Hetalia+Angels vs Demons

Prussia: Demon. Definitely. Bloodlust and a military edge. He’s not an evil demon. He’s a battle field demon. 

America: Hard to say… Demon Alfie is fun but… Angel. I think this fits his hero persona and his good heart. (Even if he doesn’t always do the right thing.)

Canada: Angel. He’s too good. He’s just too good. He’s a bitter angel but he’s still an angel.

England: Demon. Oh, c’mon, that black magic aspect. He’s the most domestic demon though. Very… well read. 

France: Oh, a specific demon. An incubus. Harmless little sex demon. He doesn’t leverage that manipulative magic unless he has to.   

Italy: Angel. He’s too sweet to be a demon.Or just too incompetent.

Germany: Angel. Very rule bound and up and up about all those types of things.   

Spain: Angel. He wants to help people. He likes to make people smile. Also a vicious defender against demons.

Russia: Demon. Sorry buddy. Very dark past, willing to do what it takes to survive. At any cost.

China: A demon. But a super ancient and mellowed out one that is something of a legend now and tries to keep up with the kids.   

Distress and Destress (RusAme oneshot)

Synopsis: Nations have endured much, but that does not mean it doesn’t add up. America notices something taking a toll on Russia and discovers his bosses at the heart of his stress. He is determined to provide Russia some relief, in spite of the odds and Russia’s own stubbornness. RusAme / AmeRus oneshot.

Word count: 6530

Distress and Destress

The sun and clouds waged a persistent battle all day as the conference slouched on, rays of light occasionally peaking between the thick gray blanket, only to be smothered again. It helped, at least, in that there was no reason to cast longing looks out the window to pine for a stroll outside, a breath of warmth fresh air, rejuvenating sunlight. No, instead the weather reflected the mood of most nations present: restless, fighting for some brightness in their day when all the while the fog of responsibility and tedium hung all around.

In the beginning, America counted down the hours. Then as the sands drained through his internal hour glass, hours turned to increments of ten minutes: just ten minutes six more times, ten minutes five more times. Individual minutes: forty-two minutes. Seconds: just six-hundred seconds to be rid of this place.

But as it so often does, time acted precisely opposite of how it was wanted to. Even with this makeshift counting sheep routine, America was bored. He had other matters that took, in his opinion, much greater precedence over this tired old meeting: other matters both domestic and foreign. And so to indulge his more foreign interests, throughout the droning lectures of other countries who didn’t want to be here either, America people watched. His was not the only wandering eye, he found. England’s thick brows were furrowed in agitation as he cast short glances to a few seats over, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Following the line of his gaze, America saw that France, bless him, had found a seat next to the window and- cloudy day or not- what bit of light that spilled in was casting a tasteful shadow across his pensive, angular features. Elbow propped up on the table, head resting in his hand, he looked every part a philosophical thinker of old. Feeling a new set of eyes on him, Frances glanced over at America and winked before resuming his original pose.

Clever bastard.

Italy looked expectedly bored, fidgeting unhappily in his seat, the speed of his writing suggesting they were more of the doodling nature as opposed to actual notes. That was fine. Artistic master in his own right, Italy never created anything with half effort; the result was that even simple sketches looked like the framework for what would soon be a masterpiece.

Realizing he’d lost the flow of the current speech, America hastily returned his attention to the front of the room. But the tone and content of the briefing fast reminded him why he had lost focus in the first place, and again his gaze wandered. That was when he saw, in a sea of slouching or daydreaming or restless nations, Russia sitting straight up in his seat, every ounce of his attention focused ahead, fingers diligently typing along with every single word said.

Show off, America mouthed, hoping at least something would divert him. No response. Russia wore the same attentive, borderline agitated expression as before, looking for all the world as if the only thing that existed was the presentation. Frowning in disappointment, America turned away to finish the rest of this purgatory.


“You know, I’m not sure if I’m offended or relieved I don’t get that look from you,” America drawled as he and Russia strolled out at last, Russia checking three times that his notes had been saved properly.

“What look? If this is about how I greet Lithuania, I told him and I tell you- it is comforting smile.”

“Debatable. But not what I mean. Come on, you weren’t the least bit bored in there? Or was that for my benefit to see how I’m supposed to behave?”

Russia blinked twice. “I was just making sure I got everything down,” he said finally, sounding almost tired.

America raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, but…we don’t have to pretend it’s actually interesting. I don’t think half of what was said applies to most of the people there.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Russia said stiffly, turning away and striding on. “We had to go.”

America frowned. “You alright?” he asked.

“Fine enough.”

That evasive answer combined with the lack of eye contact and hand fisted into his scarf set off immediate red flags. And the last time something Russia did set off red flags, he had changed governments.

“What’s up?” America insisted, tone gentler now. One arm looped with Russia’s, he set his free hand onto Russia’s in a comforting hold.

“What is ever up, being a country?” A wry smile that might have been a grimace twisted his pallid features; they would have to fix that, America though suddenly. With summer starting, it was the perfect time to go out together and get some sun. “B- people being difficult, sometimes,” he added haltingly.

Where had been a gentle smile turned once more into a frown. “Boss-type people?” America clarified slowly.

“People,” Russia said in feigned nonchalance, about as transparent as a glass window.

