold anger simmering in his veins, a rage he could barely contain. No one should know about you. No one had the right. What if someone tried to steal you away? What if he lost you because he wasn’t good enough?

The thought tormented him. Antonio could easily sweep you away with his charm. Francis could woo you with his words, his elegance. Even Gilbert, with his reckless charm and sharp wit, could draw you away. The fear felt like a hand tightening around his throat, suffocating him with the sheer terror of losing you. You, his only solace, his anchor in a world that always seemed to be against him. Forgot him.

You were his rose, prickled with thorns but ever blooming and vibrant. No other person could ever compare to the way you made him feel. Unlike the others, you didn’t irritate him or make him feel small; you didn’t belittle him with words or make him feel unimportant, discardable. With you, he felt seen, understood, cherished.

You were the one who didn't mock his insecurities or laugh at his temper. Instead, you stood by him, firm but gentle, seeing past his rough edges to the man beneath. With you, he could breathe, truly breathe, without the constant fear of being judged or cast aside. Every smile you gave him was a balm to his soul, every touch a reassurance that he wasn't alone, that he was worth something more.

But now, those very thoughts—the ones that lifted him from his darkest moments—were twisting into knots of doubt and fear. The possibility of losing you was tearing at him, the mere idea of it ripping open old wounds that never seemed to heal. And that thought, the cold reality of it, terrified him more than anything else in the world.

Because he wasn’t—and never would be—enough. For anyone. He was filled with faults, weighed down by his mistakes, and always fell short. Never just enough, always the second choice. Always.

That gnawing fear haunted him, creeping into the corners of his mind like a shadow that wouldn't dissipate. It told him he wasn't worth loving, that he could never hold on to anything good, that even you—his precious rose—would eventually see through him and slip away. The fear clawed at his insides, twisting his heart with every breath he took.

His hands clenched into fists, his jaw set tight as he fought against the growing panic. He couldn't lose you, not when you were the only one who made him feel alive, who made the world seem a little less empty. Not when you were the only person who saw something in him worth saving.

“Lovino—” you began, your voice wavering as you pressed yourself further against the wall, your hands searching for something—anything—to steady your trembling form. His name escaped your lips like a fragile whisper.

He took a step forward, unsteady but determined. His gaze never wavered from you, eyes dark with frustration, longing, and something more—something deeper and more unsettling. His breath was ragged, the scent of alcohol lingering in the air as he closed the distance between you, each step causing your heartbeat to quicken, your chest tightening with fear and something else you couldn’t quite place.

"Don't... don't come any closer," you managed to choke out, but your words seemed to fall on deaf ears as he continued, his stare locking you in place, making you feel both trapped and exposed.

He gives off an unsettling grin, mostly lopsided, as he inches even closer. "What's the matter, bella? Don’t I make you feel so good?" His voice is low and mocking, dripping with a twisted sort of affection. Sultry, enough to make you melt.

Heat rushes to your cheeks at the memories his words conjure, flashes of nights filled with soft murmurs and tangled sheets, moments when his touch was all-consuming and left you breathless. Lovino knew how to please his women. But now, that same touch feels different—possessive and heavy, like a storm cloud hanging overhead.

Fear still rests cold and lumpy in your stomach, winding tighter with each of his steps. You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure, but the grin on his face only widens, sensing the effect he has on you. His eyes trail over your flushed skin, every flicker of emotion you can’t hide.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as his hand presses firmly beside your head, trapping you against the wall. His eyes are locked on yours, watching every flicker of emotion like a predator stalking its prey. As you try to inch away, he matches your movement, trailing you step for step, making escape up the stairs impossible.

His other hand slowly moves to the hem of your dress near your neck, fingers brushing the fabric with an infuriating slowness, savouring each nervous gulp and the way your thighs shift uneasily He seems to drink in your reaction, his grin widening with every twitch and squirm. There’s a knowing look in his eyes, one that seems to say he understands you more than you understand yourself. Your expressions are open to him, revealing every thought, every emotion like a movie playing out just for his viewing.

Soon enough, you gasp as his hands curl around your thighs, lifting you slightly, pressing his body firmly between them. His lips trail along your neck, planting fervent kisses, each one more desperate than the last. Your head tilts back instinctively, exposing the soft skin to his hungry mouth. Soft, vulnerable moans escape your lips, betraying the conflicted feelings simmering within you, while your hands find his shoulders, gripping tightly as if to anchor yourself amidst the whirlwind of sensations.

"Tell me, mia cara," he murmurs, voice thick with need, his breath hot against your skin, "tell me how good I make you feel." His words are almost a growl, laced with a desperate need to settle down his hunger.

"Lovi— I can't ri—" you begin, but your words are abruptly cut off as a sharp cry escapes your lips. Lovino bites down on the exposed skin of your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt through your body. A low groan rumbles from his chest as he pulls back slightly, his breaths heavy, and his hand creeps toward the neckline of your dress, fingers tracing along the fabric with a deliberate slowness. His face inches back, frustration evident in the furrow of his brows.

"Why… why aren't you wearing the dress I gave you, huh?" he mutters, his voice tinged with irritation, his eyes searching yours for an answer. His hand tightens its grip on your waist as he leans in to kiss you, but you turn your head to the side, denying him.

A flicker of hurt flashes across his face, quickly replaced by a deeper frown. "Che diavolo, why won't you look at me?" His voice trembles with a mix of anger and insecurity, his hands trembling slightly as they hover near your cheek, longing to pull you back in, to have you only for himself.

You can't.

You feel him pull away, only to grab your hands again, a rough grip as he drags you up the stairs, His grip tightens around your wrist, knuckles white, dragging you up the winding stairs, each step echoing like the drumbeat of your heart as you stumble, half-carried, half-pulled into the darkness of the bedroom.

Your heart pounds in your chest, a storm of conflicting emotions. You love him — desperately, hopelessly — but you can't.

You can't keep on giving, not when he's already taken so much from you, threatening to consume your very soul with his burning need for love, for your love. How much more could you give? How much until you weren't enough for him anymore?

He yanks you into the bedroom, his movements hurried, almost frantic, as he begins to tug at the fabric of your dress. His eyes are wild, his lips twisted into a scowl. "You know... I never liked that damn cousin of yours," he mutters darkly, voice dripping with disdain. "The color doesn’t even suit your beauty."

You flinch at the venom in his tone, your glare meeting his. "It was given with love, Lovi," you retort, voice firmer than you feel. "He’s like a brother to me."

The word "brother" seems to pierce him like a knife. You see his expression darken, his jaw clenching tightly. You know he despises that word, especially after the disastrous encounter you had with his own brother, holding nothing but a deep-seated disdain for him. His grip tightens on the fabric of your dress, and you can feel the anger radiating from him, a hot, intense wave that seems to make the room feel smaller, the air heavier.

