:3c

Reblog this post if you are an ACTIVE HETALIA FAN (2020)

Actavis you and I need to have a conversation because what the fuck

Why

The fuck

Is your pill bottles so goddamned big???

That thing is like half the size of my hand and contains thirty tiny ass pills

They barely cover the fucking bottom. You could have made it half that size and still have more than enough space for the fucking pills

W H Y ???

WHATS THE FUCKING POINT???

Your nordic headcanons were beautiful and like I just need more. Would you take requests? Like wow

Sorry it took so long to answer, I forget easily and I get kinda anxious cause I don’t know what to say!

Also, sure? It might take a little while until I get around to doing ‘em, so I hope you’d be willing to wait a little, but request would be nice. It might help with my motivation to do and finish things too

And thanks! I’m really glad you liked what I wrote, it was a spur of the moment kinda thing and I wasn’t certain if it was good or not. Might be because I’m so used to staring at my own writing and never getting a second opinion on it!

Anyone want some kitties?

Introducing my neko!canada and neko!america designs since the canon ones couldn’t quite satisfy me

I love these puffballs

Romano: You killed the love of my life!

Spain: I’m the love of your life?

Romano: I don’t know, I’m still angry at you!

So I’m working on this Hetalia/Harry Potter crossover that might not actually be written and a part of it is set in chamber of secrets and I had a thought/question about the workings of the basilisk’s gaze and its killing/petrifying properties

Cause, it’s stare petrifies you if you indirectly look it in the eyes right and we’re shown a few different ways this plays out, like seeing its reflection or looking at it through a ghost

And then there’s Colin Creevey

He sees the basilisk through the lens of his camera. Now, in the book we don’t actually find out what kind of camera he’s using, but I think it’s safe to say that it has a viewfinder (aka that little thing photographers look through to see what they’re photographing). Now, from how I understand it, that viewfinder is really just a lens. Colin Creevey survived looking a basilisk in the eye by seeing it through a lens

So, theoretically, you should be able to survive a basilisks killing gaze by... wearing glasses?

Well, my first posted digital art photo.

Y’know, for something I drew with my finger it’s actually pretty good (since I don’t have a drawing tablet I have to make due with the ibispaint app and my fingers :/)

Anyways, have...uhhh... punk Denmark? Something like that. (also he trans but u can’t see that)

((It’s actually Denmark from an AU of mine but thats a different story))

Oh, also, kudos to @askthedanishdork for giving me the idea of giving Denmark an eyebrow piercing *fingerguns*

I’ve seen the headcanons that the earlier someone started playing minecraft, the older their player character is (even though they don’t look it). For example, Etho would be an “early player” because he started his channel super early.

Now.

Yk how Iskall was a play-tester for Minecraft’s alpha stage? Yup. Iskall would be one of the oldest players in existence.

reblog this if you post hetalia art

It’s easy to look and see humans, but they are not.

Most of them try to forget it.

Some of them revel in it.

The rest of them like to pretend the Nordics are like them. Human. Or as close as their kind can get.

Most of the time it’s easy.

But sometimes...

Sometimes you can’t pretend.

Can’t pretend, because Finland speaks with the freezing northern winds as his voice and he’s a winter storm and a summer hail and thick clouds that cover the sky and block out the sun. His attacks are lighting and his heart beats with the rumble of thunder and he perseveres perseveres perseveres, always gets back up, always comes back, and you never see him coming until it’s too late. He dances under the midnight sun and laughs during polar nights and smirks as the rest of the world falls to the biting cold while he stands strong and unbothered.

And Norway, who’s as deep and mysterious as the northern forests, the Scandes, the fjords. He’s crisscrossing leylines and great waterfalls and vast archipelagos. His joints creak like the wood of ancient evergreens as they grow, his innards stained black by stake burnings and dark plagues, his eyes a mirror of the northern lights. He sings with the voice of the stars, the moon, the aurora, and he’ll ensnare you as easily as he weaves his magic and bends the land to his will.

Iceland consciously hides it from the rest of the world, but in the company of a select few they drop their disguise and breathes a sigh of relief. They’re a duality, scorching volcanoes and freezing arctic, hot and cold, fire and ice. Their eyes burn with flames, lava in their veins, bones of obsidian. Their organs are made of ice, their skin like snow and frost lines their throat and lungs. They breathe smoke and frost, cry ice and lava and their hair is snow and ash.

Most of the time Sweden is normal, but sometimes you tilt your head and he’s scintillating water and the creak of oars and fine metal- and woodwork. His bones are iron, like what they mine and mine and mine in Malmberget, and his heart is a patchwork of water and splotches of land connected by bridges, the city of islands, and if you listen very closely as he speaks you can hear the creaking and clinking of the ice and stone in his lungs and throat which at best muddles his words and at worst keeps them deep in his chest.

Even Denmark, the most normal, is sometimes not a man, but a raging bonfire and burning villages. Glinting gold and shining blades and delicate sculptures of glass. His laugh is the crowing of ravens feeding on the flesh of the fallen, his hair tinged red with the blood of his enemies and his eyes are deep blue blue blue, the same shade as the ocean he once tamed and conquered and ruled.

They speak in riddles only they know, whisper of time and places no one else remember, and laugh as the other nations draw back in wariness and fear.

If they wished to play being normal, let them. But where’s the fun in that?