Blue eyes rolled behind rectangular spectacles. “Come on, Braginsky, it’s called venting. You’ve seemed down for a bit- one good round of this venting stuff and you’ll probably feel better. Now that we actually have time to be together,” he couldn’t help but add.

“My boss has kept me busy.”

“I know. I know all too well,” America retorted, drawing patience from some hidden well. “Someone needs a break.”

As they turned onto a commercial street, Russia gave an emphatic shake of the head. “No breaks,” he said. Thin lines carved into the corners of his eyes as that same fog of distress festered around him as it had been for at least a month now, as persistent as the clouds above them so determined not to let the sun through. “Not until things are fixed.”

“What things?” Now they were getting somewhere.

Russia shook his head.

And just like that, they were back at the start. “Off limits?” America asked slowly, gold-colored eyebrow raised. For the sake of their relationship anytime conversations drifted into dubious waters, they simply deemed them off limits and redirected. It worked at least seventy percent of the time.

“Off limits.” America’s eyes drifted to catch the tell Russia insisted he didn’t have: sure enough, a pale calloused hand was fidgeting with his scarf, rubbing the soft fabric with his thumb. America sighed. To confront Russia about the lie or let it go? His more inquisitive- England called it brash- nature wanted nothing more than to push for more information, more anything. But that incessant logical side he was subject to knew Russia too well, knew the man carried certain things he did not want America to know, did not think he would handle, always ready to be met with rejection or disgust. Through it all, America felt in his heart Russia had faced too much of that already and so, ignoring the part of him screaming to address this here and now, America nodded in acceptance, knowing pacing was a delicate thing for them, knowing he would probably have his answers as this probably would not go away.

And he was right.

Before the end of their dinner date, America knew without a shred of doubt Russia was being overworked in some way. Three times his phone rang and he leapt up and out of the restaurant to take it, tone formal and, at times, a little desperate. By the time Russia returned the third time this happened, America was slouched in his seat, the untouched slice of cake they were to share sitting on the table between them.

“Can we enjoy our date now?” he asked.

Mistaking America’s tone as politely curious rather than disapprovingly expectant, Russia nodded with a smile. “Yes- enjoy date now,” he echoed, settling back down. “I am surprised you did not have any of this.” He noted the cake.

“I wanted to do something with you tonight,” America said slowly.

Russia’s gaze flicked from their dessert to America’s blue eyes, darkened slightly. “We have,” Russia insisted in confusion. “We are out to dinner together. We wandered the city together.”

“Together physically, yeah,” America agreed. “But your boss has been third-wheeling us since we left the conference.”

“It is important work. We all have it,” Russia said defensively, a frown pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, and most of us are generally allowed to handle stuff on our own time and, well, on our own. What gives? You hosting something soon? The FIFA World Cup’s not until 2018.”

“Nothing like that.” Russia redirected his attention to the cake, beginning to dig in. “Things are just busy and there are things that need to be taken care of. And it is not just my boss,” he added. “Other officials have been calling and have needed to be called.”

America would like to say something about that. The last thing he wanted to do was address what he had thought for a while now, that Russia so desperately wanted to trust his bosses, that that trust was what helped leave him more hurt and confused and prone to lash out when they showed their first interest- like too many leaders in history- wasn’t their people’s happiness. But he needed something to believe in, to help know there would be that perfect happiness someday. And so he got defensive when America accused his boss of being the only perpetrator in spoiling their night.

Read the rest on FF or Ao3.


rusame fanfiction AU America: In which Ivan Braginski is a russian professor of engineering refugee in the United States with the visa of counted days and Alfred F. Jones a young american who works part time at the cafeteria Scones & Pie

These aesthetics are from my fanfic RusAme, I’m posting because I found it beautiful and wanted to share :)))

Four rich fathers go golfing.

One of them stays behind to pay the bill and the other three proceed to the first hole. While golfing, the three fathers start bragging about their sons.

The first father says, “I am very proud of my son Arthur; he is my pride and joy. He started working at a very successful company at the bottom of the barrel and now he is at the top!  He became so rich that he gave his best friend a top of the line Mercedes Benz for his birthday.”

The second fathers says, “My son Ivan is also my pride and joy, I am very proud of him. He went to flight school to become a pilot and managed to become a partner in the company where he now owns the majority of the assets. He became so rich that he gave his best friend a brand new jet for his birthday.”

The third father says, “Well, well, well - congratulations! My son, Ludwig, is also my pride and joy and is also very rich. He became an engineer. He started his own construction company and became very successful and a multimillionaire. He built a mansion especially for his best friend.”

Then the fourth father catches up and they ask him how his son is doing.

The fourth father replies, "Oh, my son Alfred is gay and he makes a living dancing as a stripper at a nightclub.”

The three friends shake their heads and say, “What a shame, you must be so unhappy! How tragic.”

The fourth father replies with a bright smile, “Oh no, I am not ashamed at all! Alfred is my son and I love him just as well; he’s my pride and joy. And he is much loved by his friends too. Did you know that his birthday just passed and the other day he received a Mercedes Benz, a brand new jet and a huge mansion from his three suitors?”

anonymous asked:

Do you guys have any pets/animals? (Other than Gilbird of course) TBH this blog is the purest!

Ivan has a Siberian cat and Gilbert has an albino German Shepherd 

[ art by @ask-aph-fruk ]