Lovino's breath is ragged as he looms over you, his hand curling around your waist possessively. "Don’t speak of him," he hisses, eyes narrowing into slits. "He won't love you like I do. No one does. And I won’t let anyone think they can even think of you that way."

Confusion grips you as Lovino's slurred words tumble out, his meaning obscured by the fog of alcohol. What is he talking about?The realization hits you suddenly — he’s drunk, and his mind is weaving together unrelated memories. it's clear he's thinking of his brother or that former mentor you've never even met.

He starts tugging at your dress, his movements frantic and almost clumsy. The fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling around your feet. A flash of panic surges through you — your heart pounds as you instinctively cross your arms over your chest, trying to cover yourself. But Lovino’s hands are quick, his fingers hot against your skin as they grip your waist, yanking you back toward him.

“Non farlo,” he growls, voice taut with frustration. “Don’t. I’m just trying to love you... Why do you keep pulling away?” There’s a raw edge to his tone, a strain that makes you shiver. His grip tightens on your sides, and you feel trapped by his intensity, his overwhelming need.

You try to back away, but your knees give out, and you stumble to the floor. The carpet cushions your fall, but Lovino is already there, closing in with a feverish look in his eyes. His breath fans against your face, and you see the desperation — a wild, almost feral determination that makes your stomach clench in fear. His presence feels suffocating, his gaze locked onto you as if you’re the only thing keeping him sane.

"Mi sei mancata così tanto," he whispers, a slight tremor in his voice, his fingers digging into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. "Every minute I'm away from you, I feel like I'm losing my mind." His hands move, fingers tracing the thin straps of your bra. You flinch, trying to twist away, but he catches your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Guardami,” he orders, his voice thick with emotion. “Look at me, amore mio. Why won’t you just let me love you? Why do you keep running away?” His lips are close, so close, and you can feel his breath against your skin, warm and insistent.

Your chest tightens with anxiety. You feel tears sting at the corners of your eyes, your mind a whirl of conflicted emotions. You should push him away, should scream or shove him back — but your body is frozen, caught in the intensity of his desire, the raw, unfiltered need in his eyes.

Lovino’s fingers are trembling, tugging at your bra with an urgency that feels like it might break you. “Why can’t you see that no one will love you like I do?” he mutters, his voice cracking. “Nessuno... not Antonio, not Francis. No one.”

He surges forward, capturing your lips with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs, his kiss rough and demanding. His body presses against yours, almost crushing, as if he’s trying to merge with you, to ensure you can never escape.

You gasp against his mouth, your hands bracing against his chest, and for a moment, all you feel is the racing of his heart against your palm, the heavy beat of it matching your own. His hands are everywhere, pulling at you, holding you close, and there's a desperate edge to his touch, a frantic, aching need that makes your head spin.

And beneath him, you feel the weight of his obsession, his unrelenting desire. You're left trembling, torn between the instinct to fight and the growing realization that nothing will make him let go.

Your back arches as his knee presses against your core, forcing a soft, broken whimper from your lips, "Lovi~" The sound slips out despite the creeping dread that tightens like a vice around your ribs. You feel his pleased hum vibrate against your skin, resonating deep in your bones.

His grip tightens on your neck, and he gasps, a low, needy growl, "Sì, say my name again, bella, please... Tell me how good I make you feel."

Tears spill down your cheeks, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric as if it could save you from the intensity of his gaze. You can’t meet his eyes — those dark, wild eyes where hunger and desperation mix, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every ragged breath. You remain silent, unwilling to feed the fever burning in his chest. His hands move, cupping your breasts with a possessive tenderness, as if holding the fragile pieces of your heart, ready to tear them from your chest and devour them, bit by agonizing bit, until he’s full — or until you’re emptied.

You would give and give and give... because even now, a twisted, agonizing love still clings to your heart, beating for him.

His fingers fumble with the buckle of his belt, urgency trembling in his movements as he presses himself further between your legs, trapping you beneath the weight of his need. "Oh, mia farfalla," he murmurs, a dark promise coating his words, "I’m going to make your wings flutter tonight."

He would take and take and take, driven by the insatiable hunger he couldn’t stifle, the self-loathing he couldn’t escape. His breath hitches, and his eyes bore into yours with a maddening obsession.

"No other man could ever be perfect for you. You are too perfect to belong to anyone else."

And maybe, just maybe, when your chest has been carved open, your ribs stretched to their breaking point, and your heart ruthlessly torn apart and devoured, when every piece of you has been laid bare and consumed, maybe then,

Perhaps, in that moment of ultimate surrender, you might finally be perfectly enough for your precious amore— your Lovino.

When you open your eyes with a flutter, it feels as if the events of last night were nothing more than a fleeting dream. Yet, the ache in your body betrays the truth. You find yourself dressed in a satin yellow nightgown, your hair brushed and your skin clean — all clearly the work of Lovino's careful hands.

Groggy and disoriented, you stumble down the stairs. The house may be vast, but thankfully, Lovino's impatience meant the bedroom was close to the main areas. He couldn’t wait for you to be within arm’s reach.

In the kitchen, you see Lovino meticulously reheating last night's dinner and adding a touch of his own culinary flair. His back is turned to you, but you sense his awareness in the subtle, deliberate movements of his hands.

“Did I hurt you?” His voice cuts through the silence, thick with an unexpected vulnerability that catches you off guard. You watch him for a moment, your fingers absently running through your hair, trying to steady yourself.

"No, amore mio," you whisper, your voice steady, but your chest tightens with each word. You see the flicker of doubt in his eyes, the hesitation, and you know he can sense the lie—he always does. Yet, you keep repeating it, hoping maybe this time, it will be true.

You gaze out the window, observing how summer's golden warmth will soon yield to the crisp embrace of autumn. As the leaves fall and the world prepares for winter's silent stillness, the cycle of seasons will continue its eternal dance, ever turning, ever renewing.

Perfectly.

[merbear25]

Hi, can you make Russia, Germany and Prussia with a reader who's also a total simp for them? (Like in previous ask✨️)

Hello, hello! So much love for the Hetalia men, I love it! Thank you for sending in your request. I hope you like what I've written for you 💜💜

pt 1, pt 2

CW: gn!reader, fluff, headcanons

Meeting a simp reader (Russia, Germany, Prussia)

Russia

At first, he was a bit shocked, then that shifted into doubt before he eventually realized you were genuinely head over heels for him.

The more time you spent around each other, the more comfortable he became, eventually looking around for you when you weren’t by his side.

He’d adore cuddling with you, especially on cold nights when the winter wind was howling loudly. Whenever you drifted off to sleep in his arms, he melted and allowed himself to fall asleep soon after. Waking up to you still wrapped up in his embrace gave him the confirmation that you were there because you wanted to be.

He’d want to strengthen your bond by exploring your common interests. I’d even go as far to say he’d get out of his comfort zone: giving things a try that he may not have prior to meeting you. A deep and meaningful connection was all that he’d really want at the end of the day and if you were willing to give that to him, he’d never complain.

