hetalia troll

Headcanon #Its just a prank bro

I imagine Belarus as the friend who would convince other people to do weird shit to someone with her. Form a circle around them chanting something weird, everyone speaking to them only in lines from the Bee Movie or Shrek. Replacing every picture in their house with a picture of Vladimir Putin and having anyone who walks in act like nothing is wrong. The friend this happens to is more often than not Lithuania. Poland is in on it most of the time.

Request: ScotEng, omegaverse (fluff)

I was requested to write my very first ScotEng and also my very first omegaverse by lovelies @gallifreyanlibertea​ and @mamin-the-troll​.
I decided the only way I could do it was making it very fluffy, since I’m completely inexperienced with omegaverse (that’s Mana’s job!).

Notes: I took inspiration from a dialogue Arthur had in the last published chapter of my longfic ‘The House in London’, but in this Alistair and Arthur are not brothers. Also, my favourite hc about Scotland is that he’s got stubbles.
Also please forgive me for my bad attempt at written Scottish accent >__<

House Intruder - (omegaverse, fluff, ScotEng)


Being all alone in Alastair’s house was a new, strange sensation.


Usually, when he’d came to visit in the evening, tired after a whole day of work, the lights would have been on in the kitchen and living room, the air would’ve been warm and cosy, smelling of baked goods or of dinner steadily cooking on the stove.

He would have been welcomed in with a cup of steaming tea, a warm blanket gently placed on the shoulders and a quick, bearded and itchy kiss on the cheek.


But the house was now cold and dark. The kitchen was silent and lacked any smell of food: instead it was kind of stuffy after a whole week closed and unused.

The blanket he was usually offered was neatly folded on his favourite armchair and the only sound filling the air was of the old wooden cuckoo clock on top of the stairs.


Alastair’s house was an old two storeys cottage in the Edinburgh area, with creaky wooden floors and stairs, big widows that frosted in the cold of winter and a roof where sometimes birds and dormice took shelter.

It reminded Arthur of his grandparents’ old house in Wiltshire, where he spent many weekends of his childhood chasing fairies and pixies in the garden and listening to the steady falling of raindrops on the windowsill at night.


Alistair had been in Dublin, visiting a cousin, for almost six days.

Arthur had made do during the week with texts, Skype calls and messages on socials, but with the weekend approaching and the realisation it would be the first weekend alone since they had gotten together, he felt like just waiting for a call suddenly wasn’t enough.

He needed to feel more of Alistair’s smell and presence to be able to finally sleep more and well and wash away the week’s stress and loneliness.

He had always prided himself of being a strong, independent omega, but that had been before meeting Alistair: now, with a partner as attentive (almost to the point of being silly, and always trying to look like he actually didn’t care) as the Scottish alpha, Arthur had somehow softened to the idea of getting a little bit more clingy.

Not that the other needed to know or even suspect he had had these kind of thoughts.


That was why Arthur had retreated the copy of the keys of Alistair’s house from a small box in one of his studio’s drawers, had went to the house late in the evening and had told no one, not even the owner of the house, about his mission.

It would have been very embarrassing explaining to his mate that he felt the need to sleep in his clothes, in his bed, hugging his pillow.


Which was exactly what he came to do: after lingering a bit in the entrance and living room, like a guest coming in for the first time, he had went upstairs, to the main bedroom.

The bed was old just like the rest of the house: king sized, wooden and with a canopy that Alistair didn’t even use.

It was soft and comfy and Arthur loved every single memory he had of spending late night and late mornings on it with his beloved.

He looked longingly at it, but first he went for the top drawer of the dresser and retrieved his favourite pair of pyjamas Alistair owned: checked, navy blue and white, of a soft and well worn cotton.

He put it on and took a long breath, eyes closed, tugging the collar of the shirt in front of his already very sensible nose. That was the smell he needed, the one he associated with all the memories inside that house, with his mate.

They were a young couple, it was true: but a bit less than one year together, as mates, was already enough for him to label memories, smells and sensations and recognise them so well.


With a satisfied smile, he let go of the collar and prepared to jump on the bed.

He landed right in the middle, making the mattress jolt and the bed creak and thump loudly on the floor, but it was all worth it: he was finally surrounded by softness, calmness and the heavy mix of other sensations the proximity of something belonging to Alastair always brought to him.

The best part was sinking his face in the pillow: Alastair had a favourite one, the one on the left. It was always the one thing in the room smelling more like the alpha, no matter if he had just changed the sheets. It was like Alistair: rain on a pine forest, a cigar slowly smoked on the sofa, the ocean foaming against a cliff, a warm fire crackling inside an old house.

Arthur sighed contentedly, finally home.

The exhaustion and stress left him immediately and he fell asleep, missing his alpha.


Dreaming of his alpha.

Dreaming Alastair right next to him, calling him, gently shaking his arm to wake him up…

“Runt. Ohy? Wake, little monkey!” he heard.

“Al… ?” he mumbled, still almost completely asleep. He turned around, stretching and yawning, when he suddenly realised he was being held by strong, warm arms in a very familiar hug.

He screeched and jumped, almost falling off the bed in the attempt of escaping his mate’s grip, all the while the other, very real and very much amused by the reaction, was laughing out loud and still holding Arthur safely by his side, on his bed.

“What? What are you doing… home?” asked Arthur, shocked.

He sat up and, seeing Alastair’s very amused look, he remembered he had fallen asleep in the other’s pyjamas.

“I can explain!” he cried, trying to quickly take the shirt off.

Alastair just laughed more and stopped him, closing his big hands on the omega’s ones and pulling him closer, almost on top of him: “I like it on ye, Art.” he snickered.

Arthur was blushing furiously and just made an embarrassed sound, defeated.

“I came home tae me little monkey,” explained the alpha, caressing Arthur face as the other pouted and tried to hide his face against the pillow: “And tae me GPS alarm ye set off breakin in me house.” he added.

“What?” asked Arthur: “You have a GPS alarm set for the house?”

Alastair just raised an eyebrow, still smiling.

“But I have a copy of the key!” protested Arthur.

“Aye… didn’t think bout that when it rang a’ eleven pm.” admitted Alastair.

Arthur grinned. He reached up to brush his lips over his mate’s chin covered in stubble and confessed: “I’m glad you hurried home.”

Alastair hugged him closer once again and kissed him on the head, one hand carding through short, messy blond hair.

“And I’m glad it was ye and not a thief!” exclaimed the alpha, before laughing again.