Germany

He’d be fairly hesitant to accept your praise and affection. He was far from the romantic or touchy-feely type and you always wanting to be around him was making him…flustered. 

Despite that, you appeared to be hard-working, dedicated to your ambitions, and an overall respectable person, eventually earning his good graces.

With you seeming more than one dimensional to him now, someone he felt like he might enjoy having around, he’d invite you to training sessions and maybe small outings with the others if he thought you’d like it. Affection would undoubtedly start out small, mostly through acts of service and sometimes words of affirmation.

The progression in your relationship would be slow yet gradual, leaving room for you to both explore who the other truly was. Quality time would increase the more comfortable he became around you, wanting to share peaceful moments with you or enjoying a nice walk in the park. Looking at you, he’d have a subtle smile pertaining to his gratitude for you.

Prussia

Everyone knew just how highly he thought of himself, so when you came into his life fawning over him, he couldn’t help but agree with you. He was the amazing Prussia afterall.

When your praise and adoration didn’t wear off the more time you spent with him and you expressed genuine interest in him, he started to wonder what your deal was—what you were all about.

You piqued his interest and now he wanted to know more about you. Inviting you out for drinks would be the easiest option for him. Getting more one-on-one time with you made everything easier for the two of you to bond properly. He came to really like you and suddenly your praise made him feel a bit differently—more affectionate.

Once you two got past the first hump with getting to know each other, he’d match your eagerness to see each other. He'd want to be around you all the time. Despite the chaotic energy he brought, he enjoyed the softer moments too. Whenever he got you smiling and laughing were times that he cherished, never wanting that feeling to fade.

[wander-lustrous]

germanics as bfs

part 1

ft. germany, prussia, austria, switzerland

germany // ludwig beilschmidt.

- This man struggles to settle down in a committed relationship, preferring flings and quick one-night stands. It's not because he's against it, but rather he thinks it's hard to find someone to accommodate his… specific tastes in the bedroom; plus he's so busy he can't imagine fitting a partner into his life. But once he has a partner, he is SO committed. Like planning-your-one-year-anniversary-getaway-a-month-into-the-relationship kind of committed. He tries not to go overboard with it, but he does enjoy thinking about hitting these milestones.

- Ironically he ends up getting in relationship with friends, his coworkers, people he spends the most time around with, most likely in a work setting. He’s a stickler for the rules though, which makes him hesitant to blur the boundaries between work and his personal life. However, once he starts really noticing this person--maybe the way they're always dressed nice, or hardworking, or always has a smile for him--he's fucked. They invade his thoughts at the most random moments, and it makes him want to avoid them. Thankfully he has friends (cough Italy cough) who notice his little crush and persuade him to do something about it.

- Please don’t even mention wanting to get fit to this man. He goes overboard, devising a workout plan, a nutrition regimen, etc. He can be a bit draconic with it too, wanting to push you to be your best.

- While he's not the most emotionally available partner, he is the most reliable. If you complain that your heater not working, he's fixed it by the next day. If you're nervous about approaching your boss about an issue, he suggests you practice with him. If you're sick, he's getting you all the Vitamin C packets, soup, and tissues he can find, stocking you up with them before leaving for work.

-He's rather touch-starved, so he appreciates a partner who is more tactile. He loves when they hug him from behind, or let him rest his head on their lap and card their fingers through his hair. It's the one moment where he doesn't feel like he has to be quite so uptight.

prussia // gilbert beilschmidt.

- He is so the type to be in a friends with benefits situation. He's pretty clueless about romance. 💀 Or not clueless, but... willfully ignorant. He’s more likely to fall into a relationship by being buddies with someone, then sleeping with them, and a few months in realizing oh shit. He actually really likes them. Like more than as a bro.

- Gilbert is nothing if not crafty, so he wants to figure out what you think of him first. He asks around--your friends, other nations, etc. If you ever talk about him, if they know if you're dating someone else, etc. It's so funny because it's painfully obvious to everyone else that he has a thing for you. In fact, Gilbert is possibly the last person to realize you two are a thing...

- He is actually very easy to please. Just praise him. He’s used to hyping himself up to make sure no one forget him. It means the world when someone genuinely thinks he’s great or awesome. A sure fire way to get him emotional is if you cancel plans with your friends to hang out with him. Of course he’s old and he wants you to go have fun! To live a little. But saying that he’s exactly your kind of fun is enough to have him getting a misty-eyed before hurriedly saying that it’s allergies or something.

- He's a very fun boyfriend. He's never quite let go of his childish side. He is very much the type to make pillow forts with you and/or play co-op with you video games. For movie nights, he enjoys picking movies that he thinks will scare you so you'll end up clinging to him, asking him to protect you. The reality is, if anything he is the one getting more disturbed by the kinds of movies they put out nowadays, more than you do. 💀

- In public, he's definitely walking around with an arm around your shoulder. He's just so excited that everyone will know he has such a smoking hot partner.

-You know what, Gilbert is surprisingly good at comforting you. Part of it is experience, but if you're upset, he's not letting it go. He'll keep pestering you to open up to him. And when you finally do, he'll hug you to him, stroking your hair and calling you affectionate nicknames while reassuring you that as your great boyfriend, he'll certainly deal with any of your problems...

austria // roderich edelstein.

- He composes songs about you. He can get quite in a tizzy due to his perfectionist streak, appearing visibly agitated if the song isn’t going exactly how he wants it to.

- He is a strong believer in having dinner together if you’re living together! he thinks it’s a good habit to get into.

- Roderich is actually quite sweet. He sends you good morning and good night texts, and always texts you throughout the day on your lunch breaks, etc., asking how certain appointments or events went in your life.

- Roderich is a fan of appearances, and he is definitely getting you several high-quality Swarovski gifts. It doesn't matter that he's secretly a cheapskate who patches holes in his underwear--he wants you to only have the finest.

- Do you know those people who flirt via critiquing you? That's Roderich. With you, he's never actually cruel though.

-He is the perfect gentleman when dating you. Always pulling out the chair for you, paying for you, etc.

-He likes receiving massages from his partner. He's also a fan of relaxing in the tub, with scented oils and incense.

- He likes people who are quick-witted, fast enough to catch onto his sarcasm.

- He enjoys taking you to the opera, or to see plays or theater performances. He feels like the arts are not nearly as important as they once were.

- One of his favorite hobbies is to people watch with you. The two of you will sit down at a cafe, have some tea, and just make observations about the people around you. For him sometimes it’s great inspo for music. Other times it’s just great fodder for gossip lol.

switzerland // vash zwingli.

- His love language is definitely acts of service and gift-giving. He likes making you gifts or bringing you gifts his country specializes in. Watches, chocolates, etc.

- Of course you’re going to have to have annual trips to the Alps. He’ll do his best to teach you how to ski, but he’s not exactly the patient… he’ll be damned before Italy or that damn France try and teach you though.

- On the rare occasions he goes out to eat, he likes to get fondue. He thinks it’s somewhat intimate to eat with another.

- When he gets drunk, he’s actually kind of a sloppy drunk. He never really gets drunk though; he can hold his beers. He also tends to be the one to keep things together if you get too tipsy. He wants to ensure he can take care of you.

- He is very impartial, so if you want an honest opinion he’ll give it to you. Even if you’re his partner, he will call you out on your behavior as a neutral third-party💀 In his opinion it’s more important for you to grow than for him to coddle you.

- He has such a hard time with letting people know you’re dating. He doesn’t like other people getting in his business; he prefers his privacy. At first, he refers to you as a business partner, then as Lily’s friend, and then as his friend… and then eventually, when he sees another nation flirting with you, he decides it’s time to make it clear you’re taken for, and wraps a protective arm around your waist.

- He likes giving forehead kisses. Sometimes regular kisses feel almost too intimate for him. Plus when you make eye contact after ending a kiss… he gets a bit flustered. He likes that a forehead kiss is quick and easy but does the job. It’s… efficient even.

- He would definitely teach you how to shoot if you were up for it. He wants you to be able to defend yourself.

- The biggest indicator of whether you two will last in a relationship is if you get along with Lily and treat her like your own little sister. If not, Vash doesn’t see this relationship progressing and will cut things off.

[forsoobado137]

Seeing Hetalia and singing terminology in the same post has me literally jumping for joy. My brand!! My brand!! My thing!! Ecstatic. Thank you kind enabler.

Yes I love musicccc. I was in choir so I have a bit of background knowledge. I love thinking about how their voices work lol. Infact, here are some more voice/ choral singing headcanons!

Romano is an opera god. He has the range of Pavarotti, and literally sounds like an angel on earth. I love that this is canon.

Italy has the same classical theatre type of voice as his brother (but not at his level). He's an expert at reading sheet music (a lot of Italian terms).

America has a really powerful tenor voice + amazing breath control. The problem is he's sometimes a bit sharp. Also he loves improvising, which means he'll sometimes shout lyrics instead of singing or he'll experiment with a riff. It doesn't always land. Also, he doesn't really enunciate his consonants.

England sounds American when he sings. His voice is a kind of a generic baritone, though he can reach high notes with a decent falsetto. His strength is that he's always on tempo. He hates when other people clap at concerts because they're always off-beat.

France has a very seductive baritone voice. It's deep and elegant. He knows the differences between the dynamics. He's makes dramatic expressions when singing, which might make some roll their eyes. His range isn't really anything special, and he's annoyed that he gets stuck with the boring baritone melodies. He holds onto the long notes for just a liiiiiittle too long.

Switzerland is a tenor and has very good vocal control. This man can yodel.

Germany is kind of a bland singer. It's like he's never heard of vibrato. He is a bass/baritone who cannot hit the high notes to save his life. Very on tempo.

Prussia CANNOT SING. His voice is raspy, he's tone deaf, and has no sense of dynamics. Don't tell him though...

[goldenstarprincesses]

Hear me out, all nations have beautiful and enchanting voices

But only when they are singing their own peoples folk songs

[generational-atrophy]

Nice blog! You wouldn't mind if I took a little chomp out of it yeah? :D

Mmmmm can I request France,Germany,England, Prussia and Russia with an s/o who really likes there accent and voice. S/o would listen to them talk all day just to hear there voice/accent? There just mesmerized by it.

Much appreciated partner and have a great day🙏🙏‼️‼️🔥🔥⁉️⁉️🪑🪑🪑🪑

(France, Germany, England, Prussia & Russia x Reader) S/O that loves their accent!

(Gender Neutral) Headcanons ~ A/N have fun eating my blog but beware. Theres poison sometimes :)

Trigger Warning: None, just fluff!

Oh, you do not need to tell him that. He knows. And he adores how obsessed you are with just his voice. Don’t worry, he won’t tease you too bad

But expect to be woken up a couple of times by him reading you love poems in French. Actually, he’s doing that all the time. Anytime that he can speak to you in French, he’s doing it.

“My beautiful language for a beautiful person, no?”

It’s also pretty obvious that he exaggerates his accent for you. Sure, he’s been speaking English for centuries, but you’d never guess that from how he talks to you. It’s a little childish, but he just can’t get enough of your face whenever he says anything even remotely romantic in that silky voice of his.

Whenever he catches you staring, he can’t do anything but grin, promising himself that he’ll spoil you sometime soon for being so cute.

Ludwig has never really liked his own voice that much, so at least someone does for him. He always complains it’s too harsh and too loud. And years of people judging him for his accent didn’t help that…

But he trusts you completely. If you say you want to hear him, he’ll talk as much as you want. But since you’re not giving him a prompt, you’re hearing about 1870s train logistics. He doesn’t make the rules.

He would try to be all affectionate and sweet like you want him to… but that is really not his forte. He tries! But you’ll just both end up blushing and stuttering and getting nothing done then. If it’s just his handsome accent you want though, you’re all good. He can make a manual on building an IKEA chair sound hot.

He’d rather hear YOU ramble than do so himself. Even if he does love how adorable you are when you’re so infatuated with him.

No surprise there. You’re not the first partner of his to love his voice, and you won’t be the last. Luckily that means he’s got a whole lot of experience, so he knows exactly what to say to melt your heart.

“Come on, Darling, don’t look at me like that.  Why don’t we get out of here, just me and you? How about that, Love?”

He’s not much for rambling, much less talking about himself, but he can absolutely fulfil your need for his voice elsewhere. A lot of your nights spent together will be him reading some ancient novel to you, his voice soothing as ever, until you inevitably fall asleep cuddled up next to him.

He must admit, he loves having that power over you. Being able to make you fall in love with him using nothing but his words? You’re just so cute, he can’t resist flustering you on purpose.

Well, of course you do! He’s spent centuries making sure he sounds hot as hell! But… you’re being serious right? You aren’t annoyed by how high-pitched he can get? Ok, thank god.

He is so excited once you tell him that. It’s hard to stop himself from immediately teasing you about it. After all, there isn’t a single sight that’s cuter to him than your pretty face all lost in love for him.

If you’re ever feeling down, he tries to distract you by simply telling you a long, overly complicated story from his past. Which, with those purple eyes fixed on you and a goofy smile plastered across his face, all the while his voice drips with accent, it’s hard to not get distracted.

He loves talking about himself anyway. It’s a good thing you like hearing him. Most people don’t. But that’s just what makes you two meant to be <3

Oh, you like his voice? He’s confused. You’re being serious? … why?

The poor guy is really insecure about his voice. He worries his accent is too strong, too ugly, and his voice is way too high-pitched. It seems like no one likes when he talks… they say he’s rude and weird. So… your adoration for him and how he speaks is a real shock.

Whenever you ask him to talk more, he gets all embarrassed and doesn’t know what to say! Especially if you compliment his accent, then he just freezes up and dismisses you. Anywhere you are, he’ll start talking all quietly and cover his face with his hands. But you can still see him blushing underneath them…

But once he’s used to it, he loves just narrating the things he’s doing. Sometimes you’ll wake up and come downstairs to see him coming up with some silly song about the breakfast he’s cooking you. Learning that you like hearing him has definitely made him include stuff like that in his daily routine. 

Plus, now when he wants a reaction out of you… he’ll lean into it. Rolling his r’s dramatically, whispering to you in Russian… when he wants to be, he’s quite a tease.

[blutpop]

who the fuck gets drunk on easter?? this guy

(happy easter + trans visibility day)

[royaltea000]

The only way I’m allowing this guy to be an alpha is if there’s bitchin involved 😤

[ask-the-awesome-prussian]

I know your dad is shit. I will adopt you but you need to pay taxes. Pack your stuff. I'll pick you up on Tuesday. - SPQR

P.s. don't pack more than you can carry it's a bit of a walk and I don't like kids slowing me down.

??? Rome???? Since when was I getting adopted???

Wait I'm retired why do I have to start paying taxes again NO FAIR—

Can I at least take my bird

[yawujin]

Hii, do you think you could do smut headcannons for russia, prussia, America, and japan maybe? Please :3

you asked and now you shall receive ‧₊˚  ⋅ ☆

request | nsfw headcanons for russia , prussia , america & japan

type | nsfw , smut , head canon format

russia/ivan braginsky ♡

size kink c'mon we all know this

a sub leaning switch, but amazing at being a dom

likes to tease, hates being teased. he also prefers when his partner is straightforward and almost aggressive in communicating with what they want from him

is into temperature play, specifically with ice or cold water.

isn't the type to scream or moan loud, but more of the type to curse under his breath a lot, or grunt lowly.

prussia/gilbert beilschmidt ♡

the type to have music playing while fucking someone but it's actually really nice music so it's all good

he usually is the top with every partner he has, but will occasionally bottom for the other person if he feels like he can be vulnerable with them

likes to close his eyes and be in the moment (also bc he gets to rest his sensitive eyes)

likes to pretend he's annoyed that his partner is teasing him while he's trying to work/write in his journal...but he actually loves it.

the guy absolutely loves cockwarming, especially if his partner kinda just starts to grind on him a little bit...

he starts to lose focus on what he was doing before almost completely, struggling to keep his train of thought on track LOL

america/alfred f. jones ♡

the man loves food, so if his partner is letting him lick a line of whipped cream off of them, he's going to do it no questions asked.

he can be so pathetic sometimes; begging for attention, wanting to be held...if he really likes the person he's fucking he'll become so clingy 🥺

praise is his favorite. he loves it when his partner makes it personal and puts a 'my' in front of the petnames. (ie "my good boy")

loves when his partner rides him, loves it even more when he's the one riding.

i can see the foreplay being his favorite part of having sex...he likes the build up

japan/kiku honda ♡

if his partner happened to have a hand kink, then being with him would be like winning the lottery

i headcanon him as having some nice, slim fingers and soft hands that feel really nice when he's touching his partner all over.

he has slightly long yet well manicured finger nails that could leave some scratchmarks on his partner's back if they fucked him in missionary

has a thing for getting his ears licked during sex (it feels good fight me)

the way he looks kind of vanilla but would probably write the most horrific and degrading words on his partner's body in marker 🙀

[ask19thcentury-doctorgilbert]

"It was like watching a car crash unfold in slow motion, but worse. Worse, because no matter how hard I tried to piece together her symptoms in my head, I was coming up blank. What use was all the knowledge I'd built up over years, CENTURIES, if none of it could help my own child?

... No matter. It isn't about me - Gisella's currently being taken care of at Dr. Rapoport's new neonatal clinic at Charité. Ingeborg hasn't exactly worked with Devai children, but she's the best in her field, and our best shot at figuring out what's wrong. She, Erzsi, and I will figure it out. I refuse to give up hope, because if I do...

... I don't know what I'd do,"

--

I'll answer the additional lore stuff in a separate ask, but I will add a little history note about Dr. Ingeborg Rapoport! She worked at Charite from 1959 to 1973 and founded the first neonatal clinic in Germany. She was also appointed as a Professor of Neonatology in 1969. Prior to this, she worked at the Cincinnati Children's Hospital in the US, where she met her husband Samuel Mitja Rapoport.

Rapoport was denied her medical degree in 1938 because she was half Jewish. Despite this, she was able to pursue medical schooling in the US and in 2015, Hamburg University finally granted her a doctorate. It was supposed to be an honorary one, but Rapoport insisted on doing it the proper way and presented her thesis on diphtheria, which was the same topic she wrote about originally. She received a "magna cum laude", the second best possible result for a doctoral thesis. (x)

[crimson-kisses]

Duetsche Zunge

Characters/Fandoms/Pairings: Yandere! Gilbert Beilschmeidt || Prussia [Hetalia] x Fem!reader Warning: This story will contain xplicit yandere themes, proceed with caution [includes non consensual acts, toxic relationship, physical violence & the like] Author's notes: I honestly took some inspiration from @shini--chan 's works. Her every piece is marvellous, especially Gilbert's character. She has made me mad and intrigued over that man, I say. Also, remember that lot has been going around the world lately, and try to educate yourself and contribute as much as you can.

Gilbert would be absolutely thrilled and intrigued if his darling already knew German—it would spare him the frustration of teaching her everything from scratch. He would be amused and think the way she spoke. Her pronunciation or tone was absolutely adorable.

But of course, being who he is, that wouldn’t necessarily stop him from challenging her, testing the level of her knowledge and fluency. He’d be curious to know what her taste would be in German literature, music, or cinema. Would she favour Goethe’s romanticism, or perhaps the darker allure of Kafka’s surrealism? Would she hum along to Beethoven or lose herself in the melancholic strains of Schubert?

He would likely discover these preferences by observing (read: stalking) her, a brow arched up elegantly as he leaned back on the walls of the library. There, he would watch her conversing with others academically, seeming more like a statue of a scholar or a professor with his disguise of black-rimmed glasses and dark eyes, watching the way her lips curved around sweetly spoken words.

However, being a perfectionist, he could quickly identify any gaps in her knowledge—a slip of grammar, a wrong word here and there, or even a misstep in interpretation. Perhaps she’d confuse a complex construction for a simpler one or misuse an idiomatic expression.

Noting down the mistakes with a stern frown and a disappointed click of his tongue, Gilbert would sigh, unable to tolerate even the smallest errors. He’d push her relentlessly, unwilling to accept anything less than perfection. Papers, after papers, books after books, would pile up around her as he corrected her trembling attempts, his calligraphic writing starkly perfect beside her shaky efforts.

For someone who appeared so rugged, he was surprisingly methodical, almost reverent, when it came to written words, as evidenced by the piles of his ancient diaries filled with neat, precise entries.

It was definitely a cruel mixture of his ego and intense love toward her that drove him to hone her fluency to a level of perfection he alone could crave. Writing, reading, speaking, and even singing—he demanded mastery in every form of expression, shaping her abilities into something he could both admire and control.

But he wouldn’t stop at just German. This rigorous approach extended to other languages in which he excelled, such as French, Italian, and even Russian (though his dislike for a certain Russian man might make things a bit more complicated).

Each session would become a gruelling trial that demanded discipline, focus, and sheer willpower. He’d test her French with its elegant nuances, pushing her to appreciate the subtleties of verb conjugations and melodic flow. Italian, with its passionate rhythm, would become another challenge, the sharp sounds of “c” and “g” perfectly flowing from her lips, just as he demanded. And then, of course, there was Russian—harsh, guttural, and complex—he would revel in hearing her stumble over its sharp consonants, unable to help himself as he smirked with a mix of ego and possessiveness.

Whether it was the elegance of French, the flow of Italian, or the intensity of Russian, Gilbert would make sure she mastered every word, every subtle difference in accent, every cultural nuance, until she spoke each language with an expertise that reflected his possessive influence.

Gilbert would also push her to master ancient languages like Latin and Greek. His admiration for the roots of Western civilization would bleed into his obsessive teaching, as he demanded perfect fluency in these classical tongues.

He’d make her translate passages from Cicero or Horace, test her knowledge of Homer’s epics, and measure her understanding of Plato’s philosophy. Every misstep in conjugation or syntax would be met with sharp reprimands. Yet, at the same time, he would find immense satisfaction in hearing her articulate the beauty of ancient prose, especially when she finally grasped the elegance of Latin’s rhythm or the precision of Greek’s structure.

It would be a sight to watch the man who seemed so restless—always planning, calculating, and never stopping—suddenly appear like a scholar carved from marble. His focus was unwavering, his attention to detail sharp as a blade, whether it was through his quiet admiration or relentless demands, Gilbert made it clear that he wouldn’t stop until she was flawless—not just in language but as a reflection of his obsession with her.

The words on the paper danced as your eyes blurred, hesitant gasps escaping your quivering lips. Each tap of the thick ruler against the desk matched the frantic rhythm of your racing heartbeat. A deep sigh reached your ears, making you tense as a tear dropped, blotting the writing beneath it.

“Wrong. Do it again,” he said, his voice steady but firm, just above a whisper. You could feel the heat of his breath against your ear as he leaned in closer, his words curling into your senses like a soft yet dangerous caress. His forearms, toned and defined, flexed with each controlled motion as he tapped the ruler once more against the wood.

The veins on his arms stood out, a clear testament to the power that lay beneath his skin. His shirt, rolled up to his elbows, emphasized the muscular tone of his arms, the fabric taut as he moved with practiced precision.

“Your knuckles must be throbbing, don’t you think so?” His voice was low, almost velvety, though the slight edge in it made your skin prickle with a sense of haunting despair.

Of course, German would always be Gilbert's top priority. Whether it was the ancient words from his old Teutonic Knight days, the forgotten Prussian of his youth, or the more modern German that had evolved, he would be relentless in teaching you.

He would smirk, watching your hesitant expression, those furrowed brows and strands of hair sticking to your flushed face as you tried to keep up with his rapid-fire lessons. Every time you stumbled, he’d feel a rush of satisfaction, knowing he was pushing you—testing your limits.

And just as you began to feel like you might grasp it, he would pull you further, introducing an even more archaic form of the language. You'd be faced with Prussian words, forgotten phrases from the past, or the formal German of his time as a powerful state, and he'd watch as you struggled to keep up.

But Gilbert never took pity. To him, this wasn’t just about learning words—it was about learning what they meant, what they represented, about becoming part of a deeper history that only he understood intimately.

Naturally, he expected you to speak German at all times when addressing him. After all, he was Prussia—the proud embodiment of his nation's strength and culture, and to him, the language was not merely a means of communication, but a symbol of power, authority, and legacy. He found the way you spoke it utterly captivating—the way your lips shaped the words, how your expression would soften or harden depending on the tone.

Every mistake, every mispronunciation, only seemed to drive him further. He would often reply to you in German despite your slipping into another language— he would become cold, refusing to acknowledge you fully. His childish spite would rise, and he'd deliberately turn his back, offering you nothing but a sharp glance.

"Are you even listening to me?" you snapped, frustration mounting as you tugged at your hair, your words coming out in a burst. The tension in your chest was unbearable, and yet, Gilbert didn’t even flinch. He leaned back in his plush leather chair, the soft creak of the leather under his weight barely audible. The corners of his lips twitched upwards, curling into a satisfied smirk. His eyes, gleaming with amusement, never left you as he observed your growing frustration, watching you unravel with quiet delight. He loved seeing you like this—on the edge, teetering between control and chaos, and utterly at his mercy.

He didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between you. It was as if your words were meaningless to him. He had no intention of addressing your frustration, no intention of actually listening to what you were saying. He was too busy savoring the sight of you. The sharp tone in his voice, when he finally spoke, was smooth, effortless—teasing, almost mocking, a rhythm he knew all too well. Of an ancient German dialect that almost made his words hard to understand.

"Careful with the bread," he murmured, his voice low and cutting through the silence like a blade. "Don’t make it too tough."

You froze for a moment, the absurdity of his words washing over you. He wasn’t listening. Not to you. Not to the frustration in your voice, not to the growing anger burning in your chest. His gaze never wavered, still fixed on you with that predatory calm, like a cat watching its prey squirm. And all the while, you could feel the weight of his attention, suffocating and demanding, making your blood boil even hotter.

Your hands, already trembling from the intensity of the situation, clenched into fists. You turned away quickly, trying to regain some semblance of control, but it was too late. Your mind raced, and you felt the overwhelming need to take out your frustration on something—anything. The dough in front of you.

You slammed your hands into it, pressing harder than necessary, your fingers digging into the soft dough with surprising force. It was as though you could feel his presence behind you, even though he said nothing more, watching you knead the dough with a strange, mocking stillness in the air. You wished it was his neck beneath your hands instead, the pressure of your palms imagining the crushing sensation of him being the one to break under the weight. The thought alone made you grit your teeth.

Gilbert’s smirk never faltered, his eyes still on you, studying every move you made. He had already won, and you both knew it. You were powerless against his presence, against his control. His lessons weren’t games. They were training. And you were exactly where he wanted you.

Though he often found amusement in the banter between you, even encouraging it at times, Gilbert wouldn’t take kindly to any attempts to push things beyond their limits. Swear words or throwing personalized insults his way would undoubtedly irritate him. He thrived on the playful back-and-forth, enjoying the challenge of testing boundaries, seeing just how far he could push you before you snapped.

But as much as he revelled in this dynamic, there were unspoken rules that, if broken, would have severe consequences. Gilbert was not one to tolerate disrespect, not even in jest. His pride, especially when it came to how others viewed his authority, was something you learned to tread lightly around.

He had a way of making you feel small when you crossed that invisible line. It wasn’t outright aggression, no—it was more subtle, calculated. His silence, his smirk, the way he’d cock his head and stare at you with those piercing eyes—each glance felt like a silent reprimand. His lessons weren’t games. This was training. And training wasn’t just about learning skills or techniques—it was about understanding power dynamics, submission, and control. For Gilbert, discipline was an art. You had to earn his approval, prove you were worthy of the lessons he would give. Disrupting that delicate balance, however, meant harsh consequences.

The playful back-and-forth, while it could go on for hours, was never just for fun. He was sharpening you, moulding you into something he could admire, something that would never question his authority again. When you got too comfortable, too confident, Gilbert would make sure to remind you that this was his world and you were merely a participant in it. A slip of the tongue, a crass word, a sharp insult—that was all it took for him to remind you who was truly in charge.

And when you crossed that line? He’d make sure you knew it wasn’t something to be taken lightly. Gilbert would drop his usual teasing tone and replace it with something colder, something darker. He didn’t need to shout. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The shift in his demeanor alone was enough to make the air feel thick with tension. You’d find yourself walking the thin line between fear and desire, unsure of where one ended and the other began, but knowing that if you made the wrong move, there would be consequences.

The toothbrush and the mouthful of toothpaste threatened to choke you, your mouth wide open as a strong grip held your head in place by the hair. Gilbert probed the depths of your mouth with firm, deliberate strokes, bringing you to the brink of nausea. Foamy spit dripped from your lips, guttural moans of pain echoing through the washroom as tears framed your face. Your attempts to reason with Gilbert fell on deaf ears. All it took was one bad day for him (you couldn’t really tell with the man), and your profanity-laced outburst had earned you this punishment. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he slightly relaxed his grip on your hair, allowing you to violently spit out the bitter toothpaste that had been building up in your mouth. You instinctively reached for the tap, desperate to rinse the foul taste away, but were met with a firm hand that stopped you short. “No water for that filthy mouth of yours,” Gilbert sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. “Next time, I won’t hesitate to feed you a bar of soap and using the toilet brush.” You almost threw up.

While he didn’t outright disdain other languages, Gilbert was quick to show his disapproval if you focused on them too much. A subtle sneer or dismissive remark would betray his jealousy. In his eyes, your enthusiasm or preference for another tongue was a challenge to his authority, a dilution of the bond he sought to forge.

He wanted German to be your priority because it was his, and he needed to hear it from your lips as proof of your connection. It wasn’t just about teaching—it was about domination, ensuring that his influence extended into every word you spoke and every thought you had. And, of course, his pride demanded it. After all, why would you need anything else when you had him?

Nonetheless, he adored your voice, no matter what language you spoke. Whether stumbling over unfamiliar words or weaving through proses, there was a softness in the way you sounded that captivated him. It wasn’t something he’d admit easily, but your voice was his favourite melody, one he could listen to for hours without growing tired.

Of course, German is sacred to him—a reflection of his very being. It wasn’t just a language; it was his legacy, his culture, and the soul of the people he had once represented. The language of warriors and poets, of triumph and despair, it was a thread connecting him to his past. He expected you to embrace it—not out of mere interest, but as a testament to your devotion to him. And he always cherished it hearing from you.

You sat beside Gilbert, stiff and uneasy, as he delved into a thick book titled 'Geodesics in Curved Spacetime'. The topic was so far beyond your comprehension that you couldn’t help but think, What the fuck even is this?

It was one of those days when he insisted you sit close, your hands folded on his thigh, while one of his palms gripped it firmly, the other flipping through the velvet pages of the Russian text. His hold on you was both grounding and possessive, the weight of it reminding you that there was no escape from his whims.

The subject seemed to irritate him more than intrigue him; his brows furrowed, and the occasional sharp exhale signaled his growing frustration. He’d call you over at times like this, either to steady his nerves or to force you into reading it aloud, despite your stumbling attempts.

Sometimes, he would pause to explain a concept in German, his voice steady and commanding, expecting you to follow his train of thought no matter how lost you felt. On other occasions, his enthusiasm would bubble over, and he would yip and yap, his words spilling in rapid, fervent analysis that left your head spinning. You could only nod along, hoping he didn’t notice your bewilderment.

Most often, though, his focus shifted to something more intimate. He would pass you a well-loved novel—its pages slightly worn, its binding soft to the touch—and order you to read aloud. His fingers would trail lazily along your arm as he leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, the tension leaving his features with every word that left your lips. In those moments, you felt like an extension of him, your voice the tool that brought his favorite stories to life. His grip on you would loosen, his breaths growing deeper and steadier.

Those were his calmest days, and your beautiful voice, the rhythm to his immortal heartbeat, seemed to be the only thing capable of soothing his restless spirit.

Refusal—or any form of misbehavior—when he asks you to speak his language would never be tolerated. Utter refusal would be met with the coldest of glares, a silent warning that would send a shiver down your spine. Testing him with silent treatment or petty acts of defiance would only irritate him more.

His expectations are simple but non-negotiable: learn the proper German etiquette. Speak clearly, directly, and without hesitation. Your words must be precise—no unnecessary embellishments or mindless chatter. He values sincerity, respect, and most of all, discipline.

When spoken to, you are expected to answer promptly, politely, and with the right tone. You must use Bitte (please) and Danke (thank you) when appropriate— if you don’t, he’ll remind you, and the lesson will be harder than you anticipate. There is no room for laziness in his world, especially when it comes to how you communicate.

Gilbert tapped his fingers on his forearms as he stared at you from across the table, his piercing gaze unwavering. You sat with an unsightly scowl, arms crossed tightly, eyes fixed on the food in front of you. The tension in the air was thick—your earlier attempt to escape had been swiftly thwarted by his firm grip on your arm.

"And what do we say?" he asked, his voice smooth but laced with impatience.

You shot him a defiant glare, the sting of your pride burning brighter than your hunger. Your teeth gound together as you glared at the plate of Sauerbraten, the tender beef marinated in rich spices paired with the tang of red cabbage and potato dumplings. The smell alone made your stomach growl, but you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

"D..." You grit your teeth, barely able to utter the word. His unblinking stare burned into you as if daring you to try him. "Danke."

"Ah ah," Gilbert bent forward, the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "Full sentence."

You clenched your fists, the taste of defeat sour in your mouth. There was no escaping him now. "Danke... für das Essen."

"Good girl." Gilbert’s voice was soft, but the approval in it was unmistakable. He straightened in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Jetzt können wir essen!"

Of course, being the rather egoistical individual he is, Gilbert would revel in hearing you address him with titles in German. Whether it was Herr or Mein König, the words rolled off your tongue like honey, fueling his insatiable desire for your complete submission. He would demand such titles not merely out of tradition but as a way to solidify his dominance over you-reminding you that he was the one in control, always.

And if you hesitated or refused, you'd soon find yourself either kneeling at his feet or bent over his knees, forced to beg in the very language he adored.

The sight of you, voice trembling and face flushed, was intoxicating to him. He couldn't help but feel a massive thrill corroding his bones as your tone wavered with such an adorable desperation, the words escaping your pretty lips like a melody crafted just for him. Gilbert always loved the way you sounded, gasps, grunts or so, your voice like a finely tuned instrument only he could master.

You were his little songbird, and sometimes he liked to take that metaphor literally. He wouldn't mind having you sing as he played his flute, guiding you with gentle nods or sharp corrections if you didn't get it quite right. On calmer evenings, he'd rest his head on your lap, your soft hands threading through his silver hair as you hummed or sang him a lullaby. Those moments of quiet surrender were his personal heaven.

Every word you spoke in German was a delicacy he devoured straight from your lips. He also expected your words to reflect affection and politeness. Loving phrases, respectful tones, and perhaps even a few nicknames of your own design.

Nothing overly cheesy, of course, but Gilbert wouldn't hide his cheeky grin if you hyly called him something intimate. A soft Liebling (darling) murmured in the warmth of your shared bed would earn you a teasing remark right before he captured your lips in a sealing kiss.

In the bedroom, his expectations only deepened. He wanted to hear you whisper his name like a promise, gasping out mein Schatz as he thoroughly claimed you. Every word, every sound you made was proof of his hold over you, a mark of the loyalty he craved so desperately.

And in those moments, he'd remind you just how much he loved your voice - the voices that only he could truly bring out of you, the ones he wants to hear from you, the one thing that could ever bring peace to the storm within him.

Your dress spread around you like the petals of a flower, delicate yet trapping, as gilbert’s hands—rough and unyielding—skimmed over the bare skin of your legs. you shivered beneath his touch, every nerve on fire as you tried to suppress the sob rising in your throat.

“Was ist los, Maus?” (what's the matter, mouse?), his voice coiled around you like smoke, soft yet suffocating. his body leaned in, the weight of his presence making it impossible to move, let alone think. “Hast du etwa vergessen, wie man schön bittet?” (have you perhaps forgotten to ask nicely?).

your mind swirled, thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. had he done something? the strange heaviness in your limbs, the faint haze clouding your senses—was this another one of his games?

“B-bitte,” you rasped, voice trembling as you fought to form the word, “bitte, G-Gilbert, ich—”

his grip on your hips tightened abruptly, the sharp press of his fingers stealing the rest of your sentence. his crimson eyes bore into yours, gleaming with a twisted mix of hunger and amusement.

“Das ist besser,” (That is better) he murmured, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “Nicht perfekt, aber es wird reichen.” (Not perfect, but it will do)

tears pricked at your eyes, your chest heaving as you forced out another plea, desperate to appease him. “gilbert… bitte… verzeih mir,” you choked out, your voice breaking as his thumb brushed against the curve of your waist, deceptively gentle.

“ah, Liebling,” he said, his tone laced with dark satisfaction. “Das ist mein gutes Mädchen.”

he pulled you closer then, his control as unrelenting as the heat radiating from him, leaving no room for escape. you were his—mind, body, and voice—and he made sure you understood it.

With every searing touch and word.

[merbear25]

Hey hi! Can you do romantic nsfw hcs with France, prussia and China x reader who's a masochist? Thanks!!! :3

Hello, there! I sure can! I must say that I appreciate the ask. Us masochists need a bit more material specific to us, am I right? Remember to practice safe sex.💜💜

CW: NSFW, MDNI, gn!reader, headcanons, kinks mentioned

With a reader who’s a masochist (France, Prussia, China)

France

He was taken aback at first—completely surprised that you told him such dark fantasies.

He wasn’t exactly a satanist, but he was no stranger to branching out of his comfort zone.

There would undoubtedly be a discussion in more detail about what you specifically wanted: what was on and off the table, and if he was comfortable fulfilling your desires to their fullest extent. It was conversation that was necessary to get the full picture of what consent meant to both of you. A safe word went without question to ensure comfort on both sides.

For him personally, he enjoyed light bondage like fuzzy handcuffs and sensation play like blindfolds and earplugs. However, he’d always wanted to try using sensual wax.

Biting was something he’d enjoy, as well. He typically kept them as light nips, but hearing you beg for more made him lose himself in the moment. He hadn’t intended to mark your pretty skin, but your reactions lessened his apprehension.

Any mark he gave was soothed with wet kisses, as if sucking some of the sting out.

He wasn’t really comfortable with knife play or anything that would potentially scar you.

There were certain positions that affected you more than others, ones which hit that sweet spot and allowed an intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure. During these positions, his lust came more alive. Having you pant and squirm under him was a symphony he’d never tire of hearing, so he’d take full advantage of those moments.

Prussia

Although he may not be as kinky as his brother, he was just as adventurous—maybe even more so given his wild nature.

Even if he got ahead of himself at times, sex was one of the few things that he took his time to slow down for; this included both pleasure aspects and consent.

He was a bit more reluctant to experiment on a whim when it came to personal safety—masochism offered more risk, after all.

In a rare moment of maturity, he’d want to talk about what your specific turn-ons and fantasies were. There were few things that were completely off-limits for him, so he’d mostly just listen while you explained, taking a mental note for later.

He quite enjoyed BDSM, especially whips and chains. Your eagerness to explore more of his kinks was rather exciting for him. There weren’t many partners he’d had that were so willing to experience these things, which only made you more alluring.

Gripping your hips tightly, possibly bruising them, as you cried out in lustful sobs was like music to his ears.

Such beautiful sounds coaxed him into biting and / or spanking with such force that it left a welt.

He’d definitely want to use ropes, choke you, and explore sensation play with heat and cold. There’d have to be a safe word set in place because there were times he got carried away in the moment.

China

He knew he wasn’t the most adventurous in the bedroom, but that didn’t mean he was boring.

Exploring this part of sex wasn’t really something he’d gotten around to doing before. Sure, there may have been a few naughty films or magazines that caught his attention in the past, but acting these out was far beyond his experience.

Going about discussing your fantasies to their fullest extent was a conversation that you led for the most part. It was all a bit of a shock to him, but he wasn’t exactly opposed to broadening his horizons.

A safe word was set in place more for his sake because you could get just a little too intense for him.

Cupping would be right up his alley because it was more or less hands off, and he could just watch your expression change between blissful pain to full ecstasy. Places he’d find the sexiest would be your thighs and along your spine. The patterns and intimacy of it all was enough to make his head spin.

Knowing that you genuinely enjoyed what he did to you made him feel more confident. It was all a learning process for him, so please be patient with him. He ultimately wanted to make you feel good. He just needed some time to wrap his head around certain…requests